by Nikki Roman
“You’re one of them, too.”
“That’s different and you know it! I didn’t choose this, you did.”
“Look, I’m sorry for what I did to you and for what I said. I know I say sorry all the time and it doesn’t mean anything, when by the time you get around to forgiving me I make the same mistake again… but I love you and you’ll always be a sister to me, whether you accept it or not.”
I stop staring at my hands, wrapped around the steering wheel, long enough to take in her face. Why I hadn’t seen it before I don’t know, but she has two black eyes and red, busted lips. “What happened to your face?”
“I could ask the same about yours.”
“Cairen molested me and then punched me,” I say, with as little emotion as possible.
“I was jumped in,” she says. “Hey, I’m sorry he did that. Holden told me about it…”
“Oh, please,” I say, disgusted with her, “don’t act like you give a shit about me, now. Just because we’re in the same gang doesn’t mean I have to be friendly.”
“If I didn’t give a shit, then why would I be trying so hard to be like you? I didn’t even cry when they beat me.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “Just remember, one day you’re going to have to wake up from this illusion you’ve created and realize you’re in a dangerous gang that honestly could not care less if you are dead or alive. Alana, even you can’t hide from that truth.”
“They love me, Bailey!” she says with wide, convincing eyes.
For a minute, I almost believe her, but then I remember that they are the same people who gave her a split lip and black eyes; that and you can never really believe anything that comes out of Alana’s mouth. She’s such a compulsive liar even she can’t tell when she’s lying.
“They live in a dumpster,” I say, inching the car forward until she gives me enough space to drive away.
I’m blowing smoke like a rolled up blunt between an Allie’s lips as I drive deeper into the night without a destination. Mom will be at risk of losing the baby the way she’s probably worrying about me now. Fine, let her lose it. Let her lose the child—he was damned the moment he came into creation.
I slow down. There’s no one on the road but me and I’ve always liked the way you can hear the crunch of seashells beneath your tires on the streets of Fort Myers. It’s in everything; sand and shells for miles out. I crawl along to Fort Myers Beach.
•••
The shoreline is empty, save for a small figure sitting in the sand looking out over the black ocean as it rolls ashore.
I trudge through the sand and sit equidistant from the figure. I dig my fingers into the cold, wet sand, the rising tide washing over my boots. I want to have a good cry, but I’ve always had a hard time letting go around strangers. Even with the dark night concealing my identity, my emotions are shut off.
The moon hangs in the sky like a sixth grader’s art project, a large white ball against a black construction paper background, swinging on fishing line. The clouds are ghosts, sweeping around it.
The ocean creeps up on us; the figure and I don’t move as it seeps into our shoes and wets the cuffs of our jeans.
I turn my head to the person, trying to make out if it’s a boy or girl. But whoever it is has gotten up and is now doubled over writing something in the sand with a stick. A hood falls over the person’s face as he or she drops an object into the sand.
I wait until whoever it is is stumbling back up the sandy hill to see what is written. I’M SORRY.
“Wait!” I yell, stepping forward to chase after him, but my boot slips on something and I tumble. “Who are you!”
I pick up the object that caused me to slip, turning it over in my hands. “Who are you?” I whisper to myself, my locket unraveling in my palm.
I pop it open and make out my parents smiling faces. Sand is caught in the hinges it grinds as I force it closed. The smooth metal is cold, like it has been kept in a freezer; I press it against the cut on my stomach and it dulls the pain.
Who are you? And why are you sorry?
Trenton. He took my locket and had now returned it, but why? Why the sudden change of heart? Had guilt eaten at his core, the same way remorse eats away at mine?
I rise and find the stick Trenton used to carve out his apology. I forgive you, I write beneath his apology. There’s a lot that needs forgiving. But forgiveness means letting go, no expectations attached.
Chapter 18
“Are things okay between us? Bailey, are you angry with me? Please, pick up. Please, Bailey? Bailey? Bailey? Bailey!”
“Who’s that?” Mom asks, holding her toothbrush out of her mouth, dripping toothpaste on my bedroom floor. “Spencer?” She spits foamy white saliva at me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Give me the phone,” she says, her voice suddenly stern.
“No,” I say clutching it to my chest.
“I read it, Bailey. You left it on my bed and I read it.” She exhales. “You’re not going.”
My heart skips a beat. “What?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means. You can’t go. I won’t let you see your father. She had read it, Clad’s note. “You can’t stop me.”
“Excuse me, how old are you again? Because I think you’ve forgotten who’s in charge, here. You’ve forgotten that you’re sixteen and aren’t going anywhere without my permission.”
“Mom, I have to. I’ll die if you don’t let me see him!”
“You are not going!”
“Please, Mom—” I start, but she walks out of my room and closes the door before I finish. Seconds later, I hear a click. The doorknob twists a little, then stops. Mom has locked me in.
From the outside, I think. Locked in from the outside.
I sit and sulk, failing to comprehend that there is still a way out. The buzz of a drill and the clap of wooden boards against the window wake me up. The light in my room cuts to about fifty percent and then goes out altogether. I stand bolt upright, alert as an owl in the dark.
“You better not!” I scream, my voice shaking at the end of my sentence.
You’re screwed, my conscience says. I chuck my phone at my boarded bedroom window, and it bounces back in a mini explosion of black plastic and glass.
A car takes off down the street and I’m certain that Mom has left me shackled in my room, like Cinderella not allowed to go to the ball. Only there will be no mice coming to my rescue.
I pick up my broken phone and throw it again, realizing that I could’ve called Spencer for help if I hadn’t thrown it the first time. It’s no use screaming, no one could hear me…except for God.
“God, what do you want from me!” I yell in utter defeat. “Please,” I cry, “I need to see him. I miss him, I miss him…” I cry harder. “Don’t you see how much I miss him?”
I imagine the numbers on my analog alarm clock peeling away. Soon, visiting hour will be over and I will have to wait who-knows-how-long for another opportunity to see Dad.
I collapse on the floor, gathering my thoughts and catching my breath while the despair passes and turns back into rage. I rise and stumble around my room looking for things to break.
My floor is bare, save for my prescription bottle pyramid and a blanket I use to sleep on. My room is a prison cell, but I made it this way. All my belongings made me feel cluttered on the inside. The few things I kept when we moved are in my closet. Tapes of Miemah, and of me getting beat up in the locker room. Clad’s baby blankets he gave to me at the hospital and Spencer’s purple quilt. The white wedges Mom gave me for my birthday, which I have yet to wear. Angel’s toys, Dad’s letter, The Bullet List.
I open up my closet and throw everything out of it. “Fuck you!” I scream, spinning around the room, flinging Mom’s old nightgowns. One lands on my fan.
The fan, this gives me an idea. I stretch my arm up and try to reach the light bulbs but I’m about four inches too short. I look around the room for a boost, my eyes landing on
the wedges.
With the wedges strapped securely to my feet, I reach up and unscrew the light bulbs. I crush each one into the floor. Standing back, I smile at the wreck I’ve made. It’s too dark to see the full magnitude of my destruction, but I imagine when Mom gets a load of this she’s going to shit bricks.
Too bad it’s made me no closer to escaping. Time to get down to business, I think. If I don’t do something soon, visiting time will have passed, and I definitely do not want to be around when Mom sees my bedroom.
There’s no way I’m getting out through the window. I’d get sliced up by broken glass, and then still have to break through the boards. I look to my door, deep in thought. Maybe I can knock it down, or at least break the lock. It’s worth a shot.
I go to the end of my room to get a running start. I take off; the walls closing in around me, my vision becoming narrowed. Chickening out, I turn sideways and slam the side of my hip into the doorknob, before falling down from the collision. I’m going to be feeling that one for a long time to come.
This isn’t going to work; I don’t have enough mass to knock the door down and I’m too scared to really throw my body at it. I’m sorry, Daddy, I think.
“Get up!” He responds in my head. “Get up, Angel Cakes. I know you can do it!”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can,” I say. “I’m not strong enough.”
“You stand strong with me beside you,” he says.
Encouraged, I stand up and walk to the other end of the room again. My sights closing in on the door, I run—faster faster—picking up speed with every step. Unflinchingly, I hurl myself at the door. It swings open and I fall head over heels into the sunny little kitchen.
Popping up quicker than a whack-a-mole, I scramble out of the apartment and to my car. I fish my keys out of my pocket and pray that it will start; there’s a jingling sound like sleigh bells, smoke, and then a shudder as the engine turns over.
“Yeah, baby!” I holler, slapping the steering wheel. It should’ve been sold as scrap metal before I was even born. Sometimes, I feel a connection with it, because it has gone through many trials and tribulations without giving up. But you did try to give up, my conscience reminds me, you tried so, so many times. If a car could slit its wrists, I’m sure this one would.
The clock on my radio says its nine thirty. My head says that with morning traffic slowing me down, I won’t be able to make it to the prison in time. But my heart says I must.
I think about how Mom is going to turn me into mince-meat when she sees my bedroom and discovers I’ve escaped. While conjuring up ways to keep her from going too far, I recall a time when she almost did and I was able to stop her.
I was six or seven years old; I can’t remember what I did to make her so angry, but she had that look in her eyes—that wild murderous look. I packed up all my dolls and dresses into my Barbie suitcase. She was in her room at the time, probably searching for a murder weapon.
As quiet as a slithering snake, I slipped out of the apartment, down the stairs, and onto the infinite road to Publix. I got half way down the street, my Barbie suitcase tripping me as it twisted in my hands and knocked against my ankles, before I heard the slam of our front door and Mom screaming at me. I didn’t dare look back; I ran faster, as fast as my little legs could carry me. Mom was gaining on me, I could hear her heavy breathing and, above all, her howling shrieks for me to, “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
I should have ditched the suitcase and just ran for it, but that didn’t occur to me until after Mom had already scooped me up in her arms, like a mouse in a hawk’s talons. I screamed so loud that neighbors we didn’t even know we had erupted from their apartments to see what was going on. Mom shooed them away with her hand and a look that said, Oh, she’s just having a tantrum. You know—kids.
If they had even once stepped outside of their apartments they would have known that I was a quiet, obedient child. Only the threat of death hanging over my head could make me act out in such a way.
When we got into the apartment, Mom threw me down on her couch. “Please don’t kill me, Mommy!” I begged her.
The murder in her eyes, pictures of me dead and bleeding I could see like on a film strip, dissipated. Her face calmed, her pupils shrank back to their normal size, and her brow unwrinkled. She combed her hand through my hair, cupping the back of my head, and holding me close she whispered, “I love you, darling. I could never kill you!”
I wrapped my tiny hands around her neck and she rocked me in her lap. I never felt so loved, so cherished.
•••
I check myself in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car. My face is red and puffy from crying. I consider putting on makeup but it’d be asinine; in just a few minutes my tears will overflow again, washing it all away.
Entering the prison building, I hand my fake I.D. to Sherry. She welcomes me back and sends me to the metal detectors. I take off my wedges and put them in a bin, wondering if the officers would let me borrow a pair of those comfy looking prison sandals, but I don’t ask.
I pass through the metal detector, get the green light, and am led to the visiting room. The officer unlocks the door and pushes me in, like bait for tigers. I turn around and watch him walk back down the hall, wishing I could go with him.
Averting my eyes to the ceiling, I step further into the room, wobbling on my four-inch heels. It dawns on me that despite my red cheeks and eyes, I probably look the best I have in a long time. I’m wearing a flowy white blouse, a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, and my hair is clean and combed. I take my eyes off the ceiling and smile to myself, moving forward.
Clad is sitting at the same table as before, only he isn’t alone this time. There’s a man with black, curly locks sitting across from him. I take three long strides and am suddenly in front of them both, my palms sweating profusely and my breaths coming out closer together.
“Daddy?”
My dad turns around in his seat. My heart stops; he is a mirror image of myself, those same blue eyes framed with wrinkles.
“Angel Cakes,” he says, in that voice I have memorized by heart. That voice that spoke to me and gave me the strength to escape.
There’s a split second where we can’t decide if we should hug or shake hands, but I end up in his arms, crying so hard I can’t breathe. My legs collapse beneath me like a plastic folding chair. Dad holds tighter and squats down, lifting me into both his arms; he rocks me. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, smoothing my hair.
I clutch his shirt for dear life. I refuse to let go, refuse to lose him again.
“Don’t cry.” His breath tickles my ear. “I’m here now, I’m here.” His voice trembles; I think he is crying too.
My face buried in his neck, I breathe in that same musky smell that I remembered as a child. Why did you ever have to leave? We should have run away together, on your motorcycle—fugitives running from the law. Daddy, I would have gone anywhere with you.
The room has gone silent. I have caused a scene, possibly one of the happiest scenes I’ve ever had the pleasure of being part of. I lift my head out of the safe pocket of Dad’s jumpsuit and the side of his neck. All the inmates and their loved ones’ eyes are drawn to us.
Dad smiles at me with those sand dollar-white teeth, his two top ones different lengths. He turns me around to face the visitors.
“This is my daughter,” he says with vivacity, “and I haven’t held her in eleven years!”
They rise and applaud. Every one of them, Clad included. Men in their awful orange suits, the same color my traffic-cone arm cast had been, the color I once detested. The criminals in their jumpsuits a sea of illuminated suns shining down on me and my father. Under their light anything is possible; all my suffering is washed away. They could be angels, fallen from heaven.
If I were to die right here, this would be my heaven. The energy all around me, the laughing and crying as I’m reunited with my father; this is what all heavens are made of. Pure ener
gy, exuberant happiness, face-cracking smiles and sobs relieving timeworn grief.
“Look at you,” my dad says, his hand twisted in my hair. “My gorgeous little girl, all grown up. I’m so happy.” He looks down at his lap with tears in his eyes. “And so, so sad.” He sucks in a staggered breath. “I missed out on everything. One day you were a baby and now you’re a young lady.”
“It’s like you never left…” I say, his presence filling in the cracks of my broken heart.
“Are you Prima Ballerina? Did you make it, Bailey?” Dad asks, optimism written all over his face.
“No,” I say. “I stopped taking classes when I was fourteen.”
“Will you dance for me now, please?” he asks. “Every time I saw you in my dreams you were a smiling, dancing little thing.”
“If Clad will join me,” I say, nodding my head to Clad.
He smiles and nods back.
“That’a girl, you don’t need music, do you? You’ve always had a song in your heart,” Dad says.
“Follow my lead,” I tell Clad.
I take my wedges off and hand them to my dad.
I start up on my toes, raise my leg and arch my back all slowly at first, then I pick up speed, until I am spinning so fast that I lose my balance and fall back into Clad’s arms. He catches me and lifts me up above his head. I round my arms and smile widely for my father as the song playing in my head comes to an end.
“Beautiful,” Dad says, clapping. “You have a gift, you always did.”
Clad lowers me. I put my shoes back on. “It’s nothing, really, only what I remember from ballet.”
“Listen to this girl, so modest. Can’t even admit how talented she is!” Clad says.
“Well, I’m nothing without my dance partner,” I say.
“You’ll have to explain to me why you stopped ballet another time, visiting hour is almost up.”
“Can I have a moment with Bailey in private, please?” Clad asks.
“Sure,” Dad says.
Clad wraps his fingers around mine and tugs me to a corner of the room, where Dad will be out of earshot. He grabs my wrists and turns them over. “Your mom?”