Williams Correctional Facility, the sign read. It was completely surreal. How had we gotten here? We had everything. Or, at least my dad did. Now, nothing. Not even his freedom. I felt as if I was walking onto a movie set or a simulation. There was no way this was real life, was there?
The officer who greeted me and Uncle Ed at the gate gave us a laundry list of what to do, what not to do, what to say, what not to say, what we couldn’t bring in, what it would look like in the visitation area, how long we could stay, and how to leave the room and retrieve any items we’d left before entering.
What he didn’t tell us was what to expect. He didn’t tell us how it would feel to inhale the stale prison-scent for the first time. He didn’t tell us how the person sitting across the table from us would look simultaneously like a stranger and someone you saw every day for the majority of your life. He didn’t tell us how emotional we would feel. He didn’t give us a heads up on how hard it would be—how heavy our bodies would feel, carrying so much. So much.
I sat in the chair, waiting for the guards to bring my dad in, my knee bouncing so fast I shook the table.
“It’s okay, Ashlyn,” Uncle Ed whispered, trying his best to comfort me, to make it better, but I think even he knew his words were pointless. There was no way to prepare for seeing your father locked up.
When they brought him in, I felt all those emotions that had been draped over me, a bulletproof vest of nerves and anger and anticipation, liquefy and drain all over the floor, leaving me completely exposed.
“Hi, Ashlyn,” my dad said calmly, sitting down. Gone was the perfectly tailored suit, replaced by a bland khaki uniform that resembled hospital scrubs. “Ed.” Dad nodded at his brother and extended his hand. They shook for half a second, both dropping their hands into their laps quickly “How are things?”
I tried to imagine we were sitting at the dinner table or in his office, instead of a federal prison, with the sickening fluorescent lights and reinforced windows. “Things are good. Work is really interesting.”
“That’s good. What kinds of tasks have you been doing?”
My jaw was stiff, my voice robotic. “I keep the gym clean. Sometimes I serve in the dining hall. I mostly work in the office with the director, though. Whatever she needs.”
“Ms. Gress. Highly experienced woman according to your aunt. That’s a position of power, being her assistant. If you do a good job for her, that can lead to a letter of recommendation. Hard workers who have the respect of their supervisors go far, Ashlyn.”
There was no use telling him that working for Deb was just about the most useless, least rewarding position at the retreat center. I knew better than to tell him she’d practically dismissed me when I’d handed her the list of items that needed to be ordered for the equipment kiosk, including lifejackets, and compiled a list of repairs that needed to be made, notably patching holes in canoes and restringing tennis rackets. Nor did I tell him that when I’d also given her the printed list of safety regulations we were supposed to be following, she threw that down on her desk and asked me to make her another cup of coffee. No, working in Deb’s office was not a position of power. It was the exact opposite.
“Ashlyn is doing a great job,” Uncle Ed chimed in. I knew he had no idea if I was doing a good job or not, but I appreciated the support.
“Well, that’s fine, just fine. I’ve got a job here too.” Dad launched into an account of how he was learning the art of building maintenance. Though he made it seem like he was doing something really important and prestigious in the hierarchy of prison jobs, all I heard was mopping floors and cleaning toilets. He droned on about the importance of sanitation in an environment where “your proximity to large groups of people is inevitable.” I laughed, on the inside, at the mental image of my father, on his knees, scrubbing a tile floor with a toothbrush. The perfect job for the man who hired a cleaning company to keep our house entertainment-ready at all times.
When he’d finally finished his story, Dad said, “Ashlyn, do you think you could give your uncle and me just a minute alone?”
My head popped up from where I’d been fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “Oh, sure.”
Dad signaled to a guard to come escort me out of the room. As the uniformed woman approached, my dad rose and opened his arms. I didn’t really want to touch him. In here, he wasn’t my dad. Or, he was, but he was my dad in some alternate universe and maybe if I hugged him, I’d fall through some black hole and get stuck in that other world. But, guilt won.
So I hugged him. And despite the scratchy fabric of his uniform and the black scruff on his chin that he never would’ve allowed at home, he smelled exactly the same. Two years ago, when I was the youngest member of the Quiz Bowl team back at Henderson High School, before everything changed, I won the regional tournament for our team by answering a question correctly about humans being able to detect emotion through scent, notably anxiety. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t allowed to wear his very expensive cologne here in the prison, and perhaps it was because, maybe, he was feeling nervous or scared today, but whatever it was, he smelled even more like Dad. I breathed him in. He smelled strong and clean and warm. He smelled like home.
I let go, mumbled, “See you next time,” and bolted out of the room. I managed to hold my tears in long enough to collect my wallet from the entrance and duck into a bathroom. I clicked the lock into place, slid to the ground, and started sobbing. Scalding tears fell down my cheeks and ugly sobs erupted from my throat. I was certain the guards on the other side of the door thought I’d unleashed some kind of wounded, wild animal.
I loved him and I hated him. And I hated that. I felt like two people around my dad. Most of the time, I wrapped myself in a cloak of silence and sneers. I did as I was told, deflected his jabs, and kept my head down, biding my time until I could legally cut ties. I looked forward to the days when my only obligation was to show up on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But sometimes, I was the five-year-old little girl, riding on Daddy’s shoulders, waiting for the carousel in the park to slow down so she could get on. Her daddy’s hand holding her fast, protecting her from sliding off the painted horse. I didn’t know how to wrap my head around those two Ashlyns. Or, even harder, those two Dads. Who were we without the other? I had no earthly clue. But it would be impossible to deny that my dad and I were enmeshed—another handy vocabulary word from my psych class—and if I wanted to go home, he would be there too, even if he was still far away.
I sat on the bathroom floor, the tile cold beneath my bare legs, until a soft knock came at the door. “Ashlyn? Are you in there?”
“Yes, Uncle Ed. I’ll be right out.” I turned on the cold water and let it run to peak iciness. I splashed my face and patted it dry with the thin, brown paper towels that did little to absorb the water. I stared at myself in the mirror, just like I did the day Dad left to come here. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin pale from days spent in Deb’s office instead of out in the summer sun. I sucked in a deep breath, turned, and unlocked the door.
Uncle Ed and I walked to the car without a word. As he turned out of the parking lot, I sat there, staring straight ahead, still smelling my dad’s scent.
I turned to my uncle. “What did you talk about after I left?”
Even in profile, I knew he was smirking. “Money. What else?”
I snorted. “What? How we don’t have any anymore?”
“No, you have money. Your father is bad at being a criminal, but he’s good at earning money. There’s more than enough to pay what he owes the government, all his fines and legal fees, your mom’s treatment, and still be comfortable. He just wanted to make sure you were taken care of. That’s all. He may not be Dad of the Year, Ash, but he loves you.”
“I wish his love had nothing to do with money or appearing perfect.” I’d never said that out loud, but I figured if anyone would understand, Uncle Ed would.
My uncle gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Me too. I miss my brother. He wasn’t always like this, you know.”
I had flashes of memories from when I was younger, but they never seemed real. “I guess.”
“We didn’t have money growing up. Your grandfather worked long hours in the hardware store in town. Your grandmother took in laundry to make a little extra. We always knew our dad wished he could be his own boss. He didn’t like relying on someone else’s decisions to put food on our table and he hated thinking that people were judging us for not having much. I think your dad, being the oldest son, took that to heart, maybe a little too much.” Uncle Ed chuckled. “And then I went the other direction.”
“I think what you and Aunt Greta do is great.” Seeing how self-reliant and assured Hannah was, I wondered how I might’ve turned out if I’d grown up in a different sort of home.
“Thank you. We find value in helping others. It’s more important to us than having a big house or the newest phone.”
By the time we got back to Sweetwater, anger was brewing in me once again. Everything my dad did was a choice. He didn’t have to commit tax evasion. He didn’t have to criticize everything I did. He didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, putting up a façade of perfection, and forcing Mom and me to do the same. I wished he’d chosen differently.
I hugged my uncle goodbye and stepped back into wilderness retreat land. Pushing into the lodge, I checked in with Deb, who was in the kitchen alone, covered in flour, food coloring staining her fingers.
She waved me over. “We just finished a cooking session. Those Patels are hilarious.” I gaped at her. The Patels were here for a family reunion. There were forty of them according to the registration forms I’d processed. Had she had all of them in the kitchen at once? Somehow that didn’t sound safe. “Can you clean this up for me? Wipe the counters and load the dishwashers?”
I opened my mouth to protest, cleaning up after Deb was almost as bad as making her coffee all day long. But then it dawned on me that I could take my frustration out on the kitchen surfaces. I shrugged and nodded.
Deb stretched a hand out to me, offering me a piece of black licorice. It was my favorite, but my stomach protested. “Thanks, maybe later.” She sniffed and walked out of the room.
When I looked more closely at the state of the competition kitchen, my mouth pressed into a firm line so hard it hurt. There was flour everywhere. Candy pieces and chocolate chips all over the floor. And two enormous gingerbread houses at the front of the room—not nearly as lovely as the one Deb had made herself, but it looked like the Patels had had a good time making them. Which only made me clench my jaw tighter. There was no way my dad would ever participate in something like this. He hated looking silly.
A stray bag of white icing, piping tip still on, lay on the far end of the room. Without a second thought—a thought that would have been delivered in my dad’s voice telling me otherwise—I grabbed the icing and went for one of the houses.
I WAS BORN IN THIS HOUSE AND
I’M BURNING IT DOWN.
Ghost Beach
I stared at the white words on the white-iced roof for just a moment, satisfied with my handiwork, and then smeared it away with a spatula. The Patels didn’t deserve to be graffitied. And besides, my house had already burned down, metaphorically. No need to rub it in.