Still reeling from my visit with Larkyn, I feel the rest of the week go by quickly. Wired gives me crap daily about seeing Larkyn. I take it. I figure it’s better to make him think I’m not going to see his sister again. That way he won’t make my life even more of a living hell in between visits. I also bribe him with more cash to keep both him and the other dudes off my back.
But I’m not seeing Larkyn today. Instead, I’m getting ready for the visit with Aisha.
When I woke up this morning, I was shaking. The court trial was vivid in my mind. The feel of the chairs, how they were cold and hard. The air in the room lacked oxygen. I remember how my temples pinched with stress. I spent a lot of time looking at my hands in my lap on the day of sentencing. I couldn’t look at the man’s wife. During the hearing, I learned about the son and daughter. How they were just a bit older than me. They didn’t attend. I remember their mom saying it would be too much for them.
Hell, it was too much for me. But I had to be there. I had to face the consequences of my actions. I had no choice.
And today, my heart feels like lead. How have I been able to block out this feeling for so long? I know I’ve been scared about life on the outside. But maybe something else has been keeping me here. Maybe I am afraid of facing Aisha. I’m afraid of facing the man’s family because of what I did.
Two and a half years ago, Aisha was in grade twelve. I guess that would make her twenty, or twenty-one now? She would have gone to my school. I never got my yearbook when I was in grade ten, since I didn’t finish the school year. And now she’ll be in university, or working. I hope. I hope she got on with her life. I hope she hasn’t been stuck in the past, like me.
I shake off the memory and get cleaned up before the visit. But it doesn’t feel anything like it did when I was going to meet Larkyn. As I put my arms into the sleeves of my green sweatshirt and pull it over my head, I feel dizzy. I have to sit on the edge of my bed to get my bearings. The room is swaying. It closes in on me. I consider calling Jackson to cancel the visit. But ever since I met with Larkyn, I’ve been putting an effort into studying. Jackson thinks meeting with Aisha will help my early parole. So I want to do what I can to make that happen. In case I can get it together and be ready for a life beyond this shit hole.
But I’m scared.
I’m afraid of seeing the pain in this woman’s face. The pain I put there.
I shave while Collins keeps watch. I find myself looking at him in between draws of the blade along my cheek. What does he really think of us? All of us in here. As I ask myself that question, the blade catches my flesh. Blood trickles down my chin. Red.
A red scarf on white snow.
All of a sudden, my guilt erupts like a volcano spewing hot lava down the mountainside. Red hot lava. Burning everything in its wake. Once a volcano pops, you can’t put a stopper in it. You can’t push all the hot lava back into the volcano. It just seeps into everything. Like my guilt. Suddenly, it’s flowing around me. I can’t push it back down.
I can’t block these feelings any longer.
“Look, Collins,” I gasp. “I need to call Jackson. NOW! I am NOT doing this visit. He can ban me from Larkyn, the writing group, whatever he wants. I am not ready for this. GET IT?”
Collins shakes his head. “Not happening, man. It’s time for your visit right now. Your visitor is already here. You’ve got to face this.”
“But how . . .”
Collins points to my chin. The blood has stopped trickling but I have a red streak down my face. I dab at it with a tissue. Collins holds the door open. He gestures for me to follow him. After what seems like several minutes I finally find the courage to follow my CO down the hall.
My walk toward the visiting area is slow. There isn’t any spring in my step. Instead, I can barely make my legs move forward. Earlier, when I told Jackson I didn’t know what to say to Aisha, he told me to just listen. Let her talk. Let her guide the discussion.
So that’s what I plan to do. If I can ever make it into the room.
Just before I get to the door, I can see through the window into the visitors’ area. There are four tables with people waiting at them. One is a family of three. At the next table is a young dude, close to my age. The next two tables each have a woman at them. But I know which one is Aisha immediately. She’s looking straight into my eyes. She’s looking to see if I care about what happened.
I want to bolt. I don’t want to face her. But now that she has spotted me, leaving might give her the wrong idea. I don’t want to hurt her more. So I take a deep breath and open the door. My chest heaves as I try to swallow too much air, too fast. When I reach her table, I don’t know what to do. So I just stand there. She motions for me to sit down.
She’s trembling. As I sit, I can feel the table jiggle from her legs bouncing and knocking into it. “I’m Aisha,” she says. “I, uh, wanted this to be different. This isn’t how I meant for us to meet. I . . . today . . .”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of her face. She tugs at her hijab and wipes away the moisture. I haven’t looked directly into her eyes. That is too much. That’s too intense. But her nerves shake me up. We’re both struggling.
Aisha begins speaking again. “I had a terrible time getting here. At a four-way stop sign, this idiot blew through the intersection. He acted like I was the only one who had to pay attention to the signs. I was already rattled because of our visit. Now, I can’t shake this feeling. He nearly smashed my car. I . . .” Her eyes are darting everywhere. She scans the room like she’s in danger.
Someone almost hit her on the way here. A car. A near accident.
Now I’m sweating. My pulse rips up inside me. I stand up. My hand grabs the table so I can keep my balance. I’m not ready for this. Not now. Not with what she just said.
“Wait, please,” she pleads. “Don’t go.”
I sit back down. But now it’s my leg bouncing triple beats.
“I just want to ask . . . I mean, I just want to know if . . .”
I’m sorry. That’s what she needs to hear. That’s what she wants to know. I think of an old Elton John song. He only got it half right — sorry isn’t just the hardest word. It’s a lame word. It’s a non-word. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t carry weight or take up space. Right now as I need to say it, I know the word isn’t big enough to fill this room. It isn’t big enough to erase what happened to her dad.
It’s just not enough.
I look up to see Aisha staring at me. My eyes are moist. Hers are wet pools and tears begin to flow down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I say. But I don’t say the word to apologize for what happened two and a half years ago. I say it over my shoulder, because I’m bolting for the door. I say it because I can’t do this. This was a stupid idea. I don’t know what the hell Jackson was thinking by putting us together in a room. How can that fix anything?