It’s Saturday and we are all allowed to chill in our rooms. After breakfast and chores, I return to my room. I want to hammer out more lyrics for Strummer’s song. I’m just in the middle of a great line when I am interrupted by Collins.
“You have a visitor.”
“What? But my dad is out of town.” I’m kind of surprised.
As I approach the visitors’ area, I see through the window that it’s Aisha. She’s back. My PO didn’t give me a heads up. I’m not ready to meet with her. I haven’t planned what to say.
But since I am already here, I approach the table. I pull out a chair and slide into it. Everything that happened this past month bubbles to the surface. Aisha’s eyes take in my mangled face. Before she can say anything, my words are spilling out. “Why did you come back? I bailed on you. I didn’t expect you to want to reach out again.”
“No, I blew it last time. I was so nervous meeting you. I didn’t know how I would react. I didn’t know if I could keep my emotions in check. I didn’t sleep the night before.”
“I didn’t sleep, either.” I don’t tell her I never sleep well. Any night. “But I get it. Almost being hit as you drove in, that . . . I . . .” My voice trails off.
She looks as though she might put her hand over mine. I panic. First, because I don’t want the guards to freak out and act like they usually do about touching the visitors. But also because I don’t know why she would extend that kind of peace offering.
“Maybe because I was tired,” she says, “it hit me harder when that guy ran the stop sign. But after you left the visitors’ area, I had to sit with my feelings. All my feelings around confronting you. And I had to look at what happened on my way in to see you that day. I thought about what the man was doing when he ran the stop sign. Not paying attention. That’s his error.” She looks at me. Her brown eyes are scared, but soft at the same time. “Last year, do you remember how we had that huge dump of snow? Well, on my way to university, I was going slowly. I was being careful. But I still slid through a stop sign because I hit black ice. My professor is from Winnipeg and he says drivers there grow up with this stuff. They know to pump the brakes. They gear down. They have tricks that make them better drivers under those conditions. I could have slid into someone. Like you slid into . . .”
Now her eyes fill with tears again. I think of what Jackson said. I’m responsible for being an idiot and jumping in the car. Could I have slid on ice as a new driver once I was legal to drive? Yeah, I guess.
I find some courage. Out loud I say, “But I created the scenario that put me on that ice without driving experience. Without legally being able to drive. I’m the one who did that. I’m responsible for being behind the wheel when that happened.”
Now my emotions spill out. I feel foolish having tears run down my cheeks. But I press on. Aisha is hanging on every word I say. “Every single day, I wake up regretting my actions. I wish I had walked past that car. I wish I hadn’t thought the police car was after me. I wish I could take that day back. Then I could give you back your life the way it was. Your dad . . .”
“But that’s the part you need to know,” Aisha cuts in. “He survived the crash. Sure, his legs were damaged for a long time. But after a year and a half of rehab, he started walking again. He still uses a cane, but things could have been worse. My dad is celebrating being alive.”
I feel a sliver of relief. Of course I knew he wasn’t dead. But for two and a half years, I’ve felt like I took his life. I mean I did, in a way. He couldn’t walk.
Aisha continues. “Dad says this was a blessing. He didn’t like his old job. And because he had to change careers due to his legs, he now has a job he loves — working in a library.”
My chest heaves while Aisha is talking.
“And I’m happy,” she says. “I’m happy my dad is in a better place. I’m happy because I just got engaged to a man I met at university. We want to get married, have children, and pursue our careers. But I realize that to do all of that, I have to have a clear heart. A heart that isn’t blackened by a tragedy from the past. I have been hanging on to hate and anger. My heart was heavy because of it. I already feel lighter just meeting with you.”
I nod. My heart has been dark too. And these last few weeks, with Larkyn and Wired and the Diablos, it was blackening even more.
Aisha puts her hand up as though she could wipe away my sadness. Then she points at my eye and cut lip. “What happened, Kevin?”
“It was nothing.”
She looks concerned. “I thought youth custody would be more like a learning environment than a prison.”
“Ha!” I laugh. But she doesn’t join me. So she won’t freak out, I add, “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I wanted you to be punished, Kevin. But this isn’t what I expected. I don’t know what the answer is. But it isn’t this.”
“Look,” I say, as everything hits me at once. “I was told that I could be released early. But I don’t want that. I need to do all the time they give me. Even if it means going up to adult prison. I messed up your dad’s life. I messed up your life. I deserve this.”
“No Kevin, not this.” She looks around us before speaking again. “I’m not sure this is teaching you anything.” Her voice softens. “Tell me something. What did you learn from what happened that day?”
“That being impulsive is stupid. I mean, I just wish I had thought things through. I wish I hadn’t jumped into the car without thinking of the consequences. But I didn’t know I’d slide through the intersection. I didn’t know someone would be crossing the street at just that moment. But it really makes no difference, does it? The car wasn’t mine. I had no license. I shouldn’t have done it. And every day when I wake up, my first thoughts are of your dad. I’m sorry for hurting him. For hurting you . . .”
Aisha takes in my words. She sits and lets what I’ve said sink in.
Then she smiles at me.
Until this moment, I had no idea how huge one small act — one smile — could be. Her smile. Something I never thought I would get to see. My cheeks flush. Then we talk until our time is up.
After the visit, I head back to my room. My step is lighter than it has been in two and a half years. In even longer than that. Since Mom left. My door opens. I enter the room. The heavy door closes behind me.
I walk to my bed and sit down. Then my eyes roam to my desk, where a stack of papers sits for studying and song writing. On top of the white paper is a crumpled little ball of black. I take a closer look and I realize it’s Weed.
And she’s dead.
I lay my head down next to her.