I met with the shrink a lot after that and started listening to him, started answering his questions, even if I thought some of them were stupid. I told him I was innocent. I don’t know if he believed me, but he said that it wasn’t about my guilt or innocence, it was about my accepting that I was in prison and that I could try to make the most of it. I also started going to programs. At first I had a chip on my shoulder, the other inmates’ problems weren’t my problems. I didn’t shoot drugs, I wasn’t an addict, but when I listened closer I heard the stories underneath the words. How they hadn’t belonged anywhere, how they didn’t get along with their family, how they’d used drugs to get attention or forget their pain. I thought about all the times Ryan and I had gotten high just to deal with our family shit, how we thought there was nothing wrong with that. But if I hadn’t been stoned out of my mind that night I might have been able to protect Nicole, might have heard her scream. I never wanted to do drugs or drink again. I even quit smoking.
I went to more programs, I followed the steps, and I read some self-help books. Then I started reading other books, novels I remembered Nicole talking about, some memoirs and biographies, anything written about survivors, people who had overcome adversity. Eventually I branched out into the classics, books I’d avoided in school: Moby-Dick, Jane Eyre, Great Expectations, Of Mice and Men. After years of being stagnant, my mind wanted to work, wanted to learn. There weren’t many classes available unless I got moved down to minimum—I’d been placed in maximum because of my fighting—but I was trying to stay out of trouble. I told my institutional parole officer whatever he wanted to hear, about my remorse, that I wanted to make amends to all the people I’d hurt over the years, my family, the guards, others. I was more polite inside, respectful, and after another year I was moved back down to medium.
It wasn’t a straight line. I still had the odd tussle with another inmate, but I was learning to walk away from fights more. In time, I finally opened up to the shrink about my guilt surrounding Nicole’s murder, how even though I didn’t kill her, I was the reason she was dead. And how sometimes I felt angry at her for not confiding in me about what was happening to her that last year, which might have had something to do with her death. He talked a lot about forgiveness, of myself and others, and said, “Punishing yourself isn’t helping anyone, Toni.”
But I wasn’t ready to forgive myself, or Shauna and her crew for the things they’d said at our trial. I couldn’t stop thinking they were involved somehow, that they knew what had really happened that night. And they were all still walking around free. The years had only intensified my hatred. I didn’t tell my shrink that part, wanting him to report only good things to my parole officer.
Two years later, when I was twenty-eight, I was finally moved to minimum. I hadn’t seen my dad or my mom in years, but they sent money on my birthday and Christmas. My dad would also still send cards once in a while. I would stare at the cards, wondering why they didn’t even hurt anymore. They felt like part of another life, one that I would never belong to again.
One letter hit hard, though. Dad wrote to tell me that my grandma had died. I’ll never forget her funny letters in her shaky handwriting where she’d bitch about her doctor, her friends, or her new boyfriend. They were some of the few bright spots in years of gray. I wasn’t allowed to go to her funeral and I regretted not having written her more often, but I’d been too ashamed, feeling like I’d let her down so badly, ashamed of putting that return address on mail to her.
Now I didn’t get letters from anyone, except once in a while a law student or a reporter wrote saying they wanted to work on my case. I never answered.
I couldn’t really remember the outside as much, the scents and sounds of that world fading in my mind, and I didn’t think about it as often. Or at least I didn’t let myself go there in my mind. Sometimes the other girls and I would talk about what we’d eat when we got out of the joint, imagining burgers and fries and thick milkshakes, big steaks and baked potatoes, or maybe a strawberry cheesecake. But I always ended the game first. It hurt too much.
I had made some good friends, like Amber, Brenda, and Margaret. We didn’t talk about our crimes. It wasn’t something you ever asked about, but usually you’d hear something through the grapevine and you’d know what they were doing a “bid” for. Amber was in for manslaughter, and Brenda and Margaret were also in for murder. Margaret had been there the longest. She’d killed her husband and his friend after they raped her when they were all drunk one night—the jury decided the sex had been consensual and she’d shot them in a drunken rage.
I’d stopped telling anybody I was innocent, didn’t talk about Nicole or my family. Most of the girls didn’t have any family either and we became each other’s support. Amber, a tiny blonde who could talk your ear off if you gave her half a chance, was obsessed with all things country and western. Only nineteen, she was our little sister. Brenda, a tough ex-druggie who dressed butch and had a shaved head, was our brother. She fell in love with a different woman every week, and provided us with lots of drama and excitement as we watched her try to juggle a couple of relationships at a time. Margaret was our mother.
Margaret was in her late fifties, with wild curly blond hair that stood out around her head like a halo. She was forever trying to calm it down, buying different potions, but within hours it would frizz up again. She ran the kitchen, and I worked as her prep cook. At first I thought she was a tough bitch, real cranky, and wasn’t sure why everyone liked her, then I realized she had a lot of respect inside because she didn’t take crap from anyone but she never had to raise her voice. She was like a bossy mama. She had this stare that made you want to apologize right away, and she treated everyone as if they were her kids—slapping them on the hand with a spatula if they stole a cookie, but adding a little extra to someone’s plate if she knew that woman was having a bad day. She’d also get everyone to decorate their cells at Christmas or other holidays, and we’d hold contests—it was pretty amazing what a bunch of female inmates could come up with, just using colored paper and stuff. We’d also make each other homemade cards, and birthday cakes out of things we could get at the canteen. Christmas, we always exchanged presents, maybe an extra can of Coke or a few packages of noodles and chips. First time I made a Mother’s Day card for Margaret, she cried and cried. Later she told me she had a few kids on the outside but she’d been into drugs when she was young and they didn’t want anything to do with her anymore.
I told her about my family then, and what had happened that night. Margaret was cool, said I needed to forgive myself, but I told her I couldn’t, not yet. I also told her about Shauna and her gang, and how my mom hated me. She said that after she went to prison her youngest son had been killed when he was a teen. He was drunk, in a car with a bunch of other kids who were also drunk, and they wrapped the car around a telephone pole. Her son was thrown out of the car and broke his neck. She blamed herself for a long time—if she’d been a better mother, her kid wouldn’t have been out that night—and she blamed the driver of the car.
But then she said, “One day, I just saw all this hate I was carrying around with me, how it wasn’t doing no good to nobody. People make mistakes, and the more they hurt inside, the more they hurt on the outside.” She also said, “And your mom? Losing a child, it’s the worst thing that can ever happen to a woman. It makes you crazy inside. She just can’t let go of that grief yet. She’s stuck.”
I thought about that for a moment, remembering how the year after Nicole’s murder my mom would make me go over everything that had happened that night again and again, every torturous detail, no matter how painful.
Margaret reached out and grabbed my hand. “She doesn’t hate you, baby. It’s just easier for her to be mad at you than herself. But you got to stop blaming yourself for what went down.”
After that, Margaret started giving me some books to read, stuff on living in the now by some dude named Eckhart Tolle and some other books on meditation,
spiritual stuff like that. I was also taking some university correspondence classes and she’d ask me to read out sections to her, then we’d discuss different parts. When I got a good grade she’d prance around, telling everyone on our range how her “daughter” was so damn smart.
Margaret was really into yoga, which was pretty funny because she was a woman with an odd shape, big on top with broad shoulders and big breasts but skinny chicken legs. Still, she could bend herself into all kinds of positions and she got most of us to join her for sessions in the activity room. Amber and Brenda would grumble all the way through, but it was some of the most fun I had in there, watching those girls try to do warrior poses and downward dogs. I was the only one who stuck with Margaret and did a class with her every day. She had bad arthritis, with gnarled hands and feet, and she said yoga and meditation were pretty much the only things that helped with the pain.
One winter day she was rubbing her hands, in a foul mood. She’d even made Amber cry when we were all watching TV: “I can’t stand all your chatter. Shut up or go back to your cell.” Amber left, and a couple of minutes later Margaret said, “Shit. Now I’m going to have to give her some of my cookies.”
I smiled at her. “Amber will get over it. But I can give you a foot rub if you want?” We weren’t supposed to have any physical contact, but they were a little more relaxed in minimum and we had a guard, Theresa, who liked us, so she’d turn a blind eye.
After that, I’d come to Margaret’s cell when she was having a bad day and give her a hand or foot rub. I even gave her a pedicure sometimes, then all the girls wanted them, so I got a reputation for being the beauty consultant, which I thought was pretty funny. I liked making them feel pretty. Margaret especially, the way she’d lean back in bliss, giving little sighs as I rubbed and molded her feet. She’d say, “Toni, you have hands of a miracle worker.”
It was during the pedicures that we shared the most about our past lives. I talked about Ryan, told her all the things that I’d never shared with my mom. She’d get me to describe how he looked and say, “Oh, he sounds so cuuuute.” I told her some of the fun stuff we used to do, and how we were always sneaking out to see each other. One day I told her about the time he’d climbed up the tree to my roof, just to say he was sorry for being jealous. It was nice, remembering, but then I saw his face so clearly, his smile, and I had to break off, the emotions still too raw.
Margaret waited for a bit. Then, her voice soft, she said, “Do you think you’ll see each other when you get out?”
“I’d lose my parole.”
“That’s not what I asked.” She gave a cheeky smile.
I thought about what she’d said. “Sometimes I wonder if he might try to find me, but it’s been so long … I don’t know if he feels the same way.”
“Do you know if he’s getting out at the same time?”
I shook my head. “No idea. We stopped writing years ago.”
“I could put out some feelers for you.”
For a moment I was tempted. But then I said, “I’m too scared to find out he’s changed, that he’s not the same guy anymore.” I knew how much prison had changed me, and the men’s side of Rockland was even worse. They’d been on lockdown many times over the years after a riot or a fight between inmates and guards, or because someone got caught sneaking in drugs, cell phones, or some other contraband. After prisons became nonsmoking in 2006, cigarettes had also become a hot commodity. If Ryan had survived prison, it was likely he’d turned into someone I wouldn’t want to know.
I said, “We can never be together again, I know that, but I still have my memories—they’re the only good thing I have left from that time. If I find out something awful about him, then it’s like all the good will get erased.”
Margaret sighed. “I understand. Some things are just better left alone.” Then she told me about her husband, who was not a nice guy at all. She said, “I would have loved to have what you kids had, even if it was lost. You shared something special, something most people never find.”
* * *
As the years passed and I got closer to my parole date, I worried about leaving Margaret in there, about who might take care of her. When I said as much, she brushed me off. “Don’t you worry about me, girl. Just get your shit together and leave this place for the rest of us.” On days when her arthritis was really bad, she told me that when she meditated she’d dream about being free, running on the beach, watching the birds, and never feeling pain again. She was tired of always aching. She said it was punishment for “loving the wrong men my whole damn life.” She liked listening to me talk about Campbell River, the beaches and the ocean—she was from back east and had only been to the beach once in her life.
Sometimes she’d be melancholy, sipping her tea, her eyes blank, saying, “I’m going to die in this damn place. I know it.” I’d get upset with her. And then she’d say, “Toni, honey, you got it all wrong. Death isn’t the hard part, living is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WOODBRIDGE HIGH, CAMPBELL RIVER
FEBRUARY 1996
I was sure that Ryan and I had covered all our tracks after breaking into the Andersons’ house, but a few days later I walked in after school to find both my parents sitting at the table. Their faces were serious, coffee cups on the table—half drunk, no steam, like they’d been waiting and talking for a while. Nicole was also sitting at the table, nervously scratching at her arm.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“We’d like to have a word with you,” my dad said.
I sat down and glanced at Nicole, but she looked away. Not a good sign.
“Did you sneak into the Andersons’ house?” Dad said.
“No.” Crap. How much did they know? Had we left something behind?
“Don’t lie,” my mom said.
“I’m not. I wasn’t there.”
“Well, someone was,” Dad said. “The Andersons’ alarm shows each time it’s been disabled and which code was used. Someone used the one they’d created for me to enter their house late Friday night. Do you know anything about this?”
I shrugged, but my heart was racing. “Nicole was going over there to water plants, wasn’t she using the code?”
“This was later—hours after she’d been there.”
Mom chimed in, “Nicole said you were out with Ryan Friday night.”
I glared at Nicole. What else did you tell them?
“Yeah, so what?”
“And you came home past four in the morning.”
So Nicole had ratted me out. Two can play that game.
“Nicole was out late too. She had just gotten home when I did.”
Mom looked shocked, and Nicole’s face turned red.
Nicole stammered, “That’s not true—I was just going to the bathroom.”
Mom turned back to me. “It’s bad enough that you’re lying to us, Toni, but trying to point the finger at your sister is just low.”
“I’m not pointing the finger at anyone. I’m saying I wasn’t the only one out.”
“This isn’t about your sister.” Mom looked flustered, like she was trying to regroup. “It’s about you sneaking into our neighbors’ house.”
My dad said, “They trusted us, Toni.”
Now I felt really bad. I hadn’t wanted to get my dad in trouble. “Maybe their alarm is screwed up and it recorded the time wrong or something.”
“Some of their alcohol was also missing.” Dad’s voice turned soft, doing the calm-and-reasonable thing. “We just want to know the truth.”
I glanced over at Mom and knew there’d be hell to pay if she knew the truth. I kept with my story. “I am telling the truth.”
Dad looked disappointed, my mom furious.
She said, “You’re grounded.”
“What? You can’t do that!”
“For a month—that includes phone privileges. And you can’t use the car or see Ryan after school. We want you home every night.”
“You ca
n’t ground me—I’m eighteen.” I was furious—I’d been a week away from getting the car on the road. “I’m supposed to start work at the Fish Shack the middle of March.”
“You should have thought of that before.” Then she took a breath, like she was bracing for something, and said, “If you don’t abide by our rules, you’ll have to find another place to live.”
Blood rushed to my face. “You’re kicking me out?” I knew it had to be some tough-love bullshit she’d read in one of the stupid books—I’d seen them in her office: How to Talk to Your Teenage Daughter and other crap like that. But it still shocked the hell out of me. I didn’t think they’d ever go that far.
“We aren’t kicking you out,” Dad quickly said. “But your behavior is getting out of control. We don’t know what else to do, Toni. Your mom’s right. If you’re not going to respect our rules, then you can’t stay here.”
He looked upset saying those last words, and I had a feeling it was more my mom’s idea than his. I glanced back at her and she looked upset too, but more nervous or scared, her mouth tight and her eyes red-rimmed. She was probably freaked out that I might actually leave, and then she’d have no control over me.
I felt panicky, trying to figure out what I was going to do next. Where would I go? Ryan’s place was no good. His mom was cool, but I was pretty sure she’d draw the line at my living there. Amy and the rest of my friends still weren’t speaking to me. Maybe I could negotiate my way out of this.
“What if I did more chores around here and stayed home during the week?” Then I could still keep my job.
Dad looked at my mom.
“One month,” she said, her voice firm. “It will give you time to realize that when you’re with Ryan, you don’t use your head. You have to learn there are consequences to your actions.”