Page 86 of Just Ten Seconds

And I did. Except I went to the wrong one. Now, I wonder if I should go back to the beginning. To where I should have been in the first place.

Just like the first night, I’m sitting outside Zion Episcopal Church, waiting to go inside. This time, instead of the sole trepidation of going in, I also have to make sure no one from the Instillation of Hope bereavement group sees me. And if they do, maybe that should be part of my penance.

I never meant to lie. It’s something that snowballed. Actually, I never actually said my husband was dead. It was a lie of omission.

That sounds ten times worse, I know.

I rub my forehead and try to will the courage to head inside.

“Regina.” The jingle plays, and I want to laugh at the irony as the romance announcer says, “With love comes forgiveness, and that’s the theme of tonight’s show. Wherever you are, whatever pain you’re clinging to, know that anger at lies lasts forever. Anger at the truth lasts a moment.”

I hit my head against the steering wheel so hard that the horn honks. I bolt up with a jolt and then turn the car off before I chicken out again.

Dean’s truck isn’t in the lot, and I know he won’t show up. I walk inside the propped-open side door and look up at the bulletin board.

COPING FAMILIES OF INMATES—Room 1D

Just the sight of the word inmates makes my stomach tie in knots. I walk in the direction of the arrow tonight, going to the room I should have entered the first time I came. As I pass the bereavement group, I put my coat over my head and walk quickly past them.

I know it’s a risk, coming here, but I thought about it a lot last night. I need to talk to Dean, but before I do so, I have to start with what I set out to do.

I have to fix me.

The air is stale down here tonight, and my sneakers squeak on the linoleum. I should have come here in the first place, but I was too afraid.

Afraid to feel.

Afraid to accept.

Afraid to open up any of his damn letters.

The group is already in session, so I slide into a seat in the back row and keep my coat on so as not to disrupt the man who is talking.

He’s standing in the front of the classroom setting. Wearing a pair of tan pants and a three-quarter zip-up, he keeps his hands in his pockets and occasionally rubs his chin as he speaks.

“Clara’s been calling a lot and asking for money,” he says. “You know, when your kid is in college and asks for a few bucks, you send it because you want to make sure they have everything they need. Now, she calls and asks for a hundred here and a hundred there. What’s she need so much money for? An iPad, she says. You can buy privileges on the inside.” The man who looks to be in his sixties shakes his head at the disappointment in his child. “You’d think being in jail would be enough to scare her straight, but she’s still trying to rig the system. She’s thirty-three years old. She has a kid who she can’t see and she’s worried about being able to use an iPad.”

I look around the room and at the reactions of the people in their seats. A man sitting in the same row as me nods his head with a frown. A woman and a teenager in the row in front of me are shaking their heads.

The man at the front of the room takes a heavy breath and continues, “You know what I did? I put more money in her account. Told her she can buy anything she wants from the commissary, but I’m not enabling her by giving her cash. No more. I love my girl though. I still gotta take care of her.”

A few people in the room clap lightly while others remain stoic. The gentleman takes a seat as a woman with short gray hair rises and places a hand on his shoulder, as he is now sitting in the front row.

“Thank you for speaking. We can all sympathize that the task of loving someone who is trying to find redemption is a constant battle. We feel for them because they are behind bars, yet at the same time, we have to remain mindful that they are paying their price to society for their wrongs. It is hard, and we all feel for you,” the woman says and looks out in the room. “Would anyone else like to speak?”

There is a short pause before a woman raises her hand and stands up to head to the front.

“My name is Destiny. Many of you know me. I been comin’ here for two years now. I bring my baby, Jadyn, with me to see his daddy. He’s in for criminal possession and distribution. Servin’ four years on a class D. I go to see him. They have this play area for the kids, which is okay. It’s not anything special, but at least Jadyn gets to play with his daddy. You think you spend a lot of cash at the vending machine, try goin’ with a four-year-old. He thinks going to the prison is like a trip to the candy shop.”

Destiny speaks for about five more minutes and seems pretty matter-of-fact with the lifestyle she is living, having to drive her son six hours to see his father once a month. Her relationship with her son’s father must be positive because she ends with, “Jadyn can’t wait for his daddy to come home.”

When she’s done, another woman gets up and speaks. This time, it’s for her husband who is away for vehicular manslaughter. She cries a lot. Most of her words are muffled as she talks about only being able to see him every other weekend on her assigned visiting day because she works during the week.

“We can’t even walk to the vending machine together,” she says. “He has to stand behind a yellow line in his green jumpsuit and point to what he wants. Can you imagine that? The man who used to buy me dinner can’t even walk up to a vending machine anymore. The man who supported our family for years, put our girls through college, isn’t even allowed to hold the dollar bill.”

Each person’s speech is powerful and touching. As they walk to their seats, I have to fight the urge to want to hug them and tell them it’s going to be okay.

What I don’t feel is connected.