The Night Before Tomorrow

The hands hung to the minute as she searched for the hour. Addy would spend hours staring at the large black numerals on the wall clock across the way—serving as much purpose as a broken compass on a roiling sea. When she finally did manage to unstick her forehead from the door glass, a redness would drown her pale complexion and sweat would glue together the wrinkles etched deep into her skin. Restless anticipation smothered the air around her. Each evening the guards made a point of walking by the cellblocks and thumping their fists on the window, as if to draw attention away from whatever was being done. Nightly rounds indicated the coming of darkness: the guards would shout, “Ladies, it’s that time. Turn ‘em in!”—and subsequently all lights would be turned off. 

Dinner, served only an hour earlier, was a tasteless concoction of green peas, carrots and ripped up pieces of chicken—presumably fresh off a drumstick whose bones the inmates were not to have possession of. Addy grimaced each time she was served her meal, wondering why fashioning a weapon from the smallest of bones could possibly be an idea that some prisoners entertained. Principally, she was angry at a system that forbade her from enjoying the simplest of pleasures—noshing fresh chicken off a stick. 

Assembly in the cafeteria for meal-time arrived hours after chore duty commenced. Addy was assigned laundry services interchanged with janitorial maintenance. She much preferred the former over the latter. The oversized laundry room was big and white and smelled of bleach. The tight order and achromatic semblance reminded her of the day she gave birth to her little girl in the hospital ward at Saint-Beatrix Hospital. Memories of holding her baby in her arms felt familiar. The eighteen years stretched across her mind—the thought carried the trifling knowledge and acute awareness of burdens placed on loved ones in her absence.

‘The talking hour,’ as Addy liked to call it, was a cacophony of conversation echoing through halls and through glass windows or on phones in cubed corridors. Prisoners were granted visits from loved ones or were allowed to listen to familiar voices over the wire. It was scheduled on any day of the week at noon, with privileges limited to three phone calls and one visit per week. These hours spent were some of the very best in the last fifteen years since she was forced to leave her cherubic three-year old toddler to serve time in the slammer. Some would call it ‘wrong place, wrong time’ but Addy knew in her heart of hearts that she deserved the sentence she received. 

It would be remiss of her not to notice all these years that flew by at such a routinely unassuming pace. Her only escape were those contacts, however brief, she sustained with her daughter. Addy’s mother took charge in raising the baby until she passed away, and then her younger sister filled the role of mother. She took comfort in knowing that her baby was raised by two head-strong and loving women, but regret seeped in though the cracks of her sentiment. Addy couldn’t help but wonder what sort of attributes and ideals she could’ve provoked in her daughter. 

Yard time was right before ‘the talking hour’ and it felt good to socialize with her friends outside. They liked to challenge each other at push-ups and chin-ups. Addy felt pumped right after these exercises. Her physique was lean and chiselled, thanks to her rudimentary meals and hard labor. Her happy hormones were on high gear after these sessions and she was primed for any emotional disturbance that might transpire. Her daughter showed up to many of the visits but not all. The most hurtful of these incidents occurred on Addy’s birthday a few years back. She asked to see her daughter but her sister showed up alone. She told Addy that her kid didn’t want to come because she was upset her real mother was never there for her birthdays all these years. Those lines cut deep and Addy felt powerless and defeated. Her daughter was right. She missed fifteen years of birthdays, of firsts and graduations, of special moments and teenage angst. She missed it all. 

Breakfast was no better than dinner—a mishmash of porridge and raisins or bland scrambled eggs with a cup of fruit sauce on the side. As Addy ate the slop, she would reminisce on those delicious smorgasbord mornings her own mother would put together. Apple juice, cake, eggs, bacon, sausage, cereal, and pancakes with whipped cream and fruit. She couldn’t keep the pounds off when she was younger, until she made it to jail. Prison time is the best remedy for weight-loss. Loss of anything really. 

Wake-up calls were hard. Addy would of paid to stay in bed all day because sleeping through her punishment would of made life more bearable. Time would’ve whisked by, but in place was a curriculum she’d adhere to daily. What they tell you about these places is never true. There is no resting, no keeping to yourself, no special extra perks if you’re a good prisoner. Movies just like to make prisons seem humane or escapist. The only humane thing about them is that you can’t escape. 

Addy woke up to a new day and a new life. She gathered all her belongings together and after fifteen years they barely filled a duffel bag. She gave most of her books to her lifer friends and left a few hair scrunchies to her cellmate. The guards came calling at what would of been the regular call for breakfast in the cafeteria but this time she was saving her appetite for some real eggs and bacon. She had to steady her gait from hopping with joy right out of that building. She waved down all the sentries that had become accustomed to her over the years and signed off on the discharge and release papers before heading to the big metal door that led to her freedom. 

For Addy, freedom meant reunification. Embracing her daughter without a worry she’d have to let go after a pre-assigned time slot. They had planned just two weeks earlier for this moment. Her baby girl was going to pick her up in her little beater car. She told her she wanted to impress her with her driving skills firsthand and Addy couldn’t be more excited to share that. She waited outside the penitentiary, duffel in hand. Thirty minutes had passed and the bag handles had cut-off circulation in her hand, so she laid it down by her feet. The sun was beaming hard into the barren landscape and a part of her wanted to run back into prison so she could chase some shade down. 

Two hours waiting and reality started to sink into Addy’s chest wall. A firm and heavy vessel laid there, thumping down hard on her heart. Maybe her daughter just forgot or maybe she was throwing one of her frustrated at life tantrums and would arrive soon…or not at all. Maybe Addy’s sister would come for her instead and apologize for the wait. Afternoon heat was going to hit soon and she was not prepared for any of this. A part of her wanted to run back into the last place she’d ever see herself back in, and humbly ask to use a phone to call a cab or anyone. Her pride was just too great and the vanquishing pressure she felt through her body too painful. She picked up her bag and heaved it over her shoulder. Her trek down the narrow road leading out would be long and her journey in this abundant heat treacherous but maybe a pilgrimage was necessary. Addy acknowledged the onus was on her to make things better if not right. It was her turn to arrive, to reach out, to retrieve what was lost.