Infinite Scroll

In a compact parking spot in the East lot, Hamilton sits in his car and waits for me to exit Central California’s Women Facility (CCWF), the female-only prison where I’ve just finished serving fifteen years on drug trafficking charges. It’s February 22, 2021. The newspaper tells me that America’s passed five-hundred thousand Coronavirus deaths; that is grim, and I’m also a seventy-year-old felon; a friendless widow with only a son to love. The facts are hopeless, and I might feel the same if it wasn’t my release date, if my son wasn’t waiting for me in the East parking lot.

I’m wearing a mask and carrying a brown paper bag that holds everything I own. I’ve never seen Hamilton’s car before but I’m his mother and feel that I can sense his presence. I scan the cars for a moment, then inexplicably pick a white BMW whose door quickly opens, exposing my beautiful boy. He’s wearing a mask and a red shirt and blue jeans. He’s lanky like he’s always been, and he looks handsome and older. I see thick stubble under the strings of his mask, and his under-eyes are dark. He must be working too hard. I want to picture him as my sweet little boy, but he’s a man now. Still, my heart flutters when thinking of the hug we’re about to share. My prayers will be answered when I have my baby in my arms again. 

“Mom!” He says muffled. 

“Hammy!” I say choking up. 

“I can’t believe it!” 

“I know.” I say, starting to get teary-eyed. I reach to cover my mouth, and my hand hits my mask. 

My son’s stopped walking, and my mind races to try to understand why. It comforts me to know that there are tissues in my brown paper bag. 

He’s 6ft away, and there’s a crack in the parking lot pavement growing weeds that separate us. It looks identical to a crack that exists in the Rec yard, and it makes me shudder when I see it. I look up at the blue sky to confirm that I’m still free. 

“Mom. I think like we talked about, we should just be safe for a little bit.” 

I apologize to my son for wanting to hug, and though I mean for it to sound sincere, it comes off as passive-aggressive. He says that we should be safe and quarantine for fourteen days, and then he tells me it will just be a little longer. 

“I’m sorry.” I say a couple more times while grabbing the tissues out of the brown paper bag. 

The desire to have my son love me grows more potent when I enter his home, which is nicer than anything I’ve been inside of for at least two decades and far better than where we lived when we were last together. I don’t want to embarrass my son again; His home says he’s doing just fine without me. 

He’s set me up in the guest bedroom of his two bed, two bath apartment. It’s freshly cleaned and has a lamp that’s on dimmers. The furniture all matches and seems like it shines. It feels like a penthouse suite to me. He suggests that I take a shower and relax while he cooks dinner, which is something from “HelloFresh.” Before I leave him to go into my room, he asks what song I want to listen to and then says,

“Any song. I have them all.” 

I take my first private shower in fifteen years, listening to the Beatles. 

Dinner smells lovely, but I’m upset when he sits at the opposite end of the table and tells me we don’t have to wear masks inside but should do our best to stay 6ft apart. 

“It’s social distancing, mom.” 

“I know what it is. I read the newspaper.” 

I don’t get the joke when he laughs at me. 

The meal is the best thing I’ve ever had. I tell Hamilton that he should be a chef. He’s adamant that it has nothing to do with him; it’s all “HelloFresh.” He shows me a website on his phone where he chooses what dishes to make and explains how they send him ingredients and instructions, but he’s so far away I hardly can see it.

“Back in my day, we went to the grocery store.” I say with a grin. 

“Yea, but think about it now. It’s a pandemic. We can’t even go to the grocery store.” He points at his phone, “This is perfect.” 

He proceeds to lecture me on how technology’s changed since I’ve been away. He says my fifteen-year absence has been more like thirty years when it comes to technology because of a principle called “Moore’s law,” which says computer processing power doubles every two years. I know that people live on their phones now, on their devices, but it’s not for me. I heard horror stories in prison about people walking around like zombies, their eyes glued to their phone and to the internet, which Hamilton tells me can answer any question in the world. 

I’m impressed by everything about my son. I’m also worried that I have to catch up on thirty years. He tells me it’s going to be ok and then slides me an iPad. He tells me to unlock it, which means turn it on. I decline, saying, “I’m fine without these devices.” 

He laughs again and says, “No, you’re not.” 

Then, he talks me through finding an app called “Headspace.” The words are a foreign language to me, and I’m baffled when “Headspace” appears to be an animated orange dot in a white box. 

Soon, we’re sitting in silence, listening to a mediation session for five minutes. I feel incredibly strange the whole time, but I don’t dare look at my son as we’re both supposed to have our eyes closed, and I don’t want to disappoint him. 

As I awake the next morning, my eyes focus on the nightstand beside the bed. It’s carved from rich wood. I can see all of the grains clearly, almost like they’re painted on. The alarm clock reads 5 am; it's one of those old fancy ones that look expensive. My son has created a beautiful life. 

“That’s all IKEA.” He tells me about the furniture as he eats an English muffin with jelly on it, “It’s cheap and a pain to put together, but it works.” 

Hamilton’s dressed for work in slacks and an untucked polo golf shirt. I didn’t even know he was going to work today. 

Hamilton keeps 6ft away from me while he and I have a conversation about how it’s my first whole day out. He asks me questions and seems interested in how I’m feeling, but I don’t know how I feel. All I know is I don’t like the role reversal; I don’t like my son taking care of me. At the same time, the thought of him departing leaves me with dread as I think of how quiet it’s going to be in his absence. Part of me fears the loneliness ahead.

I’m seated at the table nursing a cup of coffee he made me as I watch him get his items ready for the day; laptop, charger, cell phone, iPad, snacks.

“What are you going to do today?” Hamilton asks from the kitchen.

“I might go for a walk. I can do that, right?” 

“As long as you wear a mask, ya. Here’s an extra key.” He puts it on the granite counter. 

“Where’s the newspaper?” Reading it will get me through the morning. 

“Newspaper?” He chuckles. “I don’t get the newspaper, mom. You can read it on my iPad, though.” He takes his iPad out of his bag and places it next to the keys. 

“I don’t want anything to do with that.” I tell him. 

“Mom, it’s not going to bite.” 

“I’m too old for that stuff.”

“Just swipe on the screen to unlock it, google will show up, and you can type in the news or whatever else you want.” He reaches for the handle but pauses and looks at me, “You know what google is, right?” 

“Yes, Ham. I know what google is. There were computers there.” The word “there” lingers for a moment.

“Are you going to be ok? Just call that number if you need me.” There’s a post-it note on the fridge with his cell phone number on it. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Your first day out. Woooo!” He says before putting a mask over his face. 

“Be back around five, mom. Love you. I’m so happy your back.” His voice is muffled.

The door shuts; I could cry. 

I putter around Hamilton’s home, wandering in circles, stressing myself out, thinking of how much time is in front of me. To get away from overthinking about the anxiety I’m feeling, I start to straighten up the house, everywhere except his bedroom and bathroom. The highlight of this activity is the framed pictures of Hamilton and Pamela scattered around the house on shelves and tables. My heart sinks slightly, thinking that I have to wait two weeks to meet her because of quarantine. The worst part of me thinks that maybe my son is lying to me, and it has nothing to do with quarantine at all; maybe he’s purposely keeping her away from me until he can determine if I’m safe. I wish I could tell what he thinks of me.

Within an hour, I’m sitting on the edge of the couch with my hands on my knees, staring outside the window. The amount of time I have in front of me is unbearable, and it’s strange to me that I wonder what’s happening at CCWF, almost missing it. 

Soon I get the iPad and sit back down on the couch. I’ve decided that I should give the device a try if only to get out of my head for a while. I flip the iPad around a couple of times to get it to illuminate, then swipe at the screen until the machine unlocks, and I see the words “google” in blue, red, yellow, and green. The familiar search bar cursor is blinking at me. I’ve never used google outside of CCWF, but here it is; I’m holding it in my hands. 

I google the news, and it’s all politics. It’s Biden. It’s Trump. It’s the coronavirus. It’s all the same things I’ve read before from newspapers, but now it’s all in color, and there are pictures and ads. I touch the screen, and the page scrolls, unveiling more articles; a plane crash, Mitt Romney, landing on Mars. The Mars piece interests me, but I scroll past. It’s a new sensation that I can’t stop. I want to see it come to an end, but it takes me a long time to get to the bottom of the page, and when I do, there’s a button that says, “view more.” I click it and resume my scrolling. The amount of information that passes before my eyes is more overwhelming than the thought of all the time in front of me. 

I set the iPad down and walk over to the window, but I’m back on it within minutes. Of course, there are things that I want to google that I’ve never googled before. Now that I’m in private and there are no people or time limits, I think about typing what I never had the courage to when I was at CCWF. I want to see what the internet says about my parents’ death. I google ‘United Airlines Flight 93. 9/11/2001’ 

My parents were on that plane that crashed into a field in Somert, along with 39 other people. I read about the crash details waiting to come across my parents’ names. I have this thought that seeing their names will bring me comfort. They’re not on the first website, but eventually, I follow enough links to get taken to a website that lists out all of the victims from the day. I scroll through the page and see my parents’ faces. The picture is of them on their anniversary, and it might be the best picture they ever took. I put the iPad down and think about that day. I am guilty; they were on their way to visit me. I start to cry, which is precisely why I never dared to do this at CCWF. 

The iPad calls for me, so eventually, I pick it back up. I google my husband, something I’ve never thought of doing before. I’m curious to see just how much the internet knows; how much of the worst parts of my life are publicly available? The first result at the very top of the page is a news article about a car accident. That was my fault too. Just four months after my parents died, my husband and I got into a car accident; I shattered my leg, and he died. He took me out for a night on the town to try to cheer me up, and we both got drunk. He shouldn’t have been driving, sure, but we shouldn’t have been out at all.

The wounds are open. I google my name next and follow a link that shows me my mug shot. I was fifty-five when it was taken. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I expect to see that younger face in the reflection, but life’s not like that. The effects of time are not stagnant. There are a few sentences underneath my mugshot. They read, ”Tonya Barret was sentenced to 15 years in prison for her role in a drug distribution conspiracy and related crimes, announced United States Attorney David L. Anderson and Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent in Charge Chris Nielsen. The sentences were handed down by the Honorable Haywood S. Gilliam, Jr., U.S. District Judge. Barret, 55, of San Ramon, Calif., pleaded guilty on August 26, 2001, to drug trafficking and money laundering charges.” 

I replay the months after my husband’s death to the point when I was arrested; I got addicted to Oxycotin, burned through savings, ignored my son, lost my job, and hit rock bottom. I got dope sick, involved with the wrong man, and started selling. I’m guilty of all of this, and I’ve already lived through it. The mugshot and these words are my legacy on the internet, which is why I don’t want these devices. I imagine how I must look reading about myself on the iPad; foolish.

I get up from the sofa and meander around the apartment, unable to stop moving. I go to the fridge and grab an apple. It’s a Gala and looks just like the ones at CCWF but tastes much better.

The iPad calls me again, and despite my best intentions, I want it too; I have an urge to keep googling. The counselors warned me that I have an addictive personality. 

I google the names of friends who I haven’t spoken to in decades. I find most of them; some have Facebook, others have business websites, another is on Linkedin. It’s impossible not to compare my life to theirs, and the outcome is depressing. 

In a way, I feel like I’m spying on these old friends. Their lives are on the internet, but I think it’s better to have someone tell you about themselves in real life than to judge them through a screen.

That doesn’t matter. I google my son. He has a LinkedIn profile I click into. His current job title is “Enterprise Account Executive.” The website lists out his whole career, like a baseball card. None of it seems familiar to me; he’s worked for four different companies; his first job was as a warehouse manager, he was an assistant volleyball coach, and he volunteered. He hasn’t told me most of this, and I don’t like that I’m learning it behind his back. I put the device down. I don’t pick up the iPad for the rest of the day, but I think about it constantly. I never leave the house. I feel terrible for how I’ve used my time on my first whole day out. 

When my son comes home, my instinct is to greet him, but he asks that I stay 6ft back before taking off his mask. I tell him that I didn’t leave the house, and he sort of frowns like he’s worried about me. 

At dinner, I begin to think of all that I know of his career. I feel guilty for having this knowledge that he didn’t share with me and eventually convince myself that I can right my wrongs by finding out something about him that I didn’t see online. I ask questions about him and Pamela. 

Within a couple of minutes, he’s sitting in a chair closer to me and holding his iPad. We’re still not sitting next to each other, but we’re closer than 6ft. He shows me picture after picture after of them together, and he explains each one. 

“I forget where this was…Wait! This was in Livermore. We were wine tasting. It’s fun to do sometimes. She likes it.” 

I listen with a smile on my face as I look at the only person I have left in my life. I’m so happy I’m learning about him through his own words; It’s better this way. At the same time, I’m aware it’s the device that’s allowing him to share all of these memories. I wonder what we would talk about without it.