One More Week

One More Week

After three long years in prison, sleeping on that thin, pathetic mattress, a real bed has never felt so good. That being said, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be to get up this morning to an alarm. It's the first day of the new year, and my first day at a new job, I’ve never really had a job before; I can’t really call selling drugs a job.

It’s hard to believe it’s been just over a week since I got out. December 24th, what a crazy and amazing day to be released. My wife came to pick me up. By the time I was out the front gate, it was well into the day. We didn’t have a minute to spare for me to stop and even think of buying her or my four-year-old a present. I had plans to, but the release paperwork took too long for some reason. 

*BEEP!... Beep…*

What was that? My watch?

Looking at my wrist, I see I’m running behind my planned schedule. This is part of the promise I made. Part of the Christmas gift I could give her. When we woke up on Christmas morning, my wife had only one thing under the tree. It was an envelope from Monroe State prison. Inside was a contract I wrote for her on my last couple days inside.

There were a lot of hard lessons while I was trying to get through those three years. The first thing, and the thing I thought was most important early on, was that I was there paying the price for what I had done. At the same time, I was angry for being there. The first year rolled by slowly… my wife made monthly visits; I hated her seeing me there. After nearly a dozen visits from my wife and only a few where she brought my son, I realized the bigger price I was paying was my time away from them. They never wanted me selling drugs: I was just young and stupid, thinking the law would never catch me, that I was too slick for them.

It was the second year that was a learning experience. I got into a few fights; I wasn’t willing to change my ways. When she saw me with bruises time and time again, my excuses didn’t seem to matter anymore. Soon her visits lessened, and my son only came around on Christmas that year. I hated myself that day. My face was marred by fresh cuts and bruises, signs from my fight the day before.

*BEEP!... Beep…*

This house is new to me; I don’t know what that sound is.

The last year was the hardest. It took me half the year to get her to come again, and another month or two before she brought him. I promised her there would be no more fights, no more bruises, and there never was.

In my last six months, I felt a lot of anxiety. I will be twenty-five next year, twenty-five with nothing to show for it except a son I probably don’t deserve, a wife that deserves better, and a felony record that I will never be free of. That anxiety could have turned me back into what I was trying to avoid; it could send me right back into prison shortly after getting out. Instead, I fed off it, I tried to better myself, helping the new comers adjust to life inside, reading books, almost a book a day. I’ve never read the classics; I found them enthralling. It took a while to decipher famous works from Shakespeare, but I managed my way through a few. I was finding life; I was finding an inner quiet.

When she read the contract, the only gift I had for her, tears flowed freely. It was the first time, in the last three years, that I saw her really cry. I knew my contract had to mean something, I had to make it good. I just held her and promised it was all true. I would make something of myself. I would spend the rest of my life atoning for the wrongs I had paid the price for, atoning to her for my time away, and atoning to my son for not being there. He just sat there, playing with his new toys as we rocked together on the couch. There were gifts for me under the tree, but it was the gift of her faith, her trust in me that was something I can never return, never deny. All I can do is earn it.

*BEEP!... Beep…*

Is that the smoke detector telling me the battery is low? No time for that now.

The contract held another promise; that I would be hitting the streets every day until I found a job. A real job. She had faith I meant it but was amazed when the 26th rolled around, and I was out the door by 9 am looking for work.

It’s not easy finding a place that will put their faith behind a newly released felon. It was humbling, having door after door shut in my face, but I stuck to it. I had to stick to it; I didn’t have another choice. It was a stroke of luck when I walked into the hospital a few blocks away, just to warm up a minute, and saw the help wanted sign. It was also a blessing that the woman behind the counter was there for years. When I told her my quick story and asked if there was anything there that a felon could apply for, she sent me to just the person I needed to talk with. He was the head of the janitorial department, he was ex-military, and after his years serving the country, he had a hard time finding himself. He ended up spending a few years in Monroe, the same place I just got out of, and he was willing to take a chance on me. He put his career on the line when he signed me up against the hospital directors wishes. “I’ll vouch for him; if he fails, I’ve failed,” he told her. With that, she was willing to give me a chance.

*BEEP!... Beep…*

She is going to have to fix that, if I try to do it, I’ll be late.

My past was a mess; it was a mess until a week ago. Today is the first day of the new year, the first day I can prove to the world that I have turned a new leaf, that I am making amends. Grabbing my coat, I open the door, step out, and swing around to lock it behind me. The cold of the early morning sinks into me without pause. This new coat she got me to congratulate me for the new job will get a lot of use. I turn to walk down the stoop, and there’s a man at the base of the stairs.

Wait… this is where it happened, this is where it all started… and this is when it happened.

His face looked a little familiar. “Do you remember me?” he said through clenched teeth; his voice was definitely familiar. The slight Boston accent, a low rumble in every slowly spoken word. Words it seems he’d planned to say for a long time.

He knew me… and I was trying to place him. His deeply set eyes were filled with rage, his face drawn, his beard scruffy, but through all that I could see him, I could see the man he was over three years ago. He was there every single day at my trial. It was his wife that died from the drugs I sold that led to my arrest and incarceration. Back then, I didn’t care about the result of my actions or how many others there were like her.

“You killed my wife,” he said, his entire body was visibly shaking. Raising up his arm, I could see the revolver he held with a white-knuckle grip. Without worry, without fear of repercussions, he pointed it right at me. “Three years isn’t enough. It isn’t enough for the hell you put me through! Die!”

“Wait!” was all I got out before he pulled the trigger several times.

*BEEP!... Beep…*

“We’re losing him,” a voice yells out from somewhere.

*Beeeeeeep*

“Charge the paddles,” someone else says.

All at once I’m surrounded by a warmth, a darkness, a silence where you can’t even hear your own breath or your own heart.

What seems only a moment later, I hear an angel. “James, wake up sweetie,” the gentle voice says. I can feel a palm pressed in mine and someone stroking my hand. “Come on baby, open your eyes,” Alexa’s soft voice says again.

Opening my eyes reveals a tight and confined room; for a moment my mind returns to my past. Then the bright paint, antiseptic smell, and the two bouquets of flowers on the nightstand next to me pull me into the present.

Tears flow from the corners of my eyes. “I’m so sorry Alexa,” I say with a dry cracked voice. Here I am once again a failure, a disappointment. I’m laying wounded in a hospital… the sins of my life still following me.

“Why sweetie? He was a sick man. The doorbell recorded everything. The police have the footage; he’ll be paying the price for what he did. It wasn’t your fault.”

Here I am, recovering in a bed, shot once, or twice, I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter. It is, hopefully, the last part of my past I needed to face. To me he was a nameless man, yet I hurt for him. I can’t help but feel sorry for him, I can’t help but feel responsible for him. My actions took him too that point. If only he knew me now, knew what I’ve become, and not the man I was; maybe his actions would have been different. Unfortunately, he will join the same cycle of every criminal before, the cycle I’m clawing free from. Hopefully, in time, he finds peace as I have.

Wait… “My new job? I’m gonna be late,” I say trying to wiggle my way up.

“Love, you’re in the hospital. You’re already late. But these flowers are from your new boss. He was here earlier. What a nice guy. Let me read you the card,” she says while pulling the card free from the clip that holds it. “James, looks like you’ll need a few days more before starting. Get better; the job will be here for you when you’re ready, Hank.”

“I love you, Alexa, I’ve spent too much time in a strange bed alone. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Where else would I be? And let me know when you are ready for more visitors, Mom and Jake are in the waiting room.”

“More visitors?” I say, reminded of how many times, how many days, I wanted to hear those words. “I’m ready now. Bring them in.”

“OK, I’ll get them,” she says while getting up and walking toward the door. Opening the door she stops, looks back and says, “Oh, by the way, the Doctor’s say you should be up and about in a week or so.”

It’s been a long recovery for my sins. What’s one more week?