I started observing Janet at lunch, careful never to look directly at her. Janet had a few girls she hung out with. One was really quiet—she watched everything with these intense blue eyes that reminded me of a wolf. She was short and stocky and they called her Yoda. There was also a younger girl, maybe in her twenties, who walked with all kinds of swagger, her eyes constantly flicking left and right, like she was itching for a fight. She talked really loud, using lots of hand gestures and swear words. Then there was Sugar, closer to Janet’s age, who had big brown eyes and a soft, sweet voice, suiting her nickname. She was Janet’s girlfriend, but I never saw them making out or anything. Pinky said they weren’t allowed to within sight of any guards, but gay women would sneak into the showers or each other’s cells. Sugar and Janet were always breaking up because Janet would cheat on her, but then Sugar would forgive her. Janet also had a husband on the outside who sent her money.
When I’d been there a couple of weeks and was still waiting for my phone and visitor lists to be approved, Janet started sitting by me in the yard while I was cooling down after my run. She’d tell me how things were inside, who I should talk to, who I should avoid. I wanted to avoid everyone, especially her, but I was careful to stay neutral when she told me stuff, and didn’t talk a lot. Sometimes I’d see her younger friend watching, the one who looked scrappy. Her nickname was Mouse, because she was always nibbling on crackers from the canteen. She’d run out and then have to trade cans of pop or packages of noodles for more. I could tell Mouse was jealous of the time Janet was spending with me and hoped she was too scared of Janet to do anything about it.
Janet and a few other women played cards every day in the activity area, which was where most the inmates hung out, but no one invited me to sit down. I still didn’t have any friends inside—Pinky ignored me outside our cell—but I was fine with that. I didn’t think of myself as one of them.
I started working in the kitchen, scrubbing pots and pans during the afternoon shift. To pass the rest of the time, I mostly slept or wrote long letters to Ryan. I cried so hard after reading his first letter that Pinky actually looked worried and asked me if I was okay. I rolled over and turned my back to her. I spent hours sleeping the next day, didn’t even bother showering. On my second day of lying in bed, Pinky gave my arm a shake and said, “Better get your shit together or they’ll throw you in the hole on suicide watch.”
I dragged myself out of bed after that, but when I got a letter the next week I plummeted back into depression, thinking about Nicole, what had happened to her, and about Ryan, wondering if we would ever see each other again. He was always so positive, writing about how we were going to be free soon, how we’d finally be together. His lawyer had hired a private detective and Ryan was sure he’d find who really killed Nicole. But it seemed like such a long time away, such a long shot, and I didn’t know how I was going to make it.
I tried rereading Ryan’s letters. I had to stay hopeful, had to focus on how much we loved each other. But my shock and disbelief were starting to fade, and I was spiraling more and more into the anger that had helped me get through my first day at Rockland. I woke up angry. I went to bed angry. When Pinky was down in the kitchen working, I’d wake up and start counting the days until we might hear about the appeal. I’d see each day stretching out in front of me like a long line of empty slots, and the despair and anger would build until I was sure I would crack.
*
My phone number list was finally approved, and I called home often, using the phone card I was given. Mom never answered. My dad’s voice was the only link to the outside world, and I needed to hear that he still loved me, that he always would. He told me that Mom missed me, that she was out shopping or taking a nap, but I knew he was lying. She just couldn’t bring herself to talk to me, couldn’t stop hating me. She’d never said so, but I saw it in her eyes, the way the hope leaked out of them with each witness’s testimony at the trial, until she could barely look at me. She just sat there, holding back sobs, Dad’s arm around her back, rubbing her shoulders, his face bleak. She didn’t even show up the last few days of trial. That’s when I knew she had stopped believing in me.
My dad wrote me letters, telling me to be strong, hang in there, they’d see me soon. Mom never wrote, never even signed the letters. It was the first thing I did, turn to the last page and look for her signature, but it was never there. I still hoped that she’d look into her heart and see I couldn’t have done it. Then, after I’d been at Rockland for a month, they both came for a scheduled visit.