One winter day she was rubbing her hands, in a foul mood. She’d even made Amber cry when we were all watching TV: “I can’t stand all your chatter. Shut up or go back to your cell.” Amber left, and a couple of minutes later Margaret said, “Shit. Now I’m going to have to give her some of my cookies.”
I smiled at her. “Amber will get over it. But I can give you a foot rub if you want?” We weren’t supposed to have any physical contact, but they were a little more relaxed in minimum and we had a guard, Theresa, who liked us, so she’d turn a blind eye.
After that, I’d come to Margaret’s cell when she was having a bad day and give her a hand or foot rub. I even gave her a pedicure sometimes, then all the girls wanted them, so I got a reputation for being the beauty consultant, which I thought was pretty funny. I liked making them feel pretty. Margaret especially, the way she’d lean back in bliss, giving little sighs as I rubbed and molded her feet. She’d say, “Toni, you have hands of a miracle worker.”
It was during the pedicures that we shared the most about our past lives. I talked about Ryan, told her all the things that I’d never shared with my mom. She’d get me to describe how he looked and say, “Oh, he sounds so cuuuute.” I told her some of the fun stuff we used to do, and how we were always sneaking out to see each other. One day I told her about the time he’d climbed up the tree to my roof, just to say he was sorry for being jealous. It was nice, remembering, but then I saw his face so clearly, his smile, and I had to break off, the emotions still too raw.
Margaret waited for a bit. Then, her voice soft, she said, “Do you think you’ll see each other when you get out?”
“I’d lose my parole.”
“That’s not what I asked.” She gave a cheeky smile.
I thought about what she’d said. “Sometimes I wonder if he might try to find me, but it’s been so long … I don’t know if he feels the same way.”
“Do you know if he’s getting out at the same time?”
I shook my head. “No idea. We stopped writing years ago.”
“I could put out some feelers for you.”
For a moment I was tempted. But then I said, “I’m too scared to find out he’s changed, that he’s not the same guy anymore.” I knew how much prison had changed me, and the men’s side of Rockland was even worse. They’d been on lockdown many times over the years after a riot or a fight between inmates and guards, or because someone got caught sneaking in drugs, cell phones, or some other contraband. After prisons became nonsmoking in 2006, cigarettes had also become a hot commodity. If Ryan had survived prison, it was likely he’d turned into someone I wouldn’t want to know.
I said, “We can never be together again, I know that, but I still have my memories—they’re the only good thing I have left from that time. If I find out something awful about him, then it’s like all the good will get erased.”
Margaret sighed. “I understand. Some things are just better left alone.” Then she told me about her husband, who was not a nice guy at all. She said, “I would have loved to have what you kids had, even if it was lost. You shared something special, something most people never find.”
*
As the years passed and I got closer to my parole date, I worried about leaving Margaret in there, about who might take care of her. When I said as much, she brushed me off. “Don’t you worry about me, girl. Just get your shit together and leave this place for the rest of us.” On days when her arthritis was really bad, she told me that when she meditated she’d dream about being free, running on the beach, watching the birds, and never feeling pain again. She was tired of always aching. She said it was punishment for “loving the wrong men my whole damn life.” She liked listening to me talk about Campbell River, the beaches and the ocean—she was from back east and had only been to the beach once in her life.
Sometimes she’d be melancholy, sipping her tea, her eyes blank, saying, “I’m going to die in this damn place. I know it.” I’d get upset with her. And then she’d say, “Toni, honey, you got it all wrong. Death isn’t the hard part, living is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WOODBRIDGE HIGH, CAMPBELL RIVER
FEBRUARY 1996
I was sure that Ryan and I had covered all our tracks after breaking into the Andersons’ house, but a few days later I walked in after school to find both my parents sitting at the table. Their faces were serious, coffee cups on the table—half drunk, no steam, like they’d been waiting and talking for a while. Nicole was also sitting at the table, nervously scratching at her arm.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“We’d like to have a word with you,” my dad said.
I sat down and glanced at Nicole, but she looked away. Not a good sign.
“Did you sneak into the Andersons’ house?” Dad said.
“No.” Crap. How much did they know? Had we left something behind?
“Don’t lie,” my mom said.
“I’m not. I wasn’t there.”