I had been in the joint for twelve years and would soon be allowed to have escorted temporary absences. I was scared and excited. Over the last year I’d been taking some life-skills classes, learning how to balance a checkbook, how to look for jobs, things like that. And Margaret had been teaching me stuff about grocery shopping, budgeting, finding apartments. But I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to last on the outside, that I’d screw it up somehow. It was safe inside. I had friends, I knew the routine. Inside I had status. Outside I’d have the stigma of being an ex-convict, a murderer. I still remembered how brutal it had been while I was out on bail, the whispers and the shame.
Margaret and I talked a lot about it. “You’re going to do fine,” she said. “Damn right it’s scary—a lot has changed in twelve years. But you just keep your head on straight and you’ll make it through. You’re a survivor.”
She was right about a lot changing. Whenever we watched TV, I studied the clothes and the gadgets. We weren’t allowed Internet or cell phones inside, and I worried about finding a job when I got out. Who would hire me? Once I was on day parole and living at a halfway house, I planned on taking some computer classes, but I had a lot to catch up on. Now that I was getting closer to parole and had been showing good behavior, I was allowed to participate in a couple of work-release programs and had picked up a few skills. I was chosen to be part of the Puppy Program, training service dogs—which I loved, though it was hard to let them go. I swore one day I’d have a dog of my own.
I also worked a few hours every day at the prison mechanics shop, where I liked using my hands, the physicality of it. The smell of oil reminded me of Ryan, how he used to work on his truck or motorbikes. He’d also be nearing his parole date and I wondered how he was doing and whether he’d be released soon too. I worried that he might have screwed things up and added time to his sentence.
Sometimes we worked outside in groups, cleaning up parks and streets. It was nice, feeling the fresh air and sun on my face. I’d turn my back on the officers and the other girls and pretend that I was in a real job somewhere, or working in the yard of my very own house. However I imagined the outside world to be now, though, I knew it would probably still be completely overwhelming. An idea that became even more apparent when I had my first escorted temporary absence.
You’re only allowed four hours on ETAs, so I went to the beach and sat staring at the waves, the correctional officer close behind, watching. I walked down to the shore and jammed my hands into the cold water, weeping because I’d forgotten what cold salt water felt like, smelled like. I threw my head back, inhaling the air, sucking it down in big gulps. I even licked my hand, my eyes closed as I pretended I was back in Campbell River. I felt happier than I had in years, but then we returned to Rockland and I saw those big iron gates and thought about how I wouldn’t get another pass for months, and I cried.
The second time, I asked to go to a mall. I was excited at first, giddy and exuberant to be outside, with real people in the real world. I caught some stares and wondered if I looked weird or something, then I realized they were sensing my excitement, my joy. I felt a giggle welling up in my throat, the desire to shout, I’m free! But then the noises, the voices, the bright colors and lights, the scents of perfumes and food, people jostling me, crowding against me, became overwhelming. I had to leave.
For the rest of my time, I asked the officer to drive me around. I sat in the back of the car, looking out at the world, feeling safer with the glass and metal between us. I asked him to stop at a park near one of the high schools, where some kids were clustered. I studied the girls, their clothes and hair, their constant texting, remembered being young. It felt like a million years ago. Then I saw a young couple kissing on a bench, the boy brown-haired like Ryan, the girl with long black hair like me. I caught my breath at the stab of pain sharp under my ribs. The couple finally pulled apart. It wasn’t Ryan and me. We didn’t exist anymore, not like that. I asked the officer to take me back.
By my third ETA I was frustrated and impatient, angry with just four hours of freedom, wanting more. I was still on the outside, looking in on the rest of the world. I wanted to be a part of it. This time I bought a hot chocolate and sat on a bench in the center of the mall, forcing myself to absorb the chaos. I had to freeze my legs in place and ignore the urge to run and run and run. Eventually my pulse settled, my body relaxed a little, and I started watching people. I thought about Christmas shopping with my parents, how Nicole and I would save up to buy the perfect shirt or pair of jeans, thinking we’d die without them. I saw some young girls in a store trying on dresses and wondered if they were getting ready for a prom. I watched them preen in front of the mirror and felt the old anger coming back again, the memory of the things that had been stolen from us.
I studied women who were about my age, their clothes and their mannerisms. If I hadn’t gone to prison, would I be like them? Would I work in a bank or some business? Or would Ryan and I have gotten married, maybe even had kids? Would we have lasted? It was an impossible question. I thought of Nicole again. Would she have become a wife and mother? My mind drifted to Shauna and her friends. Where were they now? I imagined them all married, happy with families, and another hot stab of anger shot through me.