THE REGISTRATION BUILDING AT POLUNSKY is squat and gray; it looks like a block of extremely condensed fog. Which is perfect because my brain can’t seem to shake its foggy feeling either.
I spent yesterday evening filling Mama’s prescriptions and then stayed up late making sure she would agree to take them. She asked again and again if I was still planning to come for my visit and if I was sure I didn’t want to wait until we found a time when she could go with me. I was surprised she’d even asked, because we both knew that would never happen. By the fifth time I assured her that I’d be fine on my own, she seemed convinced. It took all my self-restraint not to slam the door when she asked me to tell him that she was fine.
I don’t expect the usual part of our conversation to take long because I’m not going to lie to him.
We’re not great, Daddy. Not great.
By the time I say hi to Nancy and make it through the checkpoint, it’s clear that she and the others in the registration office know what happened at the appeal. They all give me consoling looks, and no one attempts to laugh or joke with me like usual. I grab my stuff back from Nancy when she finishes her pat-down, eager to get out of this office that suddenly feels like a funeral wake.
“See you next week, Riley,” Nancy says, and as I turn to head to the front desk for my visitor badge, I hear her add, “I’m sorry.”
I nod in thanks. My mind drifts back and forth between panic and numb resignation, just like it’s been doing since the appeal yesterday. My body goes through the motions, following the normal routine as I try desperately to pretend everything hasn’t changed.
It’s quiet in the tiny visitation room, and the last thing I want today is to be left alone with my thoughts. The clock on the wall ticks away seconds, and I try not to listen to it. I keep thinking of how many hours are in four weeks, twenty-eight days—twenty-seven now.
When my mind spits out the correct answer to the math problem, my heart sinks. Twenty-seven days is six hundred and forty-eight hours.
I shake my head. No, it’s actually less than that. It won’t be twenty-seven full days anymore. Every hour that passes is one less. Two hours per visit, with only four more visits, including this one. Two hours each—eight hours total?
I have eight hours with Daddy until the state of Texas executes him for crimes he didn’t commit. Eight hours before they steal him from me just like they did when I was six … except this time I lose all of him forever.
Screw Texas. I hate Texas.
So I refuse to think about the time remaining anymore. It helps no one. I will think about the only options we have left: the writ of certiorari and clemency. No matter what the judge said, we still have a chance the Supreme Court will decide to delay the execution and review his case. And if the Supreme Court refuses to hear the case, then our only hope is the governor granting clemency. And a governor granting a stay of execution like that in Texas is almost unheard of. We really need a plan now … and a good one.
I stand in the room, pacing back and forth next to the table. By the time Daddy arrives, I’m chewing away at my nails like I have no other alternatives for food despite the fully stocked vending machine I keep walking past.
“Hi, Ri,” Daddy says when the officer brings him in. I hug him tight and then study him once we’re seated at the table, wondering where we should start.
“How is your mama?” He starts the visit the way we always do, but I feel more like I’m talking to a ghost of my father rather than the real thing. The light in his eyes is gone and he looks completely worn through. It seems like he’s lost even more weight since yesterday.
“She’s fine. She said to tell you that you don’t need to worry about her.” I put on the brave smile I have permanently welded to my face for every visit.
“No lies, remember, Riley?” Daddy reaches out and pulls gently on one of the brunette tendrils that fall out of my ponytail. “Not now. Not to me.”
Reaching up, I tuck the stray piece back into place. “Let’s just talk about our plan, then,” I say, changing the subject.
Daddy releases a sigh that sounds so deep it may have started in his feet. He starts to respond, but there’s a swift knock on the door, and it opens immediately. On death row, there is no right to privacy.
An older guard I don’t recognize steps aside, and I see Stacia behind him. As Daddy’s former paralegal, Stacia comes at least once a week to discuss appeals and options on behalf of the rest of the legal team. She usually comes earlier in the week, though, so it’s been a while since I’ve seen her here. Her face is starkly paler than it’s ever been next to her dishwater-blond hair. It seems frizzier than normal, and her cheeks have taken on a slightly gaunt look over the last year. Fighting for someone in Polunsky really seems to leave its stamp on people.