Page 2 of All the Ugly Things
“I didn’t—”
“Go. Don’t contact us. We won’t visit.”
He took my mother’s hand and pulled her to her feet. It might have been a kindness from the officers, or additional torture, but they waited until my parents left the courtroom before turning me around again.
Reality set in like a Midwest thunderstorm, from cloudless blue skies to storm warnings in the blink of an eye.
“Can we appeal?” I asked my attorney. My voice had never sounded so small.
He tapped the files on the tabletop and closed his laptop.
“You pled guilty.”
He didn’t look at me. Not once. Sounded like he thought I was stupid, though. Who could blame him?
“Time to go. Get moving.” A tug at my shackles forced me to stumble forward.
I went with the officers.
To prison.
For a crime I didn’t commit because my dad had always hated me.
1
Lilly
Six Years Later
“I’m sorry?”
“Paroled. Out early. Better start getting your things together. Don’t know when you’ll be leaving. Could be any day.”
As the guard spoke, she pointed to the letter she’d already tossed on my minuscule desk, cluttered with the tiny television set and the even more outdated stereo I’d been able to purchase from working in the automotive garage for the last two years.
“They already had the hearing?” I stumbled back to the bed right as my legs gave out.
Six years ago, my life changed in the blink of an eye. And now… I shook my head. I’d never dare dreamed being paroled was a possibility.
Three weeks ago, I received notice I was eligible for parole. My hands had shaken when I read the notice, explaining I wouldn’t be able to attend, but I could write a letter stating why I should be allowed to reenter society.
It took me three days to draft the letter and that was only after having my fellow inmate and friend, Candace, help.
I knew the hearing was coming, but I thought I’d be told when they were meeting. The last few weeks had slipped by like molasses, waiting every day to hear something until the hope of it happening had begun to evaporate.
The guard looked at me dispassionately. The same stoic expression I’d become used to in this place.
“I’ve been paroled?” I asked again, seeking clarification. I was still shocked I was even eligible for parole. Six years in prison taught me a lot. Like, I learned if you pled guilty, your chance of ever getting an appeal was virtually impossible. Plus, there was the money issue. It wasn’t like my job of working in the automotive garage, making $1.10 an hour provided me the means to hire an attorney. I also learned early on that if you ever became eligible for parole, character witnesses were practically required. Victim’s statements were often taken. Members of the community gave references.
No one would do that for me.
Unless… had either of them had a change of heart?
“My mom?” Hope had me jumping from the bed toward the desk. My hands curled around the edge of it and I leaned forward. “Did my mom come? My dad? Are they here?” I hadn’t heard from either of them since the day I was sentenced. The only thing left I had of them were all the letters I’d tried to write the first few years I was inside. Then they started coming back as undeliverable. No forwarding address.
My parents moved while I was in prison and couldn’t be bothered to let me know. Why would I think my mom would help me now? I clung to the hope that someday she’d come to me, tell me how sorry she was for turning her back on me. The naïve dreams of a foolish girl. That’s what I was.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Neither should you. You’re getting out. Isn’t that enough?”
