When I arrive, the gray-haired woman is pacing the lobby, hands folded behind her. Long, frizzy waves trail the length of her spine. I stand at the plexiglass window by the entrance, where I’m checking myself in, and I try to ignore it — clack-clack, clack-clack — the woman’s cowboy boots falling heavy on ceramic tile.
From behind the smudged plexiglass, the unsmiling receptionist asks for my ID. I pass my driver’s license through the metal tray at the bottom of the window, then wait while she scans it into her computer. The scanner’s dusty and old-looking. A tired machine — like the person using it.
Behind me, still, all I can hear is the woman pacing in those clunky boots, back and forth, back and forth. She sighs. Loud, like she wants to be heard. We’re the only two people on this side of the glass.
I let my eyes wander to the stretch of white, concrete wall between the check-in window and the large, steel door. Mounted to the bricks here, there’s a cluster of plastic signs, all mismatched, all ones I’ve read a million times.
Video Monitoring in Progress. For Your Safety.
All Visits Must be Pre Scheduled Online. NO exceptions!
No Smoking. No Vaping. No Marijuana.
I always laugh in my head at that one.
Finally, the receptionist returns my ID, and I take my usual seat in the corner — a red, armless, plastic chair, bolted to the floor. From here, I’m close enough to the gray-haired woman that I can see her wrinkled hands folded behind her. The liver spots and criss-crossing system of dark blue veins. Red, glittery nails. On her left ring finger — a simple, golden band.
I’ve seen her before, I think, but I can’t be sure. I’ve seen a lot of people here.
“They always take their sweet-ass time,” the gray-haired woman says, her back still to me. She raises her voice as she continues, loud enough that the receptionist looks up and rolls her eyes. “Been waitin’ to see my old man almost two hours now.” The woman’s voice is gravelly, like she’s spent the last fifty years sucking down tobacco.
I’m not sure at first who she’s talking to, but then she turns to me. Her eyes are puffy and crinkled with crow’s feet. She sits down, one chair between us, close enough that I can smell her rose perfume. “Who’re you here for?” she asks.
I hesitate, then say, “My brother.”
I never tell people about him being here, not if I can help it. Nobody understands, even when I explain everything. But this lady must get it. I mean, we’re both here.
“How long’s he been in?” she asks.
“Seven years.”
The woman looks down at her red fingernails.
“I’ve been driving two hours to come see him ever since. Once a month, every month.”
Sometimes, when I’m driving here, I forget for a second where I’m going — where my brother’s at now — and I pretend like he’s back in college, living away from home for the first time, and I’m on my way to stay with him for the weekend. Just like I used to.
But then, I get here, and I can’t pretend he’s in college anymore.
I can’t ignore the locked gates and heavy doors, the endless rules and ridiculous formalities. I’ve been doing this for seven years. Eighty-eight times. And every time, I think I’ll get used to it, like it’ll feel normal eventually. It never does. This place is many things, but normal isn’t one.
The gray-haired woman clears her throat, glances at my bouncing knee. I restrain it by pressing a hand to my thigh. Next to me, the woman twists the gold band on her ring finger. “How old’s your brother?” she asks.
“Twenty-eight. His birthday was yesterday.”
The woman shakes her head. She’s silent for so long that I wonder if she’ll respond. After a moment, she says, “My man was twenty-four when they locked him up. Spent more of our marriage in than out.” She laughs, but I can tell she doesn’t find this amusing.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because what else is there? I can’t ask the question I truly want answered. The one everybody wants to ask — What’d he do?
I know firsthand, it’s not easy to explain.
The woman nods, examining her red fingernails and that lonesome, golden band. “Me too,” she says. “Sorry thing, for sure.”
There’s a loud buzz and a steel clang as the door next to the check-in window opens. A young, blonde officer steps out, calls a name. The gray-haired woman stands, slapping her thighs. “That’s my date,” she says. Then, “Tell your brother happy birthday.”
The woman and the sound of her clomping cowboy boots follow the uniformed guard into the next room. The steel door slams shut, buzzing as it locks behind them.
E.V. Zukowski is a fiction writer from Metro Detroit whose stories often center around death, complicated families, and the immortality of art.
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