No You Didn't

Nine: Visitation Day

 It was visitation day.

"Visitation day" meant a monthly two-hour trip to Raleigh, where the Butner federal prison sat in a cleared-out pasture several miles from town.

It was a strange feeling, visitation day. Because it looked very much like a normal family roadtrip, where Mama packed a basket of sandwiches for the drive and Dad made sure the car had enough gas so we wouldn't have to stop and get the expensive stuff in the big city.

Except it wasn't a normal trip. It never was, even though we had been to Butner exactly ninety-two times since Clay was admitted.

The first couple of years had been a somber affair, of course. To me, it had felt like reliving the funerals every thirty days–torture, torture, torture.

We'd have to watch as Clay mourned the deaths of his children behind a clear plastic window. Had to watch my mother try to comfort her son, a deemed murderer. So many questions had stifled the air that it was hard to breathe, like I was living someone else's life instead of my own.

Now that the pain had subsided from a blinding, searing torment to a dull throb that never went away, the visits could only be described as awkward.

It was as if we were attempting to have pleasant conversation while the ceiling was made of knives–a danger always ignored.

But this visitation day would be different. I was sure of it.

Because for the first time, I actually had hope to offer Clay instead of the ever-doomed question of, "How are you doing?" which I was convinced was the stupidest thing a person could ask someone sitting in jail.

I was excited to tell Clay about our plan to reopen his case. Or, perhaps more accurately, I was excited not to feel helpless for once.

Finally, I was going to participate in my own story instead of being a mere passerby.

"Honey, take this out to the car," Mama said, handing me the coffee percolator.

"We don't need that, Mary Ellen," Dad said. "Takes up too much room."

"We'll all want a cup of coffee on the way home." Mama propped a fist on her hip, eyebrows raised. "We always do."

"We'll stop at that diner through town."

"And spend money when we could just stop on the side of the road?" Mama shook her head and shooed me along.

I looked at Dad, who gave a defeated sigh.

I propped the percolator box on my hip and placed it gently in the trunk of the car.

When I closed the hatch, a familiar truck was pulling into the driveway.

Once he parked, Eddie hopped out of the driver's seat.

"What're you doing here?" I asked, folding my arms and leaning against the trunk.

The awful things we said to each other yesterday was still raw. And I hated the fact that I could still see the hurt on Eddie's face, though he was trying to mask it.

He deserved it, I tried to tell myself. After he left us without any explanation, after her uprooted what was left of our shattered world, someone had to tell him that good men didn't just leave. I just wish I would have calculated my words instead of blurting them out at the wrong time.

"Good morning to you, too," Eddie said.

It wasn't until I saw the briefcase in his hand that I realized why he'd come.