I get back to my cottage and open my laptop.
The words of my resignation letter flow out naturally and without much thought.
For a moment, I consider making it more formal. Then, I’m tempted to just write FUCK YOU.
Eventually, I settle in the middle and opt for not burning bridges.
The gist of it: I am pursuing other opportunities.
As soon as I press send, a wave of euphoria sweeps over me. My body feels lighter. My thoughts are clearer.
While I’m at my laptop, I check my email.
There are about fifty messages of promotional crap from various stores and companies I gave my email to. After I delete all that garbage, I remember that this isn’t the only email account that I haven’t checked.
The other one is through Corrlinks, a special email service that’s reserved for communicating with federal inmates who are forbidden from using regular email accounts like Gmail and Yahoo.
I see that I have a message from him as soon as I log in.
Actually, there are three.
One written each day.
Owen and I have never been particularly close but over the last few years, our relationship has really blossomed. He went to prison not knowing how to read or write.
He struggled with reading since he was a kid. Mom always said he was just lazy, but in prison he learned that he was dyslexic. Luckily, the first penitentiary he was in had a program that prepared inmates for the General Education Development (GED) test. The teacher took an interest in him, helped him pass the test, and earn his high school diploma.
Owen learned quickly and now writes me long diatribes about the research he has done about the literacy rates among inmates (apparently, about 60% of prison inmates are functionally illiterate) and what can be done about it.
But that’s not all we talk about.
We talk about my job.
We talk about his cellmate.
We talk about his plans for the future.
I usually write him three or four emails a week and fill them with enough detail to last him until my next message. He writes me one every day.
The first email continues the story of his cellmate’s upbringing, the one he left off writing in his previous email. The second email tells me how much he’s enjoying working in the kitchen and then concludes with a request to remember to write him again.
In his third email, he just writes:
Olive,
Where are you? Are you okay? Why aren’t you writing me back? If you’re mad at me, tell me, just please don’t go dark. I’m your older brother and I’m worried about you.
Love,
Owen
I know I can’t not write him back again. But when I put my fingers to the keyboard, I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know where to begin.
I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.
I stare at the words. That’s all I can really say without obfuscating the truth, but this is not nearly enough.
If this is all I send then he’ll think something is wrong.
I never write back two sentence emails.
I never not explain.
I never not go into details.
I press my fingers to the keyboard and try again.
I met someone. It’s a long story but I’m actually in Hawaii right now visiting him. He’s great, and fun, and amazing. Sydney insisted on coming with me since it’s such a long trip. That’s why I haven’t written earlier. I’m sorry.
I read over the words.
There is only one lie in it.
Great, fun, and amazing are not words that I would use to describe Nicholas.
A dark, dangerous enigma is much more appropriate. But how much of the story can I really tell him via email?
My phone rings.
It’s a private number.
My fingers immediately start to tingle. I blink rapidly as I try to decide whether or not I should answer.
I press Accept.
I bring the phone to my ear. A robotic voice on the other line says, you have a call from the Massachusetts Correctional Institution.
15
When a secret slips out…
I bounce my foot on the ground as the operator tells me that I will be responsible for all charges. By the time I hear his voice, my hands are damp with sweat.
“Are you okay?” Owen asks, his voice is rushed and out of control.
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” I say as calmly as possible. “I’m sorry I haven’t replied. I was just writing you now.”
He takes a deep breath. A sound of metal being dragged across the floor makes me cringe.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
I touch my face and clear my throat.
“I met someone. We really hit it off and we’ve just been hanging out for a bit.”
I’m not a very good liar, especially to people who are at all suspicious.
I’m not sure why this is the case given that I’m good at sleights of hand, shoplifting, and other tricky behavior.
Or maybe I’m just not very good at lying to him.
I tell him a little bit more about Nicholas, staying as close to the truth as possible. My voice changes in pitch and tone from nervousness but I hope that he attributes these changes to giddiness about my new relationship.
“So, how did you meet him?” Owen asks after a while.
My mouth becomes cotton.
“At a coffee shop near work.”
I rub one hand with the other, noting how rough the skin is around my knuckles and how soft it is around my palm.
“So, what does he do?” he asks.
“What’s with all of these questions?” I get on the defensive.
“I’m just curious. Because you never not stay in touch.”
“Listen, I doubt that any of your cellmates in there have their sisters writing them every other day. So, I got distracted for a bit. So what?” I reply, defensively.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and we both listen to the loud chatter going on around him. I can’t make out any of the words, but there’s yelling and agitation.
“Mom came to see me,” he says.
Nausea shoots up my esophagus and I almost gag when I taste something on my tongue.
My hands become outright clammy.
Cold sweat drenches my underarms.
“She told me that you paid her debt to Marlo,” Owen says. His tone is an odd combination, both accusatory and thankful.
“Where did you get fifty-thousand dollars, Olive?”
“Did she also tell you that she hired some idiot to shove a gun in my face so that I would turn the money over to him?” I demand to know. “Did she tell you that she tried to con me out of that money? That I had to track down Marlo on my own?”
There’s a pause on the other end. Our mother, of course, never mentioned any of this.
Why would she?
In her mind, there is only one version of events - her version.
“She tried to steal the money from you?” Owen asks in a quiet whisper. “How did you find out?”
“I found Marlo and asked her. I wasn’t sure how to do the exchange with that guy and make sure that he let Mom go so I thought I’d go over his head to the source.”
“I can’t believe that she would do that,” Owen says. I clench my jaw. He has always had a soft spot for her. Maybe it’s because the last time he ever saw her in the free world was almost ten years ago. Or maybe it’s just nice to believe that your mother is a good person no matter what she does.