Page 37 of Finding Home with You

I watch him walk out of the room and when I hear the front door close and the key slip into the lock, I reach for my phone to let work know I won’t be in today.

I take a quick shower and dress in a pair of jeans and sweatshirt. After drying my hair and putting on some makeup, I check the date again. I’ve done this at least ten times since I woke up this morning.

It’s still Friday; a day of the week most people love, but I’ve hated it ever since I got that subpoena. I should love it even more because once this day is over I’m on winter break. Two weeks off, but I can’t bring myself to enjoy it until I’ve taken care of this.

I made no mention to Ryan that I wouldn’t be going in to work today, because I wasn’t certain I would go through with it. But after everything that Ryan said last night and what he said this morning, it’s time.

The drive is long, taking me almost two hours and well beyond Boston and as I pull up to the gate my nervousness kicks into high gear. I rub my hands against my thighs and I suck in a deep breath. Suddenly it feels hard to breathe, like there’s no air in the car so I crack the windows as I wait for the car in front of me to pull through the security gate.

Checking the rearview mirror for a third time, wondering if I can back up and leave without someone wondering what the fuck I’m doing.

Turns out you can’t just show up to a medium security prison and demand to see someone. It’s not like the movies, so it’s not going to be a surprise to him that I’m here. I had to apply to visit since I wasn’t on the approved list, and then they had to run a background check on me, and finally my father had to give the okay. He could’ve said no, he could’ve turned me away, but he didn’t.

I also could’ve stayed away and acted like none of this existed, but I’ve been doing that for too long now.

The arm rises on the gate and the car in front of me pulls through and as it does, I notice this isn’t even the last of it. There’s still an actual gate to get into the parking lot and I imagine there will be more.

It takes me a moment to catch up and put my foot on the gas pedal. I slowly pull up to the window and the guard at the booth asks my name, but never looks at me.

“Erin Connelly,” I say and he flips through a list on a clipboard before asking for my I.D. He then types my name into a computer, and turns to look at me. He glances at my I.D. and back at me several times before handing it back.

After a few seconds he hands me a printed visitor’s tag with my name and picture on it.

“This tag must be worn at all times,” he begins, and his voice is monotone and robotic. “No weapons or drugs of any kind are allowed in the prison. Women will not be allowed to enter if they are wearing strapless or spaghetti strap tops or dresses. Shorts, dresses or skirts must be no shorter than knee length. Cellphones, cameras and video recording devices are not allowed in the visitation area…” he continues but the list is so lengthy and almost ridiculous that I stop listening because I know I’m none of the things he is saying.

“Are you able to comply?” he asks, but the way he says it implies that this isn’t the first time he’s asked me this question.

“Yes,” I respond and the security arm lifts up.

There’s no going back now.

I make my way through two more security checkpoints before finally entering a parking lot where I’m directed to the visitors’ entrance.

There’s a woman sitting behind a panel of bulletproof glass as I enter a vestibule and she presses a button and her microphone clicks on.

“Name, I.D. and visitor’s name,” she says, the annoyance and boredom evident in her tone.

“Erin Connelly,” I respond back but pause before I give my father’s name. What the fuck am I doing here? “And I’m here to see… William Fitzgerald.”

I wait for her reaction but it doesn’t come. She doesn’t care who I’m here to visit or what they’ve done to end up here. This is her job and she’s seen far worse than my father.

She slides a visitor’s form through a small slot in the window and tells me to fill it out, and I’ll be called when it’s my turn. She unlocks the door to the waiting room and I enter, scanning the room for a place to sit, but find it’s busier than I expected.

I honestly had no idea what to expect out of this process, because my only frame of reference are movies and TV shows, and so far this has been nothing like that.

I sit down and glance around the room at the other people and I silently begin to judge them. They look way more fucked up than me, like they belong here and I’m not surprised they know someone who spends their days here.

They smell like cigarettes and their hair is unwashed, clothes are old and worn, but as I take them in, I shame myself too.

I’m here.

I’m no different from them. I can’t imagine the stress these people must be under because I don’t have to deal with it. This isn’t my life anymore.

An hour later my name is called and I’m taken into a room where I’m patted down, all of my belonging are taken and stored and I’m read a list of dos and don’ts.

It feels surreal, and I go through the motions of nodding when appropriate and doing exactly as I’m told.

Then I’m led into the visitation room, and again it’s not what I expected. I hoped it would be one of those rooms where I talk to him using a telephone with a pane of glass between us.

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