Page 10 of Free to Live
Knowing that won’t satisfy my brother-in-law but that it’s better than nothing, my troubled eyes meet Gail’s in the mirror. Her hands land on my shoulders and squeeze.
I feel something stir deep inside of me when I think of the little girl who will grow up never entirely understanding what happened to her mother. She may have a heart filled with scars and feel like there’s no one there to help her battle them. Fortunately, it appears like she has a robust support system. At least, I hope so. Unlike my father and Maria, I think bitterly.
Curling my nails deep into my palms, I can still feel the blood on my hands from attempting to die. It just wasn’t my blood that ended up on me that day. It was hers as she tried to wrestle the gun away from me.
In hindsight, I don’t regret pulling the trigger. It was only in the immediate days that followed that I wish I had been able to pull it twice.
But then, I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t be a Freeman. I wouldn’t be Holly.
Slowly, I bow my head as Gail begins to remove the ends of my hair. As each piece falls to the floor, I wonder why God makes the choices to take away the lives of young mothers and leaves me alive to wear the mark of a Freeman.
Suddenly, the bell over the door rings. Gail holds my head in place. “Don’t you dare move an inch. You’re in the perfect position. I’ll be right back.”
With all of my hair twisted in knots on my head and what’s down covering me, I’m completely unrecognizable except to my family. “Not going anywhere,” I call out from a curtain of combed-out wet hair.
“Oh, hey, Joe. Grace and your mother just left about ten minutes ago.” Now, I want to spin around so I can get a good look at Joseph Bianco.
“Ah, thanks, Gail. I had a break and thought I might be able to catch them.” I frown because although his voice is friendly, it seems distracted. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you with a client.”
“Not a problem at all. I scheduled an appointment for Grace’s next trim with your mom. Is that all right?”
“Sounds good. Thanks again, Gail.” It’s a moment or two before I hear the bell over the door again and footsteps making their way back over to me.
“Sorry about that, Holly. Let me spray down your ends a bit so they don’t split while I’m trimming. Your hair absorbs water so fast, it’s crazy.” As Gail’s spray gun filled with water squirts at my back and gives me the willies, she asks, “How’s the family doing?”
Since I can’t share the news about Ali, I tell her about how we’re planning on a fashion show of horrifying wedding gowns for Phil just so he gets off Corinna’s back.
Needless to say, our appointment is much more jovial after that.
4
Holly
Two days later, I’m debating how I can escape from the newest hell of my own making. “What do you think about this piece, Holly?” Stopping in front of a colored pencil drawing, my date, Seth, tilts his head. “I hope the subject matter doesn’t disturb you?” He actually clucks his tongue like a chicken before catching himself.
I want to go screeching from the exhibit room, but some might take offense because the art isn’t the problem. It’s not the art that’s boring me to pieces.
It’s my date.
The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield has an incredible display which has been borrowed from local penitentiaries, private collections, and from the permanent collection of the Prison Arts Program that focuses on the behavioral change of art of current and past inmates. I saw the exhibit soon after it opened and was floored by the emotion that gripped my heart. From pencils and ballpoint pens, from more dynamic works that used cut paper, food wrappings, and even grooming products, the emotions evoked draw me in as if I was looking through my camera.
These inmates—past or present—who did these pieces of art were all searching for what I do each time I lift up my camera: the illusion of life and freedom.
“I should have known someone with your refined sensibilities would likely not appreciate where this art originated from,” Seth mutters. He reaches for my hand to do that annoying arm tuck, and I yank it away.
“And where is that exactly?”
“Well…” He lowers his voice slightly. “These individuals are the dredges of society…” When I step forward to get in his space, his voice trails off.
“Dredges?” I whisper, still cognizant of the other patrons of the museum. “These men and women are paying for whatever wrongs they did. They didn’t have to put their souls on display. They were brave enough to do so.”
“Brave?” A little sneer slips out before his bland mask drops back into place. “I bet weren’t so brave when they got caught.” I hear a gasp behind me.
I don’t stop to think about the consequences before my temper gets the best of me.
“Yes, brave. The crimes they committed were wrong, and these people paid their punishment to society. A punishment, might I add, that our system agreed is right and just.”
“Our system is failing.” His voice rises along with mine.
