Chapter 3 Melody
Melody
The line for meds is moving quickly today.
Ever since I got out of the hospital, I've been told—forced, really—to take a handful every day.
I don't know what they are. No one will tell me.
The nurse at the jail is nothing like Bridget; she hands me the little paper cups (one with pills, one with barely a swig of water), checks under my tongue, and sends me on my way.
I hate them. I hate the way they make me feel.
Like the world is moving in fast-forward and I'm stuck in slow motion.
Despite this, I can't stop bouncing my legs.
I can't stop moving. I can't get a moment of peace.
I've been begging the nurse for a sedative, something, anything.
She just gives me a bored look every time I ask, and notes something down on her little laptop. So far, nothing has come of it.
My only reprieve is the visits with Mr. Vetter, the lawyer.
Apparently, the powers that be have barred my husband from visiting—"We're fighting that, too, Mrs. Lyons," Mr. Vetter assures me—and the other women in this place seem to change by the day.
County jail isn't meant for long-term holding, of course, but I wish there were some kind of constant presence.
Something to anchor myself. But it's just me, the shitty nurse, and these cinder block walls.
And eyes. So many eyes. Watching me, always watching me, at all hours. My every move is scrutinized under a microscope. They duck just out of view whenever I turn around, but I know they're there. I know they're watching me. It makes my skin crawl and itch.
"Crawford!" one of the guards—corrections officers?—yells from outside my cell. "Lawyer time!"
"Damn, girl. You see your lawyers more than I see my own parents," another woman says. "Must be nice to have all that money."
I turn to look at whoever said that. She looks vaguely familiar. She's pale, almost ashen. Her dirty blonde hair hangs in messily braided pigtails.
"Who are you?" I wonder out loud. She just laughs and shoos me away, returning to her conversation with another woman.
The guard impatiently shoves me down the hallway to visitation, and I stumble, cursing loudly. "Hey! Watch your language, Crawford!"
"It's Lyons," I snarl back. The uniformed man rolls his eyes and shoves me again. I was right, this place is hell. I'm not dead, though. I'm not lucky enough for that. The incarceration complex is pure hell.
Finally, we arrive at the visitation room where Mr. Vetter sits all prim and proper at the metal bench/table combo.
He smiles warmly when I enter, and I heave a sigh.
"You're not looking well, Melody. We'll need to work on that before the trial.
Or better yet, we won't—we can argue you're being mistreated in here, which will make you look sympathetic. "
"What do I need to do?" I ask. God, I'm so itchy. My skin crawls like there are little bugs just under the surface. The only thing that helps is bouncing my leg. Wringing my hands. Twitching my toes. If I keep moving, it doesn't hurt. It doesn't itch.
"That's the thing—you didn't do anything.
Right? Plead not guilty. Deny any involvement.
Keep in mind, this is just for any alleged crimes in Pennsylvania, okay?
Nothing else. Nowhere else." Mr. Vetter grabs my hand and looks into my eyes.
Ugh, I don't like it. His gaze is too hard, too knowing. "Can you do that?"
"Yeah, I can do that." I yank my hand back. "Any news from Dante?"
"Nothing that I can say here. I'll paraphrase. He says that he will not rest until you are free. He says that he loves you. He says that he can't wait until he can touch you again," Mr. Vetter whispers.
Does he, though? Does he miss me? I failed at the one purpose he chose me for: producing an heir.
I couldn't kill Ella. And I couldn't keep our baby safe.
Fetus. Whatever. It hurts less if I call it a fetus.
But what if he's just saying these things to be polite?
And what if the only time I'll see him is in the goddamn courtroom?
I can't pay attention to anything else Mr. Vetter says during our visit. If Dante trusts him, I trust him, too. That'll have to be good enough.
The jail nurse always checks under my tongue.
Every single time. But what I've noticed is that she doesn't check my gums. She doesn't check if I've properly swallowed.
Today is the sixth day that I hide the pills between my teeth and cheek, spitting them into the built-in toilet when I get back to my cell.
Dirty Blonde Pigtails watches me perform this ritual twice a day.
I guess she's here for longer than the others, too.
"What are you in for?" I ask. Without these pills, I'm feeling more like myself. I love it. I love feeling like I can actually handle the stress, instead of morphing into a ball of bouncing nerves.
"Rude to ask that." She sniffs. "Aggravated assault on an officer. You?"
"Murder, I guess." I plop down on the thin mattress and tilt my head back, counting the ceiling tiles again. Fifteen, by the way. Same as every day.
"Damn. Is that why they got you taking crazy pills?"
"Guess so. Wait, how do you know what they are?" I turn my gaze back to her. "If I keep them, can you tell me exactly what the pills are?"
"You don't know? Shit, I thought I was spacy." She laughs. "Spacy Stacy."
"Melody. But will you?"
"No promises, but I'll try. I used to be a CNA until they took my license.
" Stacy rolls her head from side to side.
"My bastard ex-boyfriend told the hospital I was stealing pills.
I wasn't, of course, but he was pissed I fucked his brother.
He planted a few bottles in my purse, and there we go.
No job. No license. And I wound up here. "
"Your boyfriend was a cop?" I ask, putting the pieces together.
"Yep. He still is." Stacy grimaces, and I laugh. "Classic, huh? Nurse and cop. Or nursing assistant, I guess. What about you? What's your man do to get you that fancy-ass lawyer?"
"Uh… business? I don't really know." I chew my lip. "Real estate, maybe?"
She lets out a low whistle. "Oh, yeah. You got it made."
"Maybe so. Court date is next week, so… I guess we'll see, huh?" I offer her a sad smile. "Full jury trial. I have to testify. God, I don't want to. Don't do well with crowds."
"Ah, you'll be fine."
I really wish I could believe her.
My heart is practically beating out of my chest as I hide the pills between my cheek and teeth.
The jail nurse, with her usual bored look, nods and waves me off, calling for the next person in line.
I did it. I spit the pills into my hand and rush back to my cell, accompanied by another guard.
Everyone who works here looks so bored, as if the pain and suffering of the incarcerated population isn't entertaining enough for them.
Stacy looks up from the magazine laid out on her bed as I enter the cell. My hands shake as I show the pills to her. She snatches them and examines the shapes, tracing the stamped markings with her thumbnail.
"Wow. Heavy-duty. This is an antipsychotic," she says, holding up a little yellow, disc-shaped pill. "Here you've got a run-of-the-mill antidepressant. This one's for anxiety."
"Jesus," I breathe out. "They made me more anxious."
"Well, yeah." She laughs. "It's a pretty heavy concoction. That antipsychotic really fucks people up, especially if they don't need it. Do you need it?"
"I don't think so?" I shake my head. "I feel a lot better off of it."
"Cool." She tosses the pills into the built-in toilet. "Flush that for me, will ya?"
I flush it and plop down on the bottom bunk next to her.
My eyes won't focus on the magazine page, even though she shifts it so I can see.
Antipsychotics. Am I psychotic? I don't think so.
I just have… urges. Urges that haven't shown up since we were in the shack.
Maybe I should see a therapist. Maybe. When this is all over, I'll ask Dante what he thinks.
My stomach rolls in my gut. Dante. He isn't known for being polite, but what if he doesn't mean all the things Mr. Vetter tells me?
What if Bridget was lying when she said he was waiting for me outside the hospital?
What if he never meant what he said in the hotel? What if I'm just plain not good enough?
I'm sure this is an embarrassment to someone of his standing.
His wife is in prison for murder. Multiple murders, even.
What if we're not actually married, and that's why the guards keep calling me "Crawford?
" Has he been lying to me this whole time?
How am I ever going to face him in court?
It's only three days away—Monday morning, bright and early.
Mr. Vetter is supposed to have non-jail clothes ready for me.
I bet Dante's picking them out right now.
He'll most likely pick something classy, something elegant.
Something that screams "not guilty". I suppose it's too much to ask for Mr. Vetter to pass along a request—I desperately want my red dress and my purple-bottom heels.
I loved those—they're what I wore the first time I was presented as Mrs. Lyons.
They make me feel like a powerful bitch. And that's exactly what I need.