Chapter Thirty-Six
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I’m surprised when Aliyah Jackson, the counselor-supervisor who got Solomon transferred, calls me into her office.
I like the orange and blue beads she’s decorated her dreads with.
At this place, I’m always grateful for color.
“Two things,” she says. “First of all, I’d been hearing so much about your mural that I went over to the library to check it out. Awesome job, Corby. Congratulations.”
I thank her. Ask her what the other thing is.
“It’s good news,” she says. “The governor’s going to be rolling out a new initiative after the holidays.
He wants to bring down the numbers at state prisons, so they’re releasing some inmates earlier than scheduled—fifty or so of the guys here.
Merry Christmas, Corby. It looks like you’ll be going home in February. ”
I’m stunned. “What? Six months early?”
“I don’t have a date yet, but your name is on the list. What did the judge give you? I haven’t looked it up yet.”
“Five years suspended after three, plus three years’ probation, as long as I don’t screw up.”
“I don’t see that happening. You’ve done well in here, and because of the hiring freeze, the caseloads for probation officers have gotten ridiculous. You’ll probably just have to report once or twice a month.… I’m having trouble reading you, Corby. What are you thinking?”
“Well, I’m glad. But when you say I’m going home, I’m not sure where home is going to be. Back with my wife and our daughter is what I’m hoping for, but it’s up in the air. She went to see a divorce lawyer the first year I was in here, but she never followed through.”
“So that’s a hopeful sign, right?”
“Maybe.” And then there’s the Klonopin. I’ll need to wean myself off it earlier now. Not really a problem.
“Either way, your residence postprison has to be established before they let you out. So this early release will have to set something in motion. Maybe a reconciliation.”
“I hope so.”
Later that day, when I call Mom with the news, she starts to cry. Says she’s just as happy for Maisie as she is for me.
“And if Emily lets me come back home, we’ll be able to avoid all that visitation stuff. What do you think the chances of that happening are?”
Silence on her end for three or four seconds. Then she says she doesn’t know. “Just don’t count your chickens before they hatch, sweetheart.”
Why’s she saying that? “Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, no. Emily and I don’t discuss what happened in the past or what’s going to happen. That’s up to you two to figure out. The most important thing is that you’ll finally be out of there and that you and Maisie will—”
Securus cuts us off.
I try Emily’s number, which is stupid because she’s going to still be at work.
“Hello?”
Oh. She is home.
The canned spiel kicks in: This call originates from a Connecticut Correctional facility. Press one to accept the charges .…
Which she does. “No, Maisie’s not sick,” she says. “She’s still at school. The water heater sprung a leak and I had to be here when they came to replace it. They’re working on it now.”
I give her the news that I’m getting out six months earlier than I thought, and that my residency has to be established before they release me.
“I don’t want to pressure you, Em, but it’s more urgent now.
” When she asks me what the exact date is, I tell her I don’t know yet.
Sometime in February. “My counselor’s going to let me know, but at the rate things happen around here, it could be—”
“Use your mother’s address,” she says. “I assume she’d be okay with that.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t it make more sense if I moved back in with you and Maisie? I could take her to school and pick her up. Bring her to her after-school stuff. Make dinner. Make your life easier.”
“No. That’s not happening.”
“It would just be for convenience’s sake. I can sleep on the couch.”
“No.”
One two-letter word and that’s it? “Because?”
“Because you can’t expect to walk out of there and pick up where we left off before…
everything happened. You’ve been in prison for two and a half years, Corby.
You’ve changed, I’ve changed, and it would be too overwhelming for Maisie.
Don’t get me wrong. I want you back in her life and she’s going to want that, too, but it has to happen more gradually. ”
“You’re going to file those divorce papers, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I mean, there was no rush before. But now that I’m getting out—”
“Look, Corby,” she says. “You’re an addict and your substance abuse has cost us all a hell of a lot.
” She’s saying it without saying it: it cost her Niko.
“And to tell you the truth, when Maisie needs to go someplace, I can drive her myself like I’ve been doing.
” Meaning she won’t risk our daughter’s safety if I’m at the wheel.
I go someplace else for a couple of seconds because it hurts to listen to how my offer has scared her.
Triggered her. When I tune back in, she’s saying she believes me when I say I’ve stayed clean and sober since I’ve been in prison, but—
“For the record, I got clean before I got here, and, except when we were in lockdown, I’ve hauled my ass to meetings once or twice a week.”
“Which is really good and I’m sure it hasn’t been easy. But once you get out, you’re going to have a lot more access to drugs and alcohol.”
“I’m past all that. The obsession has left me.”
“Then I’m happy for you. Happy for Maisie, too. All I’m saying is that you’re going to have to prove to me that you’re committed to maintaining your sobriety before we can talk about driving her places or living arrangements.”
“Prove it for how long?”
“Well, let’s say a year. Which doesn’t mean that you and Maisie can’t—”
“You shopping around for someone else, Em? Swiping right to find my replacement?” I can hear myself being an asshole, but I’m not yet sorry I said it. Still, why am I arguing against the case I’m trying to make?
“No, that’s not it,” she says. “I’m going to end this conversation now before we both say things we’re going to regret. I’m glad you’re getting out early. Take care.”
What’s it been—less than an hour since I received the news from Ms. Jackson?
And in that time, my emotions have ricocheted like a pinball: relieved, excited, afraid, hopeful, hopes dashed.
But that’s no excuse for going off on her like that.
Hasn’t my time in here—all of it sober time—taught me anything about restraining myself?
Being humble enough to resist running off at the mouth?
It says in the Big Book that humility is the bedrock of recovery.
Manny says, “I’m going to miss you, but I’m happy for you, Corbs. Can I give you a hug?”
“Probably not,” I tell him. He gets that hurt look of his, so I tell him that when I leave, I’m not going to want to take a lot of the shit I’ve accumulated.
“Like what?” he says.
I know what answer he’s looking for. “Well, for one thing, my TV.” He breaks out in a big grin.
It’s taken me a while to figure out that Manny’s commissary account, which his sister, Gloria, funds, doesn’t allow for many extras.
She can’t make much as a nighttime cleaner in a couple of office buildings, but Manny seems to think his and his sister’s ship is going to come in once that uncle kicks the bucket and they inherit his motel.
That’s probably wishful thinking since it’s on some secondary road in Jersey close to where Palisades Amusement Park used to be.
From time to time, I hear him singing their old radio jingle: Palisades has the rides, Palisades has the fun.
Come on over! I hope I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine a motel on the way to where a tourist attraction used to be is going to be much of a moneymaker.
I’ve done my best to avoid Anselmo and Piccardy, but even when I can’t, they ignore me—look past me as if I don’t exist. The only exception was the time out in the yard when Piccardy put his finger to his lips and smiled.
Even his silent threat didn’t intimidate me that much, thanks to the Klonopin.
It’s really helped me to stay calmer during the day, sleep better at night, and quiet the violent fantasies I’d been having about how I’d make him and Anselmo pay for what they did.
The only problem is that when Blankenship prescribed it for me, I told him I was getting out next August. After that changed, I put in a request for an appointment to discuss getting off it sooner.
I heard back yesterday, but the appointment’s not for another week and a half and it’s with the other shrink.
What I’ll do is start tapering down six weeks before my release.
I’ll start going over to the med line every other time I’m due for a dose.
Then, for the last couple of weeks, I’ll stop taking it altogether.
Wean myself off it that way. It’s just a crutch, and the closer I get to leaving, the less I’ll need it.
Hey, Em—
I’m writing for two reasons. First, and most important, I want to apologize for the stupid things I said on the phone last week.
I had just found out about my earlier release and my head was all over the place emotionally.
Still, that’s no excuse for me acting like a dick.
I should have let the news sink in before I called you. I’m sorry.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the things you said and realize they make sense.
You’re right. I need to prove myself once I’m out.
Addicts get to be really good liars and I was no exception when I was drinking and drugging.
I get it that I have to win back your trust over time.
My probation officer will drug-test me regularly and will have the power to send me back here if I test positive, but that’s not going to happen!
Once I’m out of here, I’m never coming back.