Chapter 2 Aspen
TWO
ASPEN
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far?”
The brush pulls through my hair, fixing the waves into something less chaotic that doesn’t look like I was the one who recently rolled from a cot. “Years of work and research has led up to this. No, my thesis will be perfect. Beyond perfect, even if it kills me.”
“It just might, Aspen. I mean, you’re going to a prison. Are you actually insane? I’m serious, by the way. In. Sane. The opposite of sane.”
“I’m well aware of what the definition of insanity is.” My responding eye roll isn’t seen by my best friend, Tanya, from where she’s hidden behind a phone call. “Psych student, remember?”
“Right, so you can diagnose yourself! I’m thinking you should. No school paper needs to be this in-depth.”
“It does,” I argue, swiping the phone up from the bathroom counter as I finish applying mascara. “It’s my master’s, so it’s important. This will decide my PhD study, and thus my future.”
Tanya’s dramatic fake yawn fills my living room as I carry the phone through it, heading for the front closet to toss on a coat. “Alright, well, text me after so I can reassure your parents you haven’t been murdered by your prison pen pal. Ever gonna tell me his name?”
“Nope. It’s confidential. You can read what he’s referred to as in my paper once it’s finished.”
She snorts. “No offence, but the day you get me to read your essay is the day aliens take over my mind. Isn’t your intro alone a few pages?”
“Five.”
“Mhm, that’s five too many. Good luck, don’t get killed, and definitely don’t get preggo. I’m nowhere near ready to be an aunt. Besides, the custody agreement between the prisoner and you… Wouldn’t want to see the paperwork involved in that one.”
Tanya is nothing less than dramatic on any given day. “You’re thinking of conjugal visits, and no, that’s not what’s happening. I’ll text you this evening.”
“You better.”
She hangs up, leaving me alone with my thoughts and away from other people’s judgement where I’m able to bask in only my own.
What the fuck am I doing?
Across the room, my gaze catches on my laptop open on the coffee table, its charging cord basically a hazard to crossing the room safely, with a spread of notes nested around it.
With a sigh, I head away from the door I really need to leave through to catch the bus on time and instead sink onto the couch. There, I remind myself of the exact reason I’m about to meet a complete stranger.
While I’m still quite a way away from finalizing everything—still collecting research, in fact—having the title page at least makes my work feel more. More official and closer to a finished project.
ISOLATION AS A LIFESTYLE:
THE LONG-TERM EFFECTS OF LONELINESS ON SOCIAL AND MENTAL COGNITION
A lot of my research is centred on clinical depression and the isolation it often leads to, which means most of my subject matter focuses on those without a social circle and the elderly who have few supports.
Outside of those groups, it didn’t feel like enough.
Outstanding research papers delve into multiple topics and sources, while mine seemed too simplistic.
Back in early September, while watching a crime show where the murderer was being arrested and charged, it hit me.
Where the character would be going.
Where real-life killers do go.
Prison.
Inmates spend some time around one another, but it’s a different kind of loneliness. They are kept away from the outside world and limited to small cells and fenced-in outdoor grounds. Everything’s a schedule, an intention—and nothing involves free will.
When very little research could be found within the university’s library, I brought the idea up to my thesis director, hoping she could point me in the right direction of where else I could possibly find literature on the subject.
Instead of books, she forwarded me an email she received earlier in the week about a project the nearest prison was reaching out to the university psychology department to promote—a pen pal program where volunteers are matched with inmates to write letters to one another.
It’s meant to form bonds of empathy on both sides of the paper.
So, I signed up. From September until I decide to stop, I’ll be able to communicate directly with an inmate and, from there, gain all the firsthand research required.
It’s perfect with a capital P, and when the email arrived with my match’s name, I couldn’t stop celebrating my thesis director’s brilliance that night with a bottle of wine.
Within a couple months, I’ll have enough research to end my enrollment in the project, and we’ll go our own ways.
On top of my notes are the letters I admittingly reread more than my schoolwork. They’re from my pen pal—from Cade.
That name. I had to rein in my thoughts when first seeing it and veer back into territory appropriate for the kind of connection I was setting up with him. Scholarly and nothing further.
Even though I really should be leaving, I pick up the letters that took me from an excited but terrified student to a woman walking the death march into prison.
His first, in reply to my initial one:
Hello Aspen,
Nothing you write will offend me. It takes a lot to do so, and I’m not a man easily deterred. Ask me whatever your heart desires, and I will do my best to answer.
My name is Cade. I used to live in Ottawa as well. My job is boredom, my pet is a rock, and my habits include counting bricks.
Most of that is a joke, if you didn’t get that.
I’m hoping to ease any anxiety you might have about contacting me because I don’t want you to be scared.
This shouldn’t be something you’re nervous about doing.
Also, thank you for your letters. I can’t recall the last time something made me smile for no reason other than being so pure.
I want to know all about you.
Why did you pick the name Millie? A one-eyed cat sounds cute.
Why did you choose a florist of all jobs?
Why choose Ottawa to live in? I know many who run from the place.
Your inmate,
Cade.
The day the letter got delivered, I remember ripping into the envelope and reading it aloud to Millie, mentally constructing my response before eagerly scribbling it. My plan was working, and it felt almost surreal.
After replying, I opened a new document on my laptop and started making notes about the letter and attaching images to it for quick consultation. Everything was coming together.
Then I waited in anticipation until the second letter was delivered.
Aspen,
Test all the bounds you desire. I have few. You’ll learn them quickly.
No, they don’t do anything for Halloween. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve celebrated.
Your answers to my questions are appreciated, so I hope you don’t mind more.
Why go into psychology over every other degree out there? Tell me what about the field intrigues you.
Since you enjoy florals, I’d be an ass not to ask you what your favourite flower is. What flowers would you prefer to be gifted to you rather than boring roses (unless you prefer roses)?
As for what my days look like, they’re fairly repetitious.
I wake and will often exercise in my cell.
Then we’ll be taken to breakfast. I’ll spend the rest of the morning doing whatever’s available: sometimes outdoors, other times simply lying around my cell or reading.
The afternoons are meant for exercise and socialization, though I despise almost everyone here.
Then I’ll read more before supper. Then supper.
Then there will be more time in my cell until lights out.
It isn’t the most exciting life, but your letters make everything better, so thank you, Aspen.
Until next time, should you agree there is a next time.
Cade.
His directness always throws me. As if he’s trying to tell me something else within his words, but I’m not sure what. His mention of boundaries and not being offended should remind me who I’m speaking to—the kind of man receiving these letters.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout my education it’s that a person isn’t bad simply because they’re in a bad place. Cade deserves the benefit of the doubt—of being bored and lonely, everything my paper mentions—and is seeking a connection with another human.
Truth is, I’m eager to be that connection.
Aspen,
Happy November. I prefer the cold over the heat, for sure. Cold means everything is alive. If you’re frozen, it means you’re outside, and I miss that.
I am definitely not bullshitting you by saying your letters bring me enjoyment.
I’m very curious because for the first time in a long time, I have the energy to care for something or someone.
YOU make me want to know more. Make me remember there is a life outside these four walls.
Your eagerness in your letters is exhilarating.
I don’t think I’ve smiled more than when I read them.
Calla lilies are beautiful. No, I do not have a favourite flower.
You don’t want to know what I used to do for fun. It might scare some of that sparkling innocence out of you, and we can’t have that.
When I’m out…I don’t know. The answer seems to change year after year. One thing that does remain, though, is being able to ride a bike again. The motorcycle/motorbike variety, not the bicycle. Just to make that clear.
My favourite colour is red. A dark, deep red.
I don’t eat much candy, but anything caramel-filled usually gets me.
My favourite book is 1984 by George Orwell.
Basic, maybe, but it’s a dystopian novel that looks at totalitarianism, governmental surveillance, censorship, and repression of society—both people and how they act.
Fictional, but designed around Nazi Germany.
Orwell was a huge critic of Stalinism (rightly so), and wrote the book to make a statement.
Then again, isn’t that what all books should do?
They make statements, no matter the genre.
Fantasy distracts readers from real-world issues.
Dystopia hints at real-life possibilities if the wrong people were in charge.
Romance speaks to desires. Sci-fi lets the reader explore.
No genre is better than another, though I do have my preferences.
Hopefully that answered well enough.
I have one more question for you, and I hope it’s one you’ll entertain because Aspen…I’m fucking dying to know what you look like.
Can I get a picture?
Cade.
This letter was gold for my research. His need for friendship seeps from that very first paragraph—his compliments, but underlying them, the fact that a faceless person who could very well be a complete lie has become someone he trusts.
My name and everything I’ve written to him could be a lie, and he’d never know better.
His request for a picture was a warning received in the program’s welcome brochure. In truth, a few red flags went up over it.
But then they changed to yellow, because it’s only natural for pen pals to get curious about one another after speaking about their lives. I’d be lying if I claimed I’m not excited for today—to finally fill in my mentally constructed image of Cade.
Aspen,
Merry Christmas, and I hope you have the greatest day ever. Christmas isn’t much around here, but your letters are all the gifts I need.
Did you attempt to read the book? It’s hard for most to get into, and if you’re a non-reader, it may be harder. Don’t stress yourself out attempting. It’s not worth it.
Intriguing dream. I honestly can’t recall the last dream I had. Tell me, future psychologist, what should I do about that?
Consider the photo request, but don’t feel pressured. I shouldn’t have asked, and I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe forget it entirely.
Cade.
The fact that he clawed back his request may be psychological warfare and nothing more, yet it didn’t stop my stomach from twisting in guilt. So I reached out to the prison with a few of my own questions.
If Cade is like this in letters, how would he be in person? So much valuable information could be gained for my research if I took that step. And so, I did.
I offered to come in person, which brings me to now: when I’m rereading letters I’ve read countless times as a way to avoid leaving. Any courage I’ve built in preparation of this visit faded the second I woke up this morning.
His final letter, delivered mere days ago, is the shortest he’s ever sent, but I suppose he’s said all he needed to and is saving the rest for today.
Aspen,
I’ll see you soon.
C.
His agreement should be positive. Instead, it’s a question mark.
My entire goal of joining the program was to glean a sense of his mental state while being a source of entertainment and kindness—something he probably doesn’t get a whole lot of in there.
I never intended to see him in person…but it’s for my studies—not my curiosity. That’s what I tell myself. I’m not curious what he looks like—even if I definitely am and have imagined it many times.
The alarm on my phone chimes, signalling it’s time to leave if I’m going to make the bus in time. It’s now or never, and so I stand and ask myself for the millionth time today, What am I’m doing? More so: What will today change for him?
His letters always arrive a few days after mine are sent, indicating an eagerness for them, which forces me to spread my own out before accidentally giving him the wrong opinion. A visit says more than a quick response ever could.
He always inquires about me, constantly shifting attention away from himself, which tells me he either doesn’t want to talk about himself, or he’s so deprived of conversation that he’s overcompensating. Today will open another door.
My plan is getting complicated. In a couple months, I’ll be in the thick of finishing and submitting my thesis paper, which means my time of collecting research will be over.
So why the fuck am I going to the prison to meet Cade?