Chapter 4
I was serving a five-year sentence for vehicular manslaughter in Perryville when Deb met Roy.
She’d moved to LA to be a model, and after my release, I would go and live with her.
We were going to start a catering business together when I got out.
We’d call it “Deb he’s my fiancé. And of course I’m telling him about you. Why wouldn’t I?”
“No, Deb. I’m serious. What did you tell him?”
“Relax. All I’m telling him is that I have a sister and her name is Jo, and he’s going to meet her soon, and she’s funny and cute and a handful and a terrible dancer.”
“Deb, please. Did you tell him—”
“I’m not telling him where you are. He thinks you’re working overseas for another year or so.”
It’s not that I didn’t want her to be happy; it’s that it never occurred to me that she might be happy with someone other than me. I thought we would be happy together, just the two of us. I never thought beyond that.
They got married. She sent me photos. I tore him out of every one of them but I still kept her half, mostly because her wedding dress was amazing, and I plastered the walls of my cell with them. I found that if I gazed hard enough and long enough, I could almost pretend he didn’t exist.
Meanwhile, Deb would still call every second day, then every third day. She’d gush about how wonderful and charming and drop-dead gorgeous Roy was.
Then something strange happened. A few months into their marriage, her tone changed.
By then she wasn’t calling as often, and when she did, I could tell she was missing her spark.
When I asked if everything was okay, she wouldn’t reply right away.
Then she’d say, “Everything is fine.” And I thought maybe she was unwell, or she was having trouble getting pregnant.
But whatever it was, she didn’t want to tell me.
I was a few months away from my release when she called. “Things are…” she started, but she didn’t finish.
I waited, my pulse racing. With Deb, it was always best to give her space.
She sighed, then finally she whispered, so softly I could barely hear her. “He scares me.”
“He scares you? Why?”
She made a sound, like a sob. “I’m so scared, Jo.”
“What’s happening, Deb? Tell me!”
But she’d hung up. I called back right away but she didn’t pick up. I called again and again but still she didn’t pick up.
And that was it. I never spoke to her again. I never even got another letter, even though I still wrote to her every day, begging her to contact me, to let me know she was okay, but she never did. And every time I’d called her cell phone, I’d get the same recorded message.
Hello, you’ve reached Deborah. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.
Then one day, I got a different message: The number you have called is no longer available.
I probably called a hundred times, hogging the phone, a growing chorus of angry women behind me threatening to punch me in the face if I didn’t let them have their turn, before I finally gave up. Then I did the only thing I could think of. I called my mother, for the first time in over five years.
“Debbie died,” she said crisply. “I was going to write.”
The world tilted, and next thing I knew I was on the floor, my legs folded under me, the phone dangling from its receiver. The cord was just long enough for me to reach.
“When?”
“Let me think. A month, maybe? No, wait. Three weeks ago. That’s right.”
Three weeks ago. That meant she died only days after our last call.
I’m so scared, Jo.
“What happened? What did he do?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Her husband? What did he do to her?” I cried.
“Jesus, Jo. What do they feed you over there? He didn’t do anything. She was depressed, apparently. Anyway, she killed herself. Roy is absolutely devastated, as we are. He barely made it through the funeral.”
For a moment I couldn’t breathe. When I spoke again, my voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “She killed herself?”
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”
I pressed my fist into my eyes. “I don’t understand. Did you talk to her? Did you know she was depressed?”
“Well, frankly, whenever I spoke to her, she sounded drunk. What can I say? She should never have gone to LA. She should have stayed here, with us. Married someone local. You girls always thought you were too good for us, and look at you now. You’re in jail and she’s dead. How’d that work out for you?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m not at your beck and call, Jo. I was going to write but things have been busy around here.”
I was upright again by then. I put the phone in its cradle.