The Leap

An acquaintance of mine was arrested on a variety of new charges. He blamed his mother for it all, and when she wrote him or visited him he refused to see her. Ridiculous. What if he did see her?

The sweat poured off Tim as he pumped out another set of push-ups in his cell. Up, down, up, down�"� fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one �"�and so on, doing each and every one with the kind of intensity that would leave most people with the belief that he was a glutton for punishment. And he was. For every push-up was a tried and true method of expelling the pain harbored within him�"� at least, temporarily. For Tim there was much pain�"� and anger and confusion and a myriad of insecurities. But there was mostly pain.

            The pain he carried with him always, an ever-growing burden on the soul. Yet, in his current environment, it had its benefits as well. Mainly: it gave him an air of un-approachability. His pain, vented as anger through a hardened exterior, radiated off him in waves. And though his expression was often blank, his eyes remained an icy abyss that, combined with his body language, seemed to advise any and all strangers to keep their distance.

            But Tim welcomed the solitude that came with it. He embraced it. All the better, he thought, to wallow alone in his sorrow and anger, the latter of which was aimed in ever-changing directions.

            Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Tim stood, greedily sucking the oxygen out of the musty air. He wiped his sweat-drenched face with a towel, then slowly drank water out of a plastic tumbler. He set the cup down next to a battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo when he noticed that a corrections officer (CO) had stopped in front of his cell. Tim looked at the man, waiting.

            “Hill,” the CO said, “you got a visit.”

Tim grunted an acknowledgement, refusing to show his surprise, and the CO walked back down the cell block.

            Alone, Tim quickly began to clean himself up, at the same time wondering for what�"� for whom �"�he was cleaning himself up to see.

            Having systematically burned all of his bridges over the past twelve years�"� during countless arrests, the seemingly endless stints in drug rehabilitation programs, two terms of state prison, and numerous parole violations in between �"�Tim could not even begin to fathom the person or people that would want to visit him. Tim told himself that it was out of simple curiosity he would not refuse the visit outright. Because he did not want to see anyone. Through it all, Tim felt abandoned, but not responsible. He had convinced himself that through the years he had simply adapted to the changing circumstances. It was everyone else that changed, everyone else that had left him hanging out to dry like a forgotten sock on a clothesline.

            This in mind, Tim settled for a quick birdbath using soap and water from his sink. He applied a generous amount of deodorant, and then dressed in a clean pair of state-green pants and a collared shirt. He stepped out of his cell, forcing aside all of his minds’ attempts to guess the person he was about to face.

 

…

            The visiting room at Eastern Correctional Facility was scarcely populated when Tim arrived. After a brief frisking just outside of the inmates’ entrance, Tim entered and began to walk through the large room. There were only a few inmates and their visitors at that point, and most of the tables were empty, so it didn’t take long for Tim to spot his visitor. When he saw her he froze mid-stride, his trusty blank face momentarily betraying him, replaced first with an expression of complete shock, which was quickly followed by disbelief.

            He stared at the woman, her head hung low, sitting alone at the table, as a myriad of emotions swept through him. First, of course, had been the shock and disbelief, which was followed up by a pang of sadness that seemed to strike and momentarily reside somewhere between his chest and stomach. As his gaze lingered upon the familiar woman, he set his face and continued to walk with mechanical movements to her table.

            As though she sensed him approaching she raised her head, and when their eyes met and locked all prior emotion ceased inside him. Instantly, a bubbling anger filled the void. When he reached the table Tim examined Janine Hill, his mother, for the first time in almost five years.

            Time had always seemed to agree with his mother, though it seemed to Tim that she had aged considerably since the last time they had met face to face. Her hair, cut shorter than he had ever seen on her, had grayed significantly; the crow’s feet at the edge of her eyes had grown more pronounced; she had lost weight, appearing almost sickly, with a gaunt face and bony frame.

            She remained seated, her eyes never once leaving her son’s face. Tim stood at the edge of the table, returning her stare as he attempted to keep track of the war of words battling inside his head. There was so much he wanted to say, to scream, he couldn’t decide where to begin. Instead he opted for silence, just continued to stare, but a single question, perhaps the simplest one of them all, kept gnawing at him, and he could hold back no longer. He asked, “Why are you here?”

            For a moment she just continued to bore into him with her unwithering gaze, but then she seemed to visibly soften, and offered a sad, knowing smile as she said, “Well, I’m good, thanks for asking.”

            “Fine,” Tim snarled. “It’s good to see you; how are things? I hope all is fine and f*****g dandy,” pronouncing each sarcasm-laced syllable in a robotic monotone, before repeating his initial question. “Now, what are you doing here?”

            Janine looked around, visibly embarrassed by Tim’s outburst, and when she finally looked back at him, her voice low, she said, “Please, sit down.”

            Tim made a slight show of his anger by shaking his head, smirking, but, never one for theatrics, he acquiesced, pulling out the chair and sitting without further argument. A tension filled silence ensued for several moments before Janine, her voice soft, sad, said, “Still angry with me, I see.”

            Tim couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was she kidding? “What?” he asked sarcastically, dragging out the word. “Am I still angry?” he shook his head, snorting out a laugh, said, “First off, I haven’t heard from you in all this time. Almost five years I’ve been away with no letter, no apology, no�"�”

             “Apology?” Janine cut him off in mock-disbelief. “Apology? Why are you here, Timothy?”

            As though she had pressed the play button on his brain’s memory reel, Tim recalled the argument he’d had with his mother, the argument that had led her to do the unthinkable. Though parts of that day remain a blur, Tim could clearly see his mother standing in her kitchen, crying with the phone in her hand, and less than twenty minutes later Tim had sat, cuffed, in the back of a police car.

            “I’m here, Mother�"�” this final word spoken with venom “�"�because we had a fight and you decided to get rid of me, so you called the police, knowing that I was on parole.” He pointed at her, fiercely stabbing the air with his finger. “You are the reason I’m here.”

            “Still a selective memory,” she replied. “You’ve always suffered from convenient amnesia.” She shook her head sorrowfully, lowering her gaze until she appeared to be staring at her quivering hands. She remained that way for a few moments, and when she raised her head her eyes glistened, and a moist line ran from beneath one eye to her chin, the trail of a fallen tear.

            “Why are you here?” Tim asked yet again, and though he had spoken softly, his tone still contained a harsh, looming anger. He waited several seconds for a response that never came, but when the silence began to grate him he made an attempt to answer for her. “You’re here for this, right?” He spread his arms, looking around. “You came so you can see me in the zoo you put me in? You needed to be reminded of what you did?”

            She offered no response but for a sob, and a fresh tear glided down her cheek.

            “Huh?” Tim said. “Is that why you’re here? After all this f*****g time?”

            “No!” she cried. “I’m here because I want my son back!”

            Silence followed Janine’s outburst, a stifling silence that seemed to remove the air from the room. Janine used this time to compose herself, while Tim made a weak attempt to suppress all of the emotions he now felt, emotions that had been deeply buried and forgotten.

            In the background a young woman laughed; a few tables down, a baby giggled.

            Tim needed to break the painful, unbearable silence, so, though it sounded half-hearted even to himself, he said, “Then you shouldn’t have gotten your son arrested.”

            “That was not my son!” Janine snapped. The sudden anger in the reply surprised Tim, as did the lingering fury in her eyes. “That was not my son,” she repeated, calmer now, almost a whisper.

            When Tim said nothing, she asked, “Do you still not claim any responsibility for your actions?” She adjusted herself in the seat, placing both hands flat on the table in front of her. “Yes,” she admitted, “I called the police�"� which was a decision I stand by, though it leaves me broken hearted still. But do you remember why I called the police?” She raised a hand and jabbed her temple with her finger, saying, “Think, Timothy! Think!”

            Tim simply swallowed, at a loss for words.

            Janine saw she had his attention and continued. “You showed up at my home, drunk, high on God-knows-what, on a freaking rampage. You kept demanding something�"� I don’t even know what �"�that I did not have. You called me a liar. You threatened your father. So… so, yes, I called the police. But you are the one that put yourself back in this place.”

            She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then went on, “It was you that got drunk and high; you that had drugs in your possession; you that had stolen property in the trunk of a car that you illegally drove to my home. Not me, Timothy. You!”

            Her piercing gaze and verbal fusillade made Tim want to run for cover. He wanted to retreat from the truth of her words, to return to his self-imposed solitude, his sanctuary built upon a foundation of denial. But he could not run, could not possibly hide. Not from the truth. The truth is there always, whether above or below the surface, and it follows you around like your shadow.

            Tim felt glued to his seat. He wanted to say something, anything, but it was as though his mouth would not function. He could not defend himself, could not deny the simple, utter truth of his mother’s statements. He was completely helpless, and the sudden urge to flee, to be somewhere else, anywhere, grew stronger. Yet, he could not move.

            “Your sister still cries to me on the phone at night,” his mother confided. “Your father is still trying to pick up the pieces, but he, himself, is broken.”

            That’s me, Tim thought, with the gift to do damage that can’t be undone.

            “Your father,” she went on, “still asks me where we went wrong with you, what we could have done differently.” She bowed her head and dug into her eyes with the heels of her hands. Still looking down at her trembling hands, she added, “And I used to think it was somehow my fault. I truly did.” She raised her head again and brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “But I realized that if I’m guilty of anything, that if your father and I are guilty of anything, it’s that we’ve always loved you too much.” The tears were fresh in her eyes and falling freely when she added, “And maybe that love was blinding.” She looked at Tim in the eyes. “So, if you haven’t realized it yet… well, when you asked why I was here, that’s why.”

            She gripped his hand. “Sometimes, Tim, all it takes is that first step,” she said. “Sometimes you just have to reach out, even if it feels like a leap of faith.”

            It was then that it felt to Tim as though the ground was shaking beneath his feet. His mother’s voice began to fade, becoming nothing but a faint echo in the background. His vision blurred, refocused, and then blurred once more, until�"�

            �"�chanting filled the air as the majority of Tim’s cell block shook their gates. The building trembled. Tim glanced around, confused. He found he was in his cell, beneath a sweat covered sheet, lying in his bed. It was a dream, he thought, though perhaps it was more of a nightmare, the way the harsh truth can often seem.

            Tim stood, surprised at the sudden emptiness he felt, surprised that for the first time he truly did not like the feeling of being alone. He began splashing his face with cold water as he wondered how, exactly, he would finally do what he knew he must. He was tired. Tired of all the wasted years, tired of all the needless pain and suffering he’d caused for himself and others. He’d done some major, possibly irreparable, damage to the relationships that matter most in his life, and the least he could do was attempt to make amends. He owed it not only to them, but to himself as well.

He decided he would not waste a word. Over the years he had used many combinations of words for empty apologies, or to make promises that would eventually be broken. This time it would be different. This time he would lay it all out in the open. The truth hurts but, though he knew he had two more years until he would be released, he hoped that admitting the truth would help to free him of his pain, or at least help to free his family of some of theirs. He had nothing left to lose. Hope was all he had left. He would make his leap of faith.

He sat, cleared his head, and picked up his pen.

And he began: Dear Mom,