Chapter Four

Chapter Four

An obsession with criminal justice overcame me. My appetite for it was bottomless and I thirsted for knowledge about my dad's destiny. What would happen at his execution? Would it hurt? And although the gory details scared me, some twisted part of me longed for more.

I thought I had the power to save his life. After all, they say you can do anything you put your mind to. What they don't say is that you have to have four things in order to have that kind of control over your life: Money, power, experience, and time. I had none. Perhaps if I had more time, I could gain the experience, get the money and power, but I only had eight weeks--barely a spec on a time line.

I found myself fantasizing about the impossible. I dreamed of saving my dad's life, and learning that deep down he had a heart. A heart that truly loved my mother. A heart that would lead him to our house, and to his place as my father. Rational told me none of this would happen, and that by hoping I was destined for disappointment.

Still, I aloud myself to pray�"even though I had officially rejected God and religion, prayer was something tangible to hold on to. I said the words, only half-believing them. It became an obsessive habit. I told myself that if I didn't pray there was no hope. So pray, I did, every night before bed. I would whisper under my breath, throughly embarrassed by my desperation.

At first, I would say, “Please let me find a way to save my dad.” But it was hard to keep up the routine every night when my body longed to sleep. So the phrase quickly evolved into, “please.” And then I would close my eyes and fall into a fitful slumber.

At the age of seven, there was no question in my mind that I would become professional cellist. But I learned early that in order for a dream to come true it took more than wishing on a star. It took time and dedication, connections and perseverance. I had no connections�"just lots of hope, which like glass, shatters when it falls.

I know my whole life doesn't depend on it, but it feels like it does. It feels like if I don't get to play Annie, then I'll never get another chance to shine. Sure, I love cello, and I would love to do that when I grow up. But to sing, and dance, to be someone I'm not for two hours every day for the next month and a half�"that would be magical. Plus, to get paid for it! Mom says to not keep my hopes up, she says that to be Annie in my first professional production is a little unrealistic. But I know it will happen. I can feel it.

The other day, I was practicing in the living room. The doorbell rang, and when I went to get it, it was Mrs. Norman. I don't usually like her very much�"she's a bit loud and smells like really strong vanilla, but she said, “Was that Annie you were listening to?”

At first I didn't understand what she was asking. But then I realized, she thought I was the recording! And I nodded my head, and said “yes,” because I was too happy to explain that I was trying out for a professional production and I just wanted to go back to practicing.

It's meant to be. Once I'm in this play, a whole new world will open up to me. I'll no longer be the shy kid in the back of the class. I'll be Maddy Simmons�"girl who played Annie. I'll be an inspiration to other eleven-year-olds.

I can't wait for the results to get in. It's a really annoying feeling to not know for sure that I'll be Annie. I find out the day after tomorrow�"on Friday. I just wish my dreams would come true faster.

It's pretty obvious what happened “the day after tomorrow.” I think everyone's had that experience�"getting really excited for something that doesn't happen. When I saw Christina Helen's name next to Annie, I still had hope. But as I scanned the list for my name it was like watching the glass vase fall to the floor. And when I got to the end and saw that Sandy the dog would be playing himself, it shattered. I thought that vase was my world�"all I had. But soon I realized, I had other things: my mom, my cello, friends. I worked hard, this time without the unrealistic expectations. After a while, any expectations, unrealistic or not, drifted away.

For some reason, the carefully controlled habit of not expecting broke when I heard about my dad. It was as if all the hope I had not used, was bubbling up inside of me. And I found myself wondering if I would use it all without caution.

The second time I went to San Quentin, it wasn't any easier. It was eerily sterile and white. From the outside, the jail cast looming shadows that blocked the sun and made me shiver. The words “Condemned Unit” still shocked me, and the guards emotionless expressions made me rethink my decision. But once I was sitting in the plastic chairs with the heavy door closed behind me, I knew there was no going back.

I waited a good thirty minutes, keeping myself occupied with my thoughts. Finally, I heard the clanging of metal chains, and looked up to see my dad. Even thinking of this man as my father felt weird, and left a bitter taste in my mouth.

He took his seat, and stared at me for what felt like minutes. Finally, I found the courage to pick up the phone and speak.

“If you don't want to visit, I understand.”

His lips twisted into a smirk. “You do, huh? You understand? You understand what it's like to be locked up in that cage? To have no privacy? To pee in front of the guards, to sleep in front of them? To eat food that makes you sick just by looking at it? Do you really understand?”

He sat back, looking out of breath, and both satisfied and disturbed at the same time.

“No,” I said, “I guess I don't. I've never gone through what you're going through. But that doesn't mean I've had it good, either.” I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, the anger pumping through my veins, “I grew up without a father. But that doesn't mean I didn't hope for one. I dreamt about what he�"what you would be like for eighteen years. I thought I had imagined everything. But I guess I didn't. I didn't ever consider that my father was a criminal. A filthy person, who raped, who violated three woman. Killed two. So what does that make me? Either the daughter of a convict, or a mistake. Pick one.”

My voice, which had risen considerably, bounced off the walls of the white room. Everyone was staring at me. A guard tapped me on the shoulder and said that if I didn't keep my voice down, the visit was over.

Embarrassed, I looked down at my feet, and bit my lip, holding back tears. I could hear the clatter of my dad's chains as he shifted in his seat.

There was an awkward silence between us for a long time. I waited for the steady rhythm of chatter to resume around me, before speaking again.

“I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.”

“Damn right. That's the number one rule around here, don't be straight with a condemned man. Don't tell him the truth. The guards tell us the facts, but they don't have any feelings�"not that you can see anyway.”

Relief relaxed the tension I hadn't even realized I had been sitting with.

“So you're not mad?”

“Mad? no. Bored as hell? Yes. Tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know...whatever you kids talk about these days.”

“I graduated high school. But since I got the�"the news, I kind of gave up on college.”

“Yeah? You got friends?”

“Yes.”

My “yes” was stilted. I just didn't want to admit the truth: I was alone. “No,” I said, trying to keep reality from making me cry.

“Is it yes or no?”

“I used to have friends. But they all sort of...left.”

“So what to do you do?”

“I play the cello...”

“Is that the one that squeaks and sounds like a dying squirrel?”

I surprised myself by laughing out loud. “No, it's really big, but smaller than a base. It's deep and sounds really beautiful when played right.”

“I want to hear you play.”

“Can I?”

“Probably not, but we'll work something out.”

The tap on my shoulder jerked the smile off my face. “Time's up.”

I turned around to see my dad rolling his eyes. I hung up the phone, then lingered just long enough for him to see me wave. He didn't wave back. Just stared.

When I opened the last set of doors and breathed in the fresh air, I could still see my dad's eyes starring at me, with a look I had seen too many times in my own reflection. I labeled it sadness, but as I walked to the car, I realized it was much more complicated. Sadness was a five year old crying because his friend broke his new toy car. Sadness was not getting to be Homecoming Queen, when you spent hours on your hair and make-up. No. This was not sadness. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was desperation. Desperation for hope, for love. But in my dad's case, I think it was desperation for life.

Reviews

[CrimsonBlaze]

Awwww.... I hope this really isn't the end right? I have to say, this was great, and I can't wait for the next chapter if there really is one. So, all I have to say is great job and keep going if you can. You have used flashbacks, dialogue and vocabulary very well- especially the flashbacks, which explain a lot instead of leaving the reader to keep guessing about her past. Anyways, awesome write. ;D

[snickerdoodle]

engaging narrative, dialogue, transitions and plot.