Chapter 44 - "irredeemable.

At least twenty minutes of getting up, pacing, and waiting happens before I slide down the wall next to the sink. I discover my cell doesn’t have a camera. It wouldn’t need one of course, the locked door ensures my location and the bare room limits my activity. I lean against the yellow wall. The pressure from the cement floor hurts my ankles. I stretch my legs out in front of me.

Time without cellphones or televisions or computers forces me to think. I’m not a good person, but I could be. In less than a week, I have helped more people than I have in my entire life.

Mario at graduation.

Dee Dee from her fall.

Two people in a lifetime of self-indulgence. Buried beneath the earth, I find myself catching my breath and more than a little confused about my existence. I turned toward the paint. With my index finger, I pretend to draw on it. My face is close enough to notice the uneven lines, little bumps, like the soft texture of old skin. Maybe it’s the skin-like look that makes me continue. I move my finger along the surface in no particular pattern, just a touch. An attempt to discover nothing more than the wall. It’s rougher when I use the back of my hand which seems strange. It feels better, softer when I close my eyes. There is something comforting about it, cold to the touch but it doesn’t recoile. Nicer than most people I know. Nicer than I’ve been.

But that can change. It can. I can. I went back for Dee Dee, risked my life. A smile creeps involuntarily to my face. My cheeks are tight as I get up and measure the cell walking heel-to-toe. Sixteen steps long and twelve wide. The empty wall between the beds needs a window. Its yellow paint tries to be sunny, but how fun would an oversized ant-farm be? Something to watch. Except, I’m sure there’d be a worm or too. I really don’t want to see anything slimy.

Since the width of the room is no longer a mystery, I decide to measure the height by standing on my head. I scrape my dirty shoe on the wall as high as I can, rolling back to the ground I discover the room has to be twice as tall as me. The lights too far to reach.

I go back to my pacing. Down here in my cage, it’s easy to finally see myself as the rest of the world has.

Selfish.

Privileged.

Entitled.

Sinking my butt back onto the thin mattress, I feel like the world sighs a resounding, “Duh!” at my big epiphany. I collapse sideways on the bed and listened for sounds. The consistent whirr of electricity fills the room. At some point water gurgles through pipes. The sound inspires my tear-ducts. I don’t mean to be so happy at the sound of running water, but I am.

I roll over and feel a hard lump at my lower back. Reaching behind me, I bring up Jackson’s Bible. The pages skim past my thumb in rapid succession as I flip the edges. Words bleed together. I close my eyes and let the movement fan my face.

My heart has no desire to read it. Yet, if this isolation lasts much longer it might be the only distraction I have for a while. I don’t have to decide if this book is right or wrong. And I can skip the entire Proverbs section if I want. Maybe this is why criminals find Jesus while in jail.

It might have been hours by the time I hear the lock to my door release, because I fell asleep. A guard dressed in gray opens the door and sets a tray on the ground next to the entry. Without a word, she also brings in a stack of sheets with a pillow then pulls the door shut.

“Wait!” I call to her.

But she doesn’t wait. The lock clicks closed again. I rush to the little window and see her pull a cart across the hall and repeat her actions. The tall pushcart holds at least fifty trays. The girl has some serious work to do. I envy her. Funny to think how much I hated hard work before, but I would love to be doing something for others right now.

The brown tray makes me long for a high school cafeteria. Any cafeteria. Even one where a former friend finds it funny to dump meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy all over my head. I sit on the floor next to the tray. It doesn’t matter where I eat, Uncle John will never know. Strange that he would come to mind at this moment. But he sat in the recesses of my bored mind full of lessons about forks for various dignitaries.

My brain houses an entire cast of bit players. Who knew when the next character would appear? I lift the tray cover to discover a turkey sandwich, potato chips and an apple. A bottle of water to drink. None of it interests me, but I decide I need to eat for the baby’s sake. I pick up the apple and sink my teeth into it. Juice drips down the side of my mouth and I wipe it with my sleeve. Uncle John’s ambassador friends would shake their heads.

With the apple still in hand, I stand up and lean against the door hoping to see some human activity. Before I can take another bite, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Maggie down the hall.

My heart begins to race for no apparent reason.

I should be happy to see her, but I’m not. Anxiety creeps over my arms and I instinctively look for a place to hide.

Nowhere.

I flatten my back against the door. A slim shadow dims the floor where the window previously cast light. The thick walls insulate any noise, but I hold my breath anyway. The thought of her watching makes me cold. She stands there so long I wonder what she’s looking for besides me. I scan the room and see Jackson’s Bible on my empty mattress.

Not good.

She will freak.

If I can count on anything, this woman will take that book from me. I can’t let her. It’s not hers. It’s not mine. It belongs to Jackson and I want to give it back to him. I bend down and pick up the tray and try my best to act like I don’t know she’s there. The early days in The Center help. Performing comes natural to me now. I make sure the back of my body blocks the view of the bed. I bend over and set the tray on the floor and stand, my body still blocking Dr. Maggie’s view of the book. I decide it will draw attention if I bent over and picked up the Bible. Instead, I flap the sheet and spread it right over the top of the book. From a distance, the counselor might think the black spot was a stain.

The pillow coughs up some dust as I fluff it. I put it at the head of the bed and perform the role of an inspector, looking over my work. I don’t have to pretend to be surprised when I turn to face the window, because it scares the mess out of me to see Rowena standing there in place of the counselor.

I swallow.

She stares.

I decide I should talk to her, but by the time I reach the window she’s gone.

Thoughts of pounding on the door to call her back invade my mind. Crazy. This Bunker place hasn’t taken long to mess with me. I shake my head. Whatever. It’s only the isolation. The desire for human contact. Even if that human is a bit of a cow. I alter my thinking and search the halls for Jackson. If Dr. Maggie and Rowena are making rounds, then Jackson wouldn’t be far behind.

But he doesn’t come.

No one else I know comes.

I sink back into my place against the wall and try to take it as a good sign. He’s safe. He’s free of the mountain and the fire. Instead of wishing him down here, I should take it as an opportunity to retrieve my contraband.

With a quick glance out the window, I hurry to the bed and removed the smuggled goods. Why does this book anger Dr. Maggie so much? Maybe she read proverbs first. Very few people would be innocent of the list of pride and lies that God hates.

I exhale.

Sitting back, out of view of the door’s window, I thumb through the pages again. I might as well read some of it before the staff has a chance to take it away.

I slide my tray of food back toward the door with the Bible resting on top of it. With my back against the wall, the only thing someone will see if they look in are my feet when I stretch them out. I take a bite of the sandwich and then open the book for real.

The small words line the page. I skip over the middle section and all that wisdom junk. Maybe I can find a nice story. Near the back of the book, some of the words are red. I stop in a section about Mark. It seems ironic. I mean, I know it’s probably about some guy named Mark, but it could still be about demerits or the kind of marks The Center gives. I remember how worried I was about getting marks and being sent to The Bunker. Yet here I sit.

My laugh echoes off the yellow walls.

Funnier still.

I settle into my position and can’t believe I’m about to read the Bible of all things.