That Wednesday
Creative Nonfiction
Sometimes the phone rings, and you know you need to pick it up. The call came from federal prison. My son had urgent news.
"Please make a few calls for me," Jason talked quickly in an exasperated tone.
"Sure, what's going on?" I asked, feeling in the dark after a prolonged lack of information--not his fault.
"Today, they are taking me to quarantine."
"And you just found out?"
"For three weeks, I will not be able to call or write to anyone, and then I will be put on an airplane and sent 'home.' I hope someone can pick me up. I don't know where I'll go after that," he said.
Jason will arrive at the airport with nothing.
His prison case manager purposely delayed his release paperwork and did not make the required arrangements with the halfway house in time. He gloated and mocked my son as he admitted to never bothering to do his due diligence. Then he laughingly blamed the COVID-19 pandemic. I don't know why I was surprised. This had happened before, and this case manager had also blocked Jason's requests for medical care. The antipathy of people running the institutions and the "inmate support system" is a pandemic of its own that will probably never be addressed; after all, these prisoners put themselves in the system, and they deserve what they get. But, recidivism is something that begins the day an inmate enters the system and is tainted with the expectation that they will never return to society in a healthy way.
Jason was incarcerated because of drug offenses. Serious ones. He tried to make enough money to buy himself better options in life and to pay for his substance use. Only temporarily. But this led to distribution, and he needed to be taken off the streets. He knew that what he did was wrong—dangerous to society—and he always planned to change.
This was the beginning of a vicious cycle. Jason would be incarcerated for months, released, try to work and be productive, fail at paying bills and making life work, go back to alcohol, then drugs, on to who knows what, and then back to jail. His denial always faded after the first day or two. He would quickly take responsibility. He spent many years in this cycle and became the typical example of a person who has become "institutionalized." I would always hear from him when he was inside or outside working, but his silence usually meant that I had lost him to the streets again. After years of drug use, I knew that his ability to change was narrowing.
After one lengthy incarceration and what I believed was an actual change of heart, they put Jason out on the street without halfway house time though the judge had strongly recommended it. Once again, he was couch surfing and unable to comply with probation since they require an approved residence. He was "on the run" for several months--probation violation. Eventually, they found him. The officers claimed that he threatened to assault them because he was sitting on a motorcycle, and as he contemplated running for one split second, they tasered him in the face. His hands contracted on the gas and brake simultaneously. The motorcycle spun out and threw him into a garage door. The bike lunged toward the officers. They ducked behind a car. They claimed he threw the motorcycle toward them as an act of aggression. They added assault to his non-compliance charges, which put things in a whole new arena.
His attorney tried to get the assault charges dropped but encouraged him to take a plea bargain to shorten the time of his incarceration. It was during the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, and because court calendars bogged down for a while, it was nearly impossible to get in front of a judge. The prisons were plagued with COVID-19. They had no way to keep it from spreading. Many prisoners were released, but Jason could not be considered because his case was labeled "assault."
Jason contracted COVID-19 inside. He could not breathe. He could not eat, and his insides felt like they were erupting. Jason suffered through it without any medication or comforts that he might have had at home. It lasted more than three weeks. It broke my heart to talk to him and encourage him, knowing that he was genuinely suffering and there was nothing we could do. So many around him were also deathly ill. Months after he no longer tested positive for COVID-19, he still experienced extreme headaches, back and digestive tract pain. It was near impossible to get a medical appointment, and once he had one, it was bumped out several times. Finally, his appointment came. Instead of the doctor, he was seen by a nurse who told him nothing was wrong with him and prescribed some ibuprofen for his pain.
Jason lost weight, couldn't eat or exercise, and his entire appearance changed. His attorney tried to help and wrote to the prison executives to draw attention to his illness and encourage the case manager to follow the judge's orders and make sure his halfway house time was arranged this time. His case manager probably resented the pressure and deliberately did not make the needed arrangements. Instead, he ran out the clock, refused to communicate with Jason. Then he scoffed at him as Jason asked him for a release address, knowing that he did not have one.
My husband and I live in a neighboring state, eight hours away, where we moved for his job eight years ago. With COVID-19, I work primarily from home doing freelance work. My husband works in the courts and is one year from retirement. We want to hug Jason and encourage him when he lands, but we can only travel to him the following weekend because of a packed court calendar. He can't cross the state line to come to us. I can't see well enough to make the drive alone, or I would surely be at the airport to greet him. Jason has burned bridges in his relationship with one sister and is somewhat estranged from the other. He has friends that look forward to greeting him, but whether they have his best interests at heart remains to be seen. I don't know who will extend charity to him on that Wednesday as he steps off the plane, but I know that moment can make or break his attempt to change.
Wednesday is my favorite day of the week. It is neither toward the beginning nor the end. It is usually a very productive day for me. It has a peace about it, like white noise that allows me to breathe. It will be the begin-again day for my son. It will be the day that marks his freedom and lets him breathe freely again. He should be released to structure and accountability. But the system is so broken that he's being released to nothingness. With people inside the system refusing to do their jobs, neglecting the help they could provide, it is no wonder that so many returns to prison. Jason can apply to a sober living program, but they are all overcrowded right now, and there are long waitlists because of COVID-19 rules and quarantines. It is likely that, at first, he will be homeless. At the mercy of friends. He will have very little money, no transportation, and no job. Jason will not have a place to lay his head. He still needs real medical attention.
I know I sound like an over-concerned, perhaps overprotective mother. Some find a way to write off their "wayward." I've tried. Still, I keep hoping, loving, and praying that there is something better for him in the future. I have heard it said that when you carry a child in pregnancy, you become filled by that child, and at birth, there is a deific emptying that has to happen so you both can survive. I remember this process with great joy and trepidation.
I think we are also filled with the fierce desire for our children to succeed, become independent, and be happy. A mother doesn't have the power to empty her soul of that fervor--especially if her child is at risk. It is arduous to see them make mistakes, and it's painful when the system is unethical and biased toward keeping them down. It has become so clear that the structure we have in place today is fully punitive. Not rehabilitative. I have learned that the individuals who run our institutions are quickly bigoted and share a mentality that does not serve society's best interests—here is the plague that goes unseen.
So many years have passed since my little blue-eyed boy continually questioned me and loved everything about the world-—so many judges, attorneys, caseworkers, and probation officers-—so many failures. Yet hope remains. There is a constant filling and emptying that a mother experiences with each child, no matter how old they are or how good or bad their choices are. A mother remembers their innate goodness, who they are, and what they might become, even if no one else does.
I look forward to that Wednesday when the mighty prison doors unfold and release my son. To a life that is neither the beginning nor the ending. He's mid-week. So much in his life remains open to him. With his resolve to make a change, I implore that Wednesday is more than just another pivotal day. I proffer it to bring the peaceful white noise that will allow Jason to be there, be seen, feel welcome, and pause long enough to know that he can embrace a new way of being.
The Author
Suzanne S. Eaton is an author and marketing consultant. She has written many corporate stories and magazines. She now writes about love, loss, and family with great joy. Most recently, Writer Shed Stories, Seaborne Magazine, The Purpled Nail, The Silent World in Her Vase, Scarlet Leaf Review, Rue Scribe, eris & eros, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, The Elevation Review, The Write Launch, Dreamers, Poet’s Choice, The Poet Magazine, Carmina Magazine, Unlimited Literature (ULMag), and Wingless Dreamer have selected her work for publication.
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