Redemption (23 page)

Learning About Courage

he heavy chicken wire that enclosed our common area was painted a terrible almond color. The paint yellowed from all the cigarette smoke and was flaked off so we could see the rust underneath. We had nothing to do all day but chip off the paint with our fingernails. The steel-grate wire fence was supposed to hold us temporarily—before inmates went to prison or, for the lucky few, home.

Without Christy there to defend me, I was scared at times. Christy and I tried to keep in touch during her incarceration, but it was difficult. Just one other person bothered to have contact with me: Tom Wilson.

He found out the day after the shooting. A friend called Tom W. to tell him to turn on the TV. That’s when he heard the story of the eighteen-year-old St. John woman who was accused of fatally shooting her father in their home. Tom was in shock.

After Christy had left for Renz prison, I received a letter from him. He was already in navy boot camp. He said he was happy he finally had a pen pal. Tom W. wrote that while he had no idea what I’d been through, he did believe I was a good person. He told me to always remember that. He asked if he could talk to me. I hadn’t heard anyone’s voice from the outside in months. I was allowed only one phone call once a week on Fridays at 4 p.m. I just didn’t have anyone to call. Now, all of a sudden, I did. But to save me money, he wound up calling me every week at that exact time for months. It didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing, he was there on the phone for me. Tom W. was my only link to the outside world. He provided much-needed warmth in my life.

We became closer. I had always loved Tom W., and I had always truly respected him. But this time things were different with us. It was just like when we dated for those two weeks back in high school—only more mature and intense. We talked about boot camp and all the tough things he was going through. We discussed our lives and hopes and dreams. We told each other how we felt. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to tell Tom W. everything. He was a gentle man with the patience and kindness of a saint. But he also liked to bend the rules when he could get away with it. He was funny.

We discussed us as a couple early on. I wanted him to live his life and do all the things a nineteen-year-old should be doing. I never wanted him to feel tied down to me. After all, I was going nowhere. But we were clear that if a miracle happened, and if I came home, I would be with him. He seemed to be in love with me, and I was in love with him.

Our tryst kept me sane and alive, but it was bittersweet. It was the carrot dangling in front of me that I could never have.

Sometimes, I couldn’t take the pressure and the loneliness and the nightmares. Sleeping only got harder. I hadn’t made any friends. I missed Christy. I started having flashbacks during the day and especially at night.

As my trial date came closer, I became more distressed, and the prison system was quick to prescribe psych meds. Prison staff weren’t interested in helping prisoners work through their issues. It was easier to just medicate us. I wasn’t offered psychological counseling. Licensed psychologists saw me only when I needed to be analyzed for legal documents. Those people wanted to know every detail of my life, but they did not offer support or advice.

The psych counselor at Gumbo prescribed Vistaril. Such sedatives were quick fixes that made us prisoners easier to deal with. Vistaril turned me into a total zombie. And I wasn’t even sure it helped me sleep better at night, but I’d get in trouble if I didn’t take my pill. Obediently, I swallowed the drug every day until I got street-smart in prison—I learned how to pretend I was taking it without really swallowing. Then I would hide the Vistaril and use it to make friends. There were ladies out there who actually wanted to take that drug. I did that only for a little while—until I told them I didn’t want it anymore, and they finally listened.

In jail, the truth hit me. For the first time ever, my mask was off. I no longer had to pretend that I was the good daughter with good grades. I didn’t have to be perfectly thin with the right hair and eyeliner. I didn’t have to please my father. I didn’t have to lie to my mom, pretend that everything was okay, and act like I didn’t blame her. I didn’t have to be just fine anymore.

I wasn’t just fine, and admitting that to myself—and to the world—felt good.

No matter what had happened in my past, I was who I was.

Women at the jail started reaching out to me, especially the older ones. They saw me as a kid, a kid who killed her dad after being molested by him. They noticed I had no visitors. They noticed I had only public defenders. No one in the world was helping me. With Christy gone, I needed to accept friendship when it was offered to me.

There was one thing I needed to do to make me feel better. I needed to open up, to have conversations. I needed to stop looking inward all the time.

I shared a bunk with an older woman named Sandy. She tried to give me a few dollars to buy candy and snacks.

I wouldn’t take it at first. I was still working on the whole opening-up thing. I also didn’t want to take her cash and then owe her a favor later.

“Take the money,” Sandy said. “I have extra, and I want you to have it.”

After a few rounds of this, I asked her, “Why?”

“It makes me feel good to share it with you,” Sandy said. She was short like me, and she had kids my age. Then she sat me down to teach me a jail lesson. “If you don’t have the food others are eating, and you want those snacks, you’re going to feel resentful. Eventually, you’ll lie or steal to get what you want. I’ve been lying and stealing my whole life. I don’t want you to have to go through that or feel that way. So I have extra money; I’m going to give it to you, and I want you to just take it.”

Inmates did leave their lockers open sometimes. I would eye their Snickers bars, my mouth watering. But I never once thought of taking their food. If you steal from a woman in jail, you might get yourself killed. Still, I got the gist of what Sandy was saying. I had shoplifted before, back in the eighth grade. Maybe there were feelings inside of me that I didn’t understand. Something started to change in my heart.

I decided to take a chance. I accepted her money.

She thanked
me
for letting her help me. She explained that her own daughter wouldn’t even speak to her. She was my cellmate for seven months before she got transferred to the Texas prison system. I think she was doing time for possession. Her girlfriend (and I do mean her girlfriend) was Kathy Tucker. Kathy was my six-foot-tall protector. Kathy would get released—but not for long. She’d wind up right back in Gumbo because of her problems with drugs.

All of a sudden, I started getting bullied a lot. Without Christy to stand beside me, I was terrified. This skinny girl named Diane had it in for me. Calling her ugly would’ve been giving her a compliment. She had a gold tooth, a high-pitched voice, and black hair with blond tips, done up in a cone shape. She’d yell at me from her bright red lips.

“Little bitch!” she said.

I would turn real fast in the other direction and walk away.

Kathy pulled me by the arm gently and said, “I’m getting ready to teach you how to take care of yourself.”

“I know how to take care of myself,” I insisted. “I just ignore her. I don’t pay her any attention.”

She said, “That won’t work. You gotta learn how to stand up for yourself. She just called you a bitch, so you walk back over and tell her you don’t appreciate that.”

I was terrified of Diane, and so were most sane inmates. Kathy gave me an encouraging shove on my back. I took in a deep breath and walked in Diane’s direction. I just hoped she wouldn’t beat me up too badly.

I told myself I could do this. I had braved worse enemies. I told Diane, “You just called me a bitch for no reason, and I really do not appreciate that.” I was a total WASP. I knew I stood looking like I’d come straight off the tennis team. But still, I kept going. “I’ve never done anything to you, and that was uncalled for.”

Diane’s neck started jiving back and forth, and she was getting ready to open her mouth. But instead of getting smart, she just said, “I’m sorry.”

I turned around to Kathy, and I had a whole different attitude. I’d never felt so confident in my jailhouse life. Only later did I realize Kathy had been standing behind me the whole time, arms crossed, giving Diane a menacing look while I spoke to her.

Regardless, I was starting to learn the rules of living inside.

We formed a weird little family. My jail mothers Sandy and Kathy looked out for me. So did my other cellmate, Paula, a grandmotherly woman who wore her silver hair in a ponytail. She was getting ready to leave Gumbo and knew I’d be there awhile. She taught me how to crochet so I could make my own money.

Crocheting was hard! I messed up over and over. But Paula had an infinite amount of patience to sit with me and show me how to do it. I kept practicing after she left, and I finally got the hang of it.

Every night at 8 or 9 p.m., we all got tea. It was hot in the winter and iced in the summer. The iced tea came in those cheap plastic tumblers that sweat all over your hands. Everyone always wanted a cup holder to put on the tea tumbler. I got to the point where I could crochet one in ten minutes flat, and I would charge inmates $1 per huggie.

Being in jail was expensive. I was charged $64 for each of my crimes, which my stepdad paid. And then there were incidentals. No one wanted to use the county soap or shampoo. So the whole time I was in jail and then in prison, I crocheted for money.

I was so bored, and I certainly had the time. Paula had shown me the basic stitches, and I learned the rest from a pattern book that was on the book cart. I taught myself more and more intricate projects. I was a perfectionist. I’d get a huggie halfway done and rip it all out if it didn’t look right. I liked being able to make something from nothing. I’d picture something and see it come alive underneath my hands. Plus, making things reminded me of Grandma Lannert. She used to crochet afghans for us.

I graduated into making little heart pillows that the other inmates liked. The edges were lacy, and I stuffed the pillows with ripped-up bed sheets. In jail, they were always passing around sheets. (Later, in prison, I got only one sheet, and I was screwed if I lost it.) It took me about twenty minutes to complete one pillow, and I’d sell it for $5 or $8, depending on whether I liked that person or not. All the bad-mouthing in jail drove me crazy. If a woman was trash-talking other people in front me, I knew she was talking about me, too. Those types had to pay $8. Sometimes, I could tell when someone was being all nice to my face because they wanted me to make them a pillow—for $5.

When I wasn’t crocheting, I learned every card game in the world. Gumbo didn’t have a library, but I read every single book on the pushcart. I learned how to trace and spent hours making designs. I also started tracing art on envelopes. I believed, like Paula, that I should pass down what I learned. When I saw someone come through jail who looked like she needed an extra hand, I’d sit down and start teaching. Though I probably wasn’t as patient as Paula, I tried my best.

The hours were incredibly long in twenty-three-hour lockdown.

I thought a lot about God. I was mad at Him.

We had gone to an Episcopalian church for a short while when I was seven. Christy and I liked bible school that summer. But other than that, I hadn’t grown up in church at all. I did know about Jesus, and I believed.

As I got older, I had called on God for help, but He was never there for me. So I stopped asking. I was upset with religion. I couldn’t understand why God was letting so many terrible things happen in my life. How could He stand by while my life was a living hell and my father was raping me? I’d lost hope; I didn’t want anything to do with this sort of God.

Jail made me rethink religion. There, I started believing in God again because I didn’t have anything or anyone else. The only counseling I was offered was with a nun. I took it. I started seeing Sister Judith once a week. We sat at a little round table in the chow hall. She was older and had soft, white hair, plump, rosy cheeks, and a sweet smile. She wore glasses, a black head covering, and a plain-colored skirt. I told her everything, not sparing a single detail.

I told her I was mad, and I told her all the reasons why I was mad. At God. At my parents. Mostly, at myself. She taught me about visualization. She pointed out that we all have a free will, and we make our own choices. There were choices and then there was God’s will. She made a lot of sense out of the mess that was my life. She told me to trust in God and just let Him take control of my life.

So I did. Even though life without parole was hanging over my head, I trusted. I said the Twenty-third Psalm, and I gave up and let go. I wasn’t at peace with my decisions or my future, but I was able to let Jesus help me carry my burdens. I had to believe that when the time was right, God would open a door for me.

I was doing
The Courage to Heal Workbook
then. The second psychologist I saw gave it to me after her evaluation.
The Courage to Heal
is a 463-page tome on how to make life better after sexual abuse. The ideas in it blew me away. It was the first time I heard that what my father did to me wasn’t my fault. I didn’t believe it yet, but I started thinking about it. The workbook really got me thinking. I’d seen myself as my father’s victim my whole life, and here was this book calling me a survivor instead. The psychologist said I had to turn in at least two homework assignments to her each week. I mailed them, thinking it was part of my court-ordered psych evaluation. I found out later that she was just doing this to help my personal healing.