That Night

  There weren’t set visiting days, but I had to mail forms to anyone I wanted on my list. I also had to fill out a form to get a phone number approved. The cost of a call would be billed to the receiver—if I called collect. I was told it could be weeks before my phone number and visitor lists were approved. I could write people as much as I wanted, including Ryan, which was a relief, but all mail was inspected. I was allowed books, but a limited amount of paper, and each cell had a storage tote where prisoners could keep their belongings. There was a personal line each week for health and hygiene—anything else would have to be bought at the canteen. I was also allowed to purchase a fifteen-inch TV, a CD player, and a few clothing items like underwear and socks, or approved jeans. But I wasn’t permitted to have more than fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of personal effects in my cell. If I broke any rules I’d get a charge, which could be a fine or the loss of a privilege. If I did something really serious, I’d be sent to segregation. I wasn’t allowed in anyone’s cell, and I wasn’t allowed physical contact with another inmate. At the time I didn’t give a rat’s ass about that part—there was no one I wanted to touch anyway. It would be years before I discovered that loss of physical contact was one of the hardest things to deal with.

  For now, I struggled to adapt to the daily routine and all the rules. Guards shone their flashlights in the cells late at night and early morning, startling me awake after I’d finally fallen into a restless sleep, shivering under my thin blanket. They did hourly rounds and formal counts, the first at five in the morning. Then anyone who worked in the kitchens was sent down while the rest of us rushed for the showers. After breakfast, people left for work, went to programs, or hung out in their cells and the activity area. You got paid a little bit for working, five or seven dollars a day. The maximum-security side prisoners had to remain locked in their cells unless they were working, but every hour they were given a chance to go to the activity area. After dinner we were allowed out in the yard if the weather was decent.

  You were expected to work or participate in the programs, but I spent most of my time pacing my cell, sleeping, crying, or writing letters to Ryan—I was given a few pieces of paper and a pencil, which wasn’t much more than a stub. We hadn’t been able to have any contact for over a year, and then only at trial, so I was desperate to hear that he was okay. I didn’t have stamps yet and was waiting for the canteen to open in a few days. I hoped my dad had been able to send money—everything seemed to take forever to process in prison.

  After my arrest, I’d sworn to my parents that I was innocent, and I was pretty sure my dad still believed me, but my mom was a different story, especially since the trial. My dad was allowed to send some personal things, like CDs and some photos, but I’d been warned it would also take a while before the prison approved them. I’d asked for some of Ryan and our family, especially ones of Nicole. He’d paused on the phone when I asked for those, then agreed, his voice quiet. Mom had spent hours going through all our albums after the murder, crying, but I’d avoided even walking close to Nicole’s photo in our house. And I’d hated seeing her yearbook photo on every news show, in every newspaper. But now, a year and a half later, I needed to see pictures of her, needed to remember everything about her, how she smiled, what she liked, what she didn’t like, terrified that she’d slip from my memories, needing to keep her alive, somehow, in some way.

  My institutional parole officer decided I should be in substance abuse programs because I’d been stoned the night Nicole was murdered, but I insisted I didn’t have a drug problem and refused to attend. The parole officer was a small man, only a few inches taller than me, with tiny hands. I wondered if he liked the power he had over women in prison, if in the outside world they laughed at him.

  “This is part of your assessment,” he said. “If you don’t participate in your correctional plan you won’t be able to reduce your classification level. It could also affect your future parole eligibility.”

  “I’m innocent,” I said. “My lawyer’s filing an appeal—I’m getting out soon.”

  He made a note, his expression blank.

  * * *

  In the evenings I started to walk the track, around and around, passing the other women in their groups or the odd solitary woman running. Then one day I also broke into a run, zoning in on the feeling of my feet hitting the ground, each thud, thud, thud drowning out the constant thoughts in my head, the endless despair. I tried not to think about how much I missed Ryan and Nicole, tried not to think about my sister’s empty room, all her belongings untouched. I’d never lost anyone I cared about before, not even a pet, and I was struggling to understand death, the permanence of it, the staggering thought that I would never see my sister again, never hear her voice. That she no longer existed. I wrestled with thoughts about heaven, about life after death, about where she might be now. I couldn’t grasp that someone could just be gone. I’d also never experienced violence before and didn’t understand how someone could have done those terrible things to my sister, couldn’t stop thinking about how afraid she must have been, how much it must have hurt.

  Each memory was a fierce blow, the grief wrapping so tight around me I couldn’t breathe. And so I ran, over and over again.

  My roommate and I didn’t talk much. The morning after Pinky grabbed my arm, she gave me a brief rundown of the routine inside. Then her expression turned sly, her eyes narrowing.

  “You got parents sending you money? I need a few things from the canteen, just until my old man sends money in a couple weeks.”

  “I can’t buy you anything. Sorry.”

  We held eyes and I knew she was trying to intimidate me, but she was also nervous about it, her gaze darting around to see if anyone had heard us—no one was in the hall, and the women in the cell next to ours were loudly arguing. I had a feeling she’d timed it that way so she could save face if I turned her down.

  “Don’t matter none, if you’re going to be like that.” She turned back to her bed, muttering, “Just keep your shit tidy.”

  I didn’t talk to any of the other inmates, just stayed to myself. I sat in a corner for all my meals and focused on my tray in the line for chow, but from the side I checked out the other women. They were mostly white, with some First Nations, and a few Asians. There were women who looked like men, short haircuts, broad bodies, a way of swaggering, sometimes grabbing at their crotches, which freaked me out. And some really hard-looking women who might have been bikers or druggies—those ones scared me the most. But the biggest surprise was how normal a lot of the women looked. A few of them were even kind of dowdy. Many were overweight, their skin sallow, their teeth stained. I saw plenty of tattoos, some really exotic and cool but others rough and faded. I didn’t see many younger people, maybe a couple of women in their twenties.

  None of them paid any attention to me until a big woman with gray hair pulled back into a long braid walked over to me one day. She held her head high, her shoulders squared, and walked like she was hoping someone would cause her a problem, but all the other women moved out of her way. She sat down beside me. “You in for murder, kid?”

  My body tense, I studied her hands—each knuckle had a tattoo of an eye. Was she part of some gang? I glanced at her, then looked away. I remembered Pinky’s warning but I couldn’t stop myself from mumbling, “I didn’t do it.”

  She gave me a poke in the ribs, a hard jab with her finger. My blood rushed to my face. I looked around for the guards, but they were talking to other inmates.

  “Listen up, kid. I’m going to tell you how it is around here.” I met her angry stare, noticed that she had dried saliva in the corners of her lips. “No one gives a shit what you did out there. You’re in the joint now. Keep your cell clean and keep yourself clean. You need anything, you talk to me, not the guards. I run this place.”

  She got up and walked off. I stared at her broad back, looking away when she glanced over her shoulder. I pushed my tray to the side, having lost what was left of m
y appetite. No one on the outside had cared that I was innocent, and no one cared in here.

  The woman next to me said, “You going to eat that?”

  I’d barely had time to shake my head before she snatched my juice cup off my tray and speared my hamburger patty. I felt someone’s gaze and looked up.

  The woman with the gray hair was watching me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WOODBRIDGE HIGH, CAMPBELL RIVER

  JANUARY 1996

  When Ryan dropped me off at home, it was late and I’d missed dinner. I came in the side door and noticed my dad tying some fishing flies in the garage. We used to go fishing all the time when I was little. We’d pack a lunch and spend the day out in the canoe. Now that I was spending most of my time with Ryan I didn’t go with him as often, though I still liked fishing. Ryan and I had a few favorite spots on the river, but half the time we just ended up making out. Dad used to take me to the job site too, and I liked working alongside him. When I was five he bought me my own tool belt and I’d follow him around, hammering things.

  All last summer I’d worked for him to pay off part of the car my parents had given me—a Honda my mom inherited when my grandparents died. It was a little junky, but once we fixed a few things and got some new tires, it should last me a couple of years. I was hoping we’d have it ready by spring so I could insure it and get a real job. Working with Dad was fun, and hard work—it had given me strong muscles in my arms and a flat, toned stomach, which Ryan loved—but I wanted to try something else, something that wasn’t a family business.

  Dad looked up when I came in the side door.

  “Hi, honey. Where you been?”

  “Over at Ryan’s.” My dad looked tired, his face pale, with bags under his eyes. He had a new subdivision contract and had been leaving early and coming home just before dinner. He had dark hair like me and Nicole—my mom was the only blonde—and olive skin that turned bronze if we were out in the sun for more than five minutes, so we looked more like him, in the face anyway. Mom was petite, with small hands and feet, narrow hips and shoulders, so we got our builds from her. She was tiny but she had muscles in her arms, and I was proud of having a hot, tough mom—you could see how toned her biceps were when she wore tank tops, and guys were always checking her out. Dad liked to tell people, “Pam’s small and wiry, like a rat terrier,” and she’d pretend to punch him.

  Dad wasn’t very tall either, maybe around five-nine, but he was stocky and had a good build from working hard, the backs of his neck and arms always tanned dark, his hands rough and his skin smelling like some kind of wood, cedar or fir, clean outdoor smells. Dad looked more like he should be a schoolteacher, though, with his kind face and glasses, than a guy who ran a construction company.

  “Your mom’s upset you didn’t call.” He was peering at me over his glasses now, admonishing.

  “I told her yesterday I’d probably go to Ryan’s after school.”

  “I think she’d appreciate an apology.”

  And I’d appreciate it if she got off my back once in a while, but that wasn’t going to happen. My parents fought about me a lot. My mom thought my dad was too easy on me and that’s why I got in trouble. The reason I got in trouble was because she was always so damn hard on me. When it starts feeling like you can’t do anything right, there doesn’t seem like there’s any point. And it’s not like I was really bad. I just didn’t do things around the house as fast as she thought I should and I didn’t spend hours doing homework, like my sister. I still got okay grades—I just didn’t see the point in acing every test. Mom also didn’t like how I dressed, with my rock band T-shirts, ripped jeans, and flannel shirts, or how I did my makeup, my eyes ringed in smoky shadow.

  She’d say, “I know you’re just trying to express yourself, Toni, but you might not realize the message it sends to people. If you dress like a hoodlum, that’s how they’ll treat you—like you’re bad news. You used to dress so pretty.”

  Sometimes when Amy was over I’d see Mom eying up her army boots and her black nail polish. Later, she’d ask if I’d talked to Shauna lately, her voice kind of sad and hopeful. “Shauna’s such a nice girl.” Mom really didn’t like me hanging out with Ryan, who she said was “heading for trouble.”

  When I’d tried to speak to my dad about how Mom was always on my case, he said, “She worries about you.” No, she just hated that she couldn’t control me, like she could control him and Nicole.

  Dad was easygoing, which was kind of cool sometimes, like I could tell him stuff and I knew he wouldn’t freak out, but he hated confrontation. If there was a fight between me and my mom, he left the room. Mom was scrappy and didn’t take shit from anyone, which was embarrassing as hell when she was going off on a sales guy or a supplier. We’d always knocked heads, but it wasn’t as bad when I was little. She could be a lot of fun and had this crazy imagination—she’d tell us stories for hours. And she came up with fun new things for us to do every weekend, maybe taking a day trip down to Victoria and checking out the undersea gardens, or hiking around one of the gulf islands. Sometimes the two of us would drive around and drop off flyers for Dad’s business, then we’d get lunch and talk about all the houses we saw and who might live in them. I liked how excited she’d get about new ideas, how she’d ask for my opinion. She was also smart, and good to talk to if you had any problems, like she’d give advice—Dad would just tell you everything would be okay. She just didn’t know when to stop.

  She was so overprotective all the time, worried that something would go wrong and something bad would happen. She didn’t trust me to figure stuff out on my own. Dad said it was because of her childhood—her mom was this super-anxious person, who was practically agoraphobic, and her dad was an alcoholic who’d disappear for days—and because she loved us so much. I tried to understand, but I hated having to answer a million questions, about my day, school, and friends, like she had to know every single thing that was happening in our lives, hated how she was always trying to guide me to do things her way.

  Now that I was older, it had gotten worse. The more she tried to control me, the more it felt like tight bands were wrapping around me, sucking all the air out, sucking me out, which just made me want to do the complete opposite. But what bugged me most was that I could tell she didn’t really like me anymore. It felt like she was always disappointed in me, and kind of embarrassed, but mostly angry, like it drove her nuts that she couldn’t get me to be what she wanted. Sometimes I wondered if she even loved me anymore.

  * * *

  When I went in, Mom was doing some paperwork in the office. Dad was good with people and an awesome builder but he had no head for numbers, so Mom ran the business side of the company. She had her hair up in a loose ponytail, some of it coming undone. Without any makeup, she looked tired too, the dim glow of her desk light accentuating the hollows of her cheeks. She was wearing one of my dad’s T-shirts and a pair of jeans. She could look pretty when we went out for dinner or something, but she also spent a lot of time wearing work boots and talking to the guys at the construction site. One of the reasons it bugged the hell out of me when she was riding my ass about my clothes.

  I tried to pass by without saying anything, but she heard my footsteps and turned. “About time you got home. Thanks for the call.” Her words were snarky, but she looked concerned, and I wondered if I was part of the reason she was tired, which made me feel bad. I wasn’t sure which annoyed me more.

  “I was at Ryan’s. I told you that.”

  “You mentioned you might be going, but I’d appreciate it if you actually phoned home and kept us informed. I didn’t know how much food to make.”

  “Okay, fine, whatever.” I walked down the hall.

  She followed me out of the office. “No, it’s not fine. I’d like an apology.”

  I threw a “Sorry” over my shoulder, then mumbled under my breath, “that you’re a control freak.”

  “What did you just say?” She pushed open my bedroom door as I
was taking off my T-shirt.

  “Hey, a little privacy, please?”

  “As long as you live in my house, you obey my rules, Toni. And we’ve asked you time and time again to call if you’re going to be late.”

  I felt another wave of anger. She was always calling it her house, like we didn’t have a say in anything.

  “I said I was sorry. Now can you leave it alone?”

  “I don’t know what to do about you, Toni.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your attitude has gotten even worse since you’ve been seeing Ryan.”

  “You’re just on my case because you don’t like him.”

  It sucked that my parents couldn’t see how good Ryan was, how good he was to me—he’d saved up to get me a necklace for my birthday, a black onyx star on this cool leather cord. They didn’t see the sweet letters he’d write me, not trying to be all tough like some guys. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t talk about, embarrassing stories, our hopes and dreams. Ryan made me feel like I was normal, better than normal. My parents just saw that his father was an ex-con and that Ryan drove a big loud truck and listened to heavy metal music.

  “Ryan’s the only good thing in my life right now,” I said.

  She leaned against my doorframe, took a breath, preparing for a this-is-for-your-own-good lecture.

  “That’s the problem, Toni. He shouldn’t be the only good thing. I know you have strong feelings for him—I’m just worried that you’re forgetting everything else in your life. What about your other friends?”