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Mom faces life so different than her dream
By Heather Riley Staff Writer
I kneel down to the level of my four-year-old son. His small face breaks into a smile. His pudgy hand grabs mine and pulls me into the living room. Our nightly dance ritual begins to Offspring's "Come Out and Play". We swing and laugh. His eyes, which he affectionately calls his "brownies," shine. He giggles, "More, Momma!" The phone rings. Our dance stops. My missing ex-husband and son's father has been found. I was 19 when I fell in love. Tommy was a rebel, a bad boy. I loved the excitement of the forbidden. He was everything I wanted to be: wild and carefree. It was easy to overlook the drugs and delinquent behavior. He would give me the excitement and adventure I'd always dreamed of nd I would give him stability, I thought. A year later, we married. Two weeks after our first anniversary, our son was born. Life changed. I stand in front of a nondescript building; a dull ache in my stomach reminds me I don't want to be here. The air outside is hot and dirty. A rush of cool air is my only consolation as I push through the door. Family life temporarily settled Tommy. But, his wild spirit couldn't be tamed. He spent more and more time with friends. When I confronted him about his unexplained absences, he left. He shaved his head bald and assured me he was through with "family life." At 22, with a six-month old son, I was alone. Many months later, Tommy did return, wanting to change. He spent two years in a residential drug rehabilitation center. But, the rehabilitation didn't solve the dysfunction in our relationship. In 1996, I divorced Tommy. He disappeared for the last time into a life of drugs and crime. He was soon caught and sent to prison. "Inmate number?" a woman asks in monotonous routine that matches her tan polyester uniform and plain face. I slowly recite the number. I empty my pockets and turn a pose for the woman. Satisfied, she tells me I can proceed. Hidden cameras behind walls record my every move. A polyester clad man directs me into a transitional room that separates two worlds with thick steel doors. A siren noise rings the first doors closed, shutting off all existence to my world. Suddenly, it's too quiet, too real. He got a 63-year sentence for three armed bank robberies. With prison conditions, it will most likely be a life sentence. How did this happen? My parents were very loving. I have a great family. I'm not prepared to be here. This wasn't a part of my plan. I'm mad. He took my dreams. He left me alone to raise a child. Another siren sounds and a second steel door opens. Another guard leads me into a long, empty cafeteria. I fix my eyes on the shiny kept linoleum. I walk past two vending machines towards the back of the room. I know he's there, waiting for me. But I don't look up yet. I'm here so that Tommy can understand the difficulty of raising a son without himßhis father. I'm there when my son misses his dad, and cries himself to sleep. I'm there when he asks the question, "why?". I'm there at parent night; I'm watching his expression when he realizes he's the only one without a dad. No more. Not another day will go by without Tommy understanding the pain. Today is Tommy's day to experience it. In person, I will unleash my anger like no letter can do. I will hurt him, just like he's hurt us. My body is numb. My head pounds in anticipation. I look up and see him. He sits behind a plexiglass of physical protection. A chain runs down his middle, connecting his shackled legs to cold steel cuffs confining his hands. His mouth shapes a smile. He wants to stay strong but I can see he's scared. His eyes can't lie. They resemble the "brownies" I see in my son. Only they are sad. They are the eyes of regret. Eyes that reveal he is alone to live the consequence of his choices. The only word I can muster "hi." This is the first time I have really seen Tommy. He looks vulnerable in his orange jumpsuit. He's not just a part of my plan. He is a man. And today, he is a broken human being. I pity him. He is no less the victim of hopeless dreams than I am. I let go of my tightly held restraint. The fear, sadness and pain come out in tears. It makes Tommy uncomfortable. He makes a joke. The next two hours are a blur. I tell him about our son's activities. Tommy is not surprised when I tell him his son is "chatty in class, just like you." We are equally amazed that something positive exists from our relationship together. Our son is a talented artistßhe definitely didn't get that characteristic from his parents. We laugh. When he laughs, I notice his eyebrows shape a curve just like my son's. I find it remarkable how many mannerisms they share. I am sorry my son will never really know his father. We talk about old times. I realize I'm not completely innocent. I was the one eager to get married and have a family. He was just a willing piece in my life puzzle. I was immature and selfish. I see my part in the situation. A guard interrupts our time together. I say goodbye. As I leave, the air outside feels different. It's not as heavy as before. I drive away and watch the last visible sign of the prison gates vanish along with my ever-hopeless dream of what was and could have been. I feel released from my expectations of youth. Although Tommy doesn't have another chance, I do. Life doesn't stop for me. My dreams are just a little different from when I was a little girl. Now, I have a young man to raise. And he has his own dreams. I get home and take my first act of liberation. I kneel down and hug my son. |
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Last
updated: May 8, 2002 |
