Pervy Parker smirks. “Lock your things up in number seventeen and then head to security screening.” He slaps a key onto the counter with his meaty paw. “Phone, car keys, coins, belt. Don’t forget so much as a coin, unless you wanna get strip-searched.” His mouth curves into a salacious smile. “And you won’t get to say no to that if you ever wanna see your daddy again.”
My face twists with horror before I can smother it. They wouldn’t actually strip-search me for forgetting to take out a penny from my pocket, would they?
The prick laughs. “Welcome to Fulcort Penitentiary.”
Who is she here to see? I wonder, watching the shriveled old lady fidget with her knuckles, her hair styled in tight gray curls, her wrinkled features touched with smears of pink and blue makeup. A husband? A son?
I’ve kept my eyes forward and down since I passed through the airport-level security screening process and was led me to this long, narrow visitation room. I’ve set my jaw and ignored the hair-raising feel of lingering looks and the stifling tension that courses through the air. My father warned me against attracting attention, that having inmates knowing he has “such a beautiful daughter” would only make his life harder in here. While I rolled my eyes as he said that, I also decided to heed his warning the best way I can, so as not to ruin his life further.
So, no makeup, no styled hair—I didn’t even brush it today—and minimal eye contact.
Except this sweet-looking grandmother who sits at the cafeteria-style table across from me has caught my gaze and now I can’t help but occupy my mind with questions about her while I wait. Namely, how many Saturdays has she spent sitting at Fulcort waiting for a loved one, and what will I look like when I’m sitting in this chair twenty-two years from now?
A soft buzz sounds on my left, pulling my attention away from her and toward the door where prisoners have been filtering in and out.
An ache swells in my chest as I watch my father shuffle through. It’s only been two weeks and yet his face looks gaunt, the orange jumpsuit loose on his tall, lanky frame.
He pauses as the guard refers to a clipboard, his gaze frantically scanning the faces at each table.
I dare a small wave to grab his attention.
The second his green eyes meet mine, his face splits with a smile. He rushes for me.
“Walk!” a guard barks from somewhere.
I stand to meet him.
“Oh God, are you a sight for sore eyes!” He ropes his arms around my neck and pulls me tight into his body.
“I missed you so much!” I return the embrace, sinking into my father’s chest as tears spill down my cheeks despite my best efforts to keep them at bay. “They made me wait for hours. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it in today—”
“That’s enough!” That same guard who just yelled at my father to walk moves in swiftly to stand beside us, his hard face offering not a shred of sympathy. “Unless you wanna lose visitation privileges, inmate!”
Dad pulls back with a solemn nod, his hands in the air in a sign of surrender. “Sorry.” He gestures to the table. “Come on, Mercy. Sit. Let me look at you.”
We settle into our seats across from each other, my father folding his hands tidily in front of him atop the table. A model of best behavior. The guard shoots him another warning look before continuing on.
“So?” I swallow against the lump in my throat, brushing my tears away. I’ve done so well, hiding tears from him up until now. “How are you doing?”
He shrugs. “You know. Fine, I guess.” He quickly surveys the occupants of the tables around us.
That’s when I notice that his jaw is tinged with a greenish-yellow bruise. “Dad! What happened to your face?” I reach for him on instinct.
He pulls back just as the tips of my fingernails graze his cheek. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit! Did someone hit you?”
His wary eyes dart to the nearby inmates again. “Don’t worry about it, Mercy. It’s just the way things are inside. Someone thinks you looked at them funny… Pecking order, that sort of thing. It’s not hard to make enemies in a prison without trying. Anyway, it’s almost healed.”
My eyes begin to sting again. This is my fault. I should never have told him about what Fleet did that night. It’s not like the dirty pig succeeded in his mission; a swift kick to his balls gave me the break I needed to run inside and call the police. Now, had the police done their goddamn job, Fleet never would have strolled into work the next morning with a smug smile on his face and a vivid description of how firm my ass is, and my normally mild-mannered father wouldn’t have lost his temper.