The River Is Waiting

by Wally Lamb

Suffering comes to us as an interrogator. It asks, “Who are you?” —David A. Fiensy

I’m sure Emily is keeping track of my nighttime beer consumption, but I’m confident she’s unaware that I’ve started drinking the hard stuff during the day.

I tell myself that “and/or as needed” is the loophole I can use if that doctor questions my need for an early refill. I’m not too worried about my growing reliance on “better living through chemistry.” It’s just a stopgap thing until my situation turns around.

Things have been better since then. The usual minor ups and downs but nothing more. Marriage is all about that seesaw ride, isn’t it? We’re okay.

The usual order of buckling the twins into their car seats is Niko first because he’s the more restless of the two. But the order gets turned around this morning when I see Niko on his belly, watching a swarm of ants in the driveway crawl over and around a piece of cookie that got dropped the day before. I buckle Maisie in.

I pull ahead a few feet, then back up again, depressing the gas pedal just enough to make it over the obstacle. In the rearview mirror, I see them running toward us, arms waving. What the fuck, man? Why is she screaming? And then I know.

I didn’t bother to withdraw; I just drove away in my rusted-out Chevy Chevette and headed west. I was that sure that Emily was the one for me and the grand gesture I was making was going to convince her that I was the one for her. How many other dudes would ditch their college education for love?

“A lot of people are like that, Corby,” she’d said. “They have a public persona that’s different from who they are at home. Have you ever considered that you might have been the victim of verbal abuse?”

I go to my son, drop to my knees beside him, averting my eyes but then forcing myself to look again. He’s on his side, his head turned to the left, a puddle of red under his crushed body. I watch the rapid rising and falling of his little chest—his fight to stay alive—and have to look away. This isn’t happening, is it?

I should be the one comforting her; he’s our little boy. But what kind of comfort can I offer when I’m the one who caused his death?

“Well, you told me you’d done a little drinking and drugging before your son got hurt. But if you did a little more after he was injured, then whatever those blood test results are going to say, a judge might rule that they’re inadmissible. You know, theoretically speaking.” I’m confused about what she’s saying; her expression is unreadable. “Okay, gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I take a deep breath and say, “I started drinking during the day a while back. Liquor, not just beer. In the afternoon and the morning both, hiding the bottles from you. And I’ve been lying about looking for a job. I kind of gave up on that a while ago. Surrendered, I guess you’d say. And that prescription I got for my anxiety? I’ve been overdoing that, too. I think I may be addicted. I’m sorry.”

“Yesterday? When it happened? I was already kind of wasted. I was… I started drinking when I was making breakfast. My lawyer has an idea about how I might beat getting charged, but I can’t lie anymore. Not to you, not to the police.”

Eight days after Niko’s death, I’m brought before the court on the charge of second-degree involuntary manslaughter due to operating a motor vehicle while under the influence of alcohol and a controlled substance. Because I plead guilty, there will be no trial.

When you’re an active alcoholic, you give up everything for one thing. But when you commit to sobriety, you give up one thing for everything.

That thing my mother said about grief? How it’s like a wave that clobbers you so that you go under and can’t catch your breath? That’s how it felt when Maisie touched her brother’s photograph.

“The thing is, you never get over it—that hard a loss and the fact that you caused it. There’s always going to be sadness and shame around it. You just have to figure out how to live with yourself without drinking over it. At least that was what I had to do.”

“And the thing that’s so confusing is that I love you and feel sorry for you because of the shame you must have to carry, which I can’t even begin to imagine. But I hate you, too, Corby, for breaking that trust I thought I could rely on.”

“Based on the five senses. You concentrate on five things you can see. A calendar, for example. A photograph. Then four things you can touch or feel: your shoe, a book, anything within reach. Then three things you hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. What you are doing is giving your mind something to do other than surrender to the terror.”

“ ‘Worrying is carrying tomorrow’s load with today’s strength—carrying two days at once. It is moving into tomorrow ahead of time. Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength.’—Corrie ten Boom.”

I’m boosted up and into the back of a transport van. A few minutes later, I’m on my way to Yates Correctional Institution, where I will spend the next thirty-six months of my life.

Over the next couple of days and nights, my flirtation with suicide becomes an obsession. Thinking about it energizes me, but then the adrenaline subsides and I crash, the prospect of my death triggering sobs I have to stifle with my pillow pressed against my face.

I’ve heard both arguments about suicide: that it’s the coward’s way out and that it takes amazing courage. I go with the second theory, but once I commit to it, I better have the balls to follow through.

Don’t allow yourself to become too preoccupied with the tragic circumstances that have led to your imprisonment. What’s done is done and cannot be changed.

In closing, I ask you to think about this: every person who enters prison must make the choice of moving toward the dark or the light. Many people who are serving time further imprison themselves with dark thoughts and dark deeds, but both paths are available to you. Seek the light, dear Corby. Move toward the light.

Maybe that spirit is speaking to me through the sound of moving water. And maybe that sound is telling me to trust that not everything is stuck and stagnant—that forward movement is possible. That by the time I’ve done my three years here, the sun will come up and light the path that leads me back to my wife and daughter.

Sometimes I think we’re all wandering in the dark and that it’s random and pointless. But I’m trying to open my mind to the possibility of some deeper truths. Trying to see the light and move in that direction.

Can I find a way to let go of the anger that still lives beneath the grief I feel about losing Niko? Can I forgive you—for Maisie’s sake, and for yours and mine? I don’t know yet. That’s what’s so hard about this whole thing—so freaking confusing.

Since those pictures from that first summer fell out of the album, I’ve looked at them a bunch. They draw me back to those people we used to be—just kids, really, with no idea how hard and complicated life can get.

In truth will I speak, not in falsehood. Gently will I speak, not harshly. To his profit will I speak, not to his loss. With kindly intent will I speak, not in anger.

“That’s not the point, Solomon. What you don’t want to do is push your privilege in people’s faces. Make them feel like you think you’re better than they are.”

When you’re negotiating with the opposition, you start off by making a concession, real or imagined. It puts them at ease so that they think you’re being totally reasonable.

They raped me with a state-issued defensive weapon to punish me. Silence me. And they must have planned it ahead of time. Why else would Piccardy have shown up on his day off?

Challenging their two-bit authority put me in their crosshairs. That was how it had started. Then, to make matters worse, I got noticed and praised by their superiors. They had to punish me for that, and if I don’t want more of the same or worse, I’d better keep my mouth shut.

I’m never going to tell her that I was sexually assaulted and she doesn’t need to know that I’m going to get past it with the help of a low-dose benzo either. It’s all good.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it make more sense if I moved back in with you and Maisie? I could take her to school and pick her up. Bring her to her after-school stuff. Make dinner. Make your life easier.”

“Because you can’t expect to walk out of there and pick up where we left off before… everything happened. You’ve been in prison for two and a half years, Corby. You’ve changed, I’ve changed, and it would be too overwhelming for Maisie. Don’t get me wrong. I want you back in her life and she’s going to want that, too, but it has to happen more gradually.”

She’s wary of me. It’s understandable; I’ve been gone from her life for so long. But it’s painful, too, and it’s hard not to resent Emily for keeping her from me. Does she have any memory of me at all?

“Maisie, don’t you remember me?” Without looking at me, she shakes her head and starts that braid twisting again. I look up at my mother. This time I can read her lips. “Don’t pressure her,” she’s saying.

But this is the first time I’m able to see things through Emily’s eyes. To consider that she may not have been withholding my daughter to punish me, but to make sure her only living child stays away from a potentially dangerous place that houses dangerous people.

Of course, there had to have been other variables at play. Children weather their parents’ divorces all the time without there being such dire consequences later in their lives.

I’ve come to realize only lately that my disapproval was based on my own ego. You had every right to pursue what you were interested in, instead of creating a life in my image. This is late in coming, Corbin, but I apologize for having devalued your artistic impulses.

“It’s not Anselmo and Piccardy, is it?” He cocks his head. “Why you asking about those two? You hear something?” I tell him no, I was just wondering. “They’re both on administrative leave,” he says. “And don’t ask me why because I’m not discussing it.” Administrative leave means they’re in trouble for something, doesn’t it? Have those two motherfuckers finally gotten nailed?

I miss a lot of it, but one of them says he heard three female guards filed a joint complaint. The other one says he heard the whistleblower was keeping track of all kinds of shit. They’ve got to be talking about Piccardy and Anselmo.

Ostertag’s the one who answers. “You’re not getting out, Ledbetter. Not today anyway. Your urine’s dirty.” I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It can’t be. I swear to God I’m clean!” He shrugs. “Well, what can I tell you? You say one thing, your test says something different.”

“Okay, so it’s a given that they’re revoking those six months they gave you for early release. You have to serve the rest of your sentence. The warden might have taken into account the stressful circumstances that made you lose control. But Custody’s up in arms about Officer Stickley’s injury, so they’re demanding that the department press charges. That will most likely mean you’ll be sentenced to more time in here.”

I keep trying to unhear Emily telling me she’s done with me. That she’ll change her number if she has to. Am I going to have to fight her to get visits with my daughter? I will if I have to. If they’ll even grant them to me.

Do I even want to hear what this guy has to say or see what he wants to give me? I’ve struggled for more than two years to move on from Corby’s death, and things have been going so well with Bryan that I’ve accepted his proposal.

Emily

How many times in the past two years have I thought about our final conversation when I told Corby not to call me again? By the following week, my anger and disappointment had subsided and I was ready to talk again. But he didn’t call; he took me at my word. And then he got sick and died, no more words exchanged between us.

Emily

I look away from him. Look back. “We were having problems before Niko’s death, too.” For whatever reason I’m sharing this with someone I’ve just met, I keep going. “When he lost his job and became a full-time dad, he assumed it would be temporary. We both did. But when he couldn’t find another job in his field, he became depressed. Anxious. He had trouble sleeping. It was my idea that he should see a doctor and get something for his anxiety, but I didn’t know the medication he was taking was addictive, or that he was overdoing it. And drinking during the day when he was watching the kids. He kept it from me so I had no idea.”

Emily