And she made me swear that I wouldn’t try to be her witness. I was going to do it. I had planned everything out in my head, even though we never really got the chance to plan the story together, but she told me if I did it she’d never speak to me again. She told me that she would only tell them the truth: that I wasn’t there when it happened, and that I was only trying to help her by claiming that I was.

I knew then that if I tried to go through with it, I would only make a bad situation worse.

Bray hasn’t been doing well. Every time I see her I notice that she has slipped deeper into the darkness that lives inside of her. I haven’t slept much since she’s been away, worried that every time my phone rings it will be Rian, Bray’s sister, telling me that Bray attempted suicide. Or achieved it. I like to think that she’ll never try because she’s strong and refuses to let the darkness consume her again, but a part of me believes deep down that it’s only because nothing is available to her. Because of Bray’s previous suicide attempt in South Carolina and her bipolar II disorder diagnosis, Bray was put under suicide watch. It’s hard visiting her. As I sit with her across the tiny white plastic table every week I feel like she is slipping completely away from me.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked on my last visit. I reached across the table and held her hands. I smiled, trying to comfort her.

She smiled back, but I could sense that it was forced. “Just getting out of here,” she said. Her gaze drifted.

“Did you get my letter?” I had asked.

She nodded and raised her eyes to me again. The faint smile I saw resting at the corners of them wasn’t forced this time. “Every day but Sunday.”

I often wondered how much those letters helped keep her afloat. Well, I call them letters, but technically not all of them were. I wrote notes to her on everything. Anything that happened to be available wherever I was when I thought of something I needed to say.

On the back of a takeout menu from a nearby diner:


I was thinking about that day in tenth grade, the day the storm knocked the lights out in the school. You and Lissa snuck out to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom. Your hair smelled like an ashtray for a week after that. I was just wondering, did you actually wash your hair that week? I missed the smell of that strawberry shampoo you always used. I’d stand next to you at your locker just before lunch and I’d smell your hair. Creepy, I know. Deal with it. But that was a bad week for me. I think it threw me off my game. Anyway, I love and miss you.

Elias

On the back of a grocery store receipt:


I was sitting at a stoplight (the one that never changes down the road from your parents), and I just wanted to tell you that when you get home I’m going to do naughty things to you. Maybe even at this stoplight.

Elias

On a napkin at a Denny’s restaurant:


Bray,

I got a speeding ticket today. Fifty in a thirty-five. I was late for work. I guess I should tell you, I got a new job. Roofing. Hot as a bitch in the summertime, but it pays good money. I’m going to buy you something nice with my first check. Oh, and pay the parking ticket.

Love you,

Elias

On one of those blank pages they always add to printed books—ripped it out of an old book at the dentist’s office:


I’m getting a root canal today. You know how much I love going to the dentist. Remember in fourth grade? I know you do. I cried like a girl for an hour because my mom was taking me for a checkup. I don’t think I ever thanked you for not telling Mitchell about that. Thank you. Because I’d still hear about it today if you had. Which brings me to some news. Mitchell and I are talking again. He’s clean and doing much better. He’s his old self again for the most part. He wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry for what he did, and he can’t wait to see you when you come home. I know you’re pissed at him, but I thought I’d relay the message. But don’t worry, he’s definitely not living with me. I only have room for one other person, and I’m just waiting for her to come back.

I love you.

Elias

I’d tuck each one in an envelope, slap a stamp on it, and mail it the same day. I wanted to make sure she got something every single day she was there, at least on days that the mail ran.

She writes to me, too, though not every day, and while I’m OK with that, it has started to worry me. Her letters often feel distant, emotionless. Sometimes I’ll get a letter out of the blue riddled with the Bray I fell in love with, cracking jokes and being a pervert. She’ll talk about the things she wants to do with me when she gets out, the life she wants us to have. I’ll smile as I read it, feeling like she’s starting to come around and that things are looking up for her. But as I read on, the pessimist eventually comes out of her before I get to the end of each letter. I keep telling myself, The next one won’t be like this, Elias. It won’t end like this. But so far, every one of them has.

I know she’s getting help where she is, but that hasn’t stopped me from looking for the right psychiatrist for when she gets out. I’ve scoured the Internet and the phone book searching for the one. I want Bray to have the best, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that she does.

Three hundred and seventy-nine days Bray has spent behind bars, and in two weeks she will be released. I’m going to visit her today, and while this is supposed to be something for both of us to look forward to, I’m nervous. I’m nervous because of the last letter I got from her just five days ago. It wasn’t anything that she said in the letter, it was what she didn’t say.


Dear Elias,

I know you’ve never missed a visiting day, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the next one. It’s very important that you be here.

Love,

Bray

I get out of my car and go through the front doors of the building and check in with the officer at the counter. Like I do every week, I count the lockers in the small room adjacent to the check-in area just after I secure my wallet, cell phone, and keys inside one. I don’t know why I count them. I just do. Maybe it’s out of nervousness, like how as I’m allowed past the heavy security door I always read the signs posted on the walls about firearms and visiting hours, and reminders about how it’s against the law to bring contraband in to the prisoners. I always read the signs. Sometimes more than once. And I always stop at that word prisoners and it hurts me, like someone is reaching inside my chest and folding a fist around my heart.

The long hallway is stark white, the tile floors and the white walls blending in with one another to appear seamless in my peripheral vision. The fluorescent lights shine overhead so brightly that I can almost see my reflection in the floor. I take my time, passing a few doors that lead to other strange rooms, and I have no interest in knowing what’s behind them. A fatherless family walks by: a woman with two small children, their hands clutched in hers. I wonder if they were here visiting their father. Bray doesn’t belong here. She’s no criminal. She didn’t murder anyone in cold blood or kill someone because she was under the influence of anything that impaired her judgment. She’s not a drug dealer or a thief or an abusive spouse. She doesn’t fucking belong here. I guess prison really doesn’t discriminate.

I turn the corner at the end of the long hall and enter a room. A guard points me to a table where I sit. And wait. There’s a clock high on the wall and to my left. Plain. Black and white and boring. There are several round, plastic, white tables positioned about the room. Eight families are already inside waiting at other tables. I realize as I glance around that I’m the only one here alone. I look down at the bright white table and trace my finger along an indentation that looks like it had been carved with something sharp, maybe a paperclip. It smells like bleach and Pine-Sol in here. The back of my nostrils begin to itch, and I take a deep breath, hoping to force back the brewing sneeze.

I look up at the clock. She should be coming in here any second now. I place my hand against my chest to feel my heart beating, because it’s beating too fast. Why was it so important that I make this visit? What is she going to tell me?

Just as I feel like my mind is going to come undone with the possibilities, bright orange moves against the stark white walls, and I look up to see Bray coming toward me wearing her usual orange jumpsuit, white socks, and thick plastic sandals that squeak against the floor.

I stand up. I smile at her as she approaches and she smiles back, but I don’t feel like it’s real, and my heart twists in knots.

“Hi baby,” I say and hug her gently. Physical contact is limited here.

Her hug is tight and doesn’t at all reflect the smile she gave me, but that only makes me feel a fraction better. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. She’s wearing no makeup, of course, and although she looks tired, physically and mentally, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

We sit down.

“Two weeks,” I say, smiling even brighter, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll be back with me in no time.”

“Elias?” she says and my heart stops. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling. I swallow a knot in my throat, but another emerges behind it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She inhales a deep breath into her lungs and then reaches up and wipes underneath her left eye with the edge of her finger.