Was he losing his mind? Were they screwing with him and playing voices over the speakers?
Except the voices belonged to people he knew. Once, he heard his mother calling him to dinner. Another time, Jessie’s voice came to him and said that she liked mustard on her hot dog. In fact, when he thought about it, the voices always spoke about something related to food, so he figured it was all in his head.
Mark stood and ran some water on his hand, then patted his face. When he had first started exercising again, he had, without thinking, splashed water on his face in his usual fashion. The simple act caused him to hyper- ventilate until he became so dizzy, he had so sit with his head between his knees. Now he made do with the least amount of water possible.
He had just finished swiping the remainder on his chest when the key turned in the lock. He held his breath until he saw it was the doctor. At last, another person to talk to, even if it was only for a few minutes. Mark ignored the guards who stood ready at the door.
“Hey, Doc.” Mark wanted to shake the man’s hand, but he’d learned that wasn’t acceptable, so he settled for nodding.
“Hello, Mark.” The man wasn’t chock full of warmth, but at least he wasn’t the one who attended Mark’s near drowning. “I see you’re keeping in shape. You could stand to gain a few pounds.”
Looking down at his washboard belly, Mark patted it and smiled. “I always wanted a six-pack. Guess I can thank the government for finally attaining one.”
“Yes, I guess you can.” There was no humor in the doctor’s voice. “Have a seat please.”
Mark’s smile faltered. He should have learned by now that the man would do no more than he had to do. No joking, no small talk. Nothing that would give Mark the impression that the doc regarded him as anything other than a job to do.
After a quick exam, the doctor made a couple of notes on a small pad of paper. “You’re looking good. Your shoulders are doing better?”
“Yeah.” Mark rotated them to prove it. “I’ve been given some time off.”
“Right. Well, until next time I come by, just keep doing what you’ve been doing. The exercise routine is a good idea, but don’t overdo it. That might be what’s keeping your weight down.” The doctor walked over to the door and without another word, left the cell.
Mark slumped onto his bed and lay down. Maybe the chaplain would come soon. Once in awhile he visited. He was nicer. While he didn’t stay long, he did ask Mark if he had any requests. The last time, Mark had asked for some books. The chaplain said he would pass on the request. It had been awhile now.
There was nothing to fill his time. He could sleep, but that brought pain. Not the kind inflicted by an interrogation. No, this was worse. It was pain born of loss and frustration. Despite the risk, he still craved the dreams sleep brought. He’d dream of food. Dreams so vivid, he’d wake to find his mouth watering. He’d lie still and try to fall back into the dreams, and sometimes, he succeeded.
It wasn’t just the food, it was the good times and happy memories surrounding the meals. Pancakes dripping with maple syrup at Boy Scout breakfasts. Fried chicken on Sunday afternoon after church. Lazy summer afternoons eating watermelon on the front porch while his mom hung laundry to dry. His dad waving away smoke as he manned the grill while Uncle Larry and Mark played a game of catch on the Fourth of July. The smell of the hot dogs, brats and burgers had tantalized them. Mark swallowed. Afterwards, they’d feast on apple pie topped with homemade ice cream. His mom would smile at him as he tucked into his dessert. It was his favorite and she’d made it especially for him.
Then the dreams changed. The smile on his mother’s face would turn to confusion, and she’d look at him blankly, without recognition. It was the lies she’d been told by the authorities; he’d never been allowed to call and explain. The dream would go on, with his dad holding out a plate piled high with Thanksgiving favorites, only he’d withdraw the offering as Mark reached for it. Then Jessie would appear and just as he bent to kiss her, she’d push him away with the look of fear he’d seen back in the holding cell.
He’d awaken with a gnawing in his gut. A hollow ache. She hadn’t believed him. No one believed him. Had his shame been made public? Did anyone know where he was? Had they even tried to contact him? Or had they forgotten him and gone on with their lives? Did they hate him that much? Even his mother?
The scrape of his meal tray sliding across the floor pulled him from his thoughts. What would it be this time? He was sure it wouldn’t be apple pie. He squashed his disappointment when he saw grits. Pancakes would have been nice. Out of habit, he stepped to the sink and washed his hands, not that anyone would care if he ate without doing so, but his mother had ingrained the action. Cupping some water, he patted some onto his cheeks and neck. It made his skin crawl to splash the water on his face, but he forced himself to deal with it on shower days. It was either that, or never shower again. Right at the moment, he needed one. He sniffed down by his underarm. Badly. When he rubbed his hand across his jaw, the stubble felt prickly, almost beard length. A shave would be nice too.
After washing, he sat cross-legged on the floor, tray balanced on his lap. He grimaced. Grits. Well, it was food and it would fill his belly. Out of necessity, he ate quickly, lest they demand the tray back before he was done. Sometimes, that meant shoveling the food in without using any utensils. Today, he did his best to eat in the manner his mother had taught him. He even imagined eating breakfast with his parents. His dad asked him how the photography business was going, but Mark knew what he really meant was, had he come to his senses yet and taken a real job.
His mother would brag about some photo Mark had done, pointing out how talented he was. Then she would ask him if he was seeing anyone special. It was no secret that she longed for grandchildren. His folks drove him nuts with their nagging. A lump rose in his throat. He stared at the empty bowl and swiped a finger along the rim, snagging a few bits he’d missed. He popped the finger into his mouth and tried to swallow the lump with the little bit of food.
What he wouldn’t give to be in his mom’s sunny kitchen right this minute. She could nag him about girlfriends and grandchildren to her heart’s content, and he would just smile. He wouldn’t even mind his dad yammering on about respectable jobs. Hell, he might even go get one, if he ever got the chance again.
The order to send the tray out came, along with the demand that he put his hands and feet through the slots for shackles. His hands shook as put them through the opening. Were they going to interrogate him again?
His fears died down to their usual level when he only went down the hall to the shower room. They didn’t allow much time, but that was okay. He didn’t like spending much time in the spray, but he did love the clean feeling afterwards. He shaved and dressed in clean prison garb. Done, he waited to be taken back to his cell, but instead, they took him towards the yard. Mark began trembling again, but this time in anticipation. It had been so long since the last time he had been outside.
Mark stepped into brilliant sunshine and closed his eyes, feeling the heat on his face. A soft breeze ruffled his still wet hair and sent a pleasant shiver through him. He looked around in wonder. The last time he had been out, it was overcast and blustery. He had still enjoyed it, but today was perfect.
The guards released his leg shackles and Mark was very conscious of their guns held casually at the ready, but there was nowhere for him to run. Ignoring them the best that he could, he ambled into the center of the small yard. The scent of flowers carried to him on the breeze and he smiled. It was one thing they couldn’t control. He laid on the concrete, not caring how hard it was. It warmed his back, and he closed his eyes.
In the distance, he heard leaves rustling and birds singing. An ant tickled a path across the back of his hand. He could have fallen asleep right then and he’d dream that he was on North Avenue beach. His limbs grew heavy and he almost dozed, but shook his head to rouse himself. He didn’t want to waste a precious second outdoors in slumber. Sitting up, he draped his arms over his bent knees. Soft pink petals from some tree fluttered in the air like fragrant snowflakes. The sky beyond the walls supplied the ultimate blue backdrop.
The sun shone almost directly overhead and his hair dried. He wanted to soak in the sunshine and save it up for later. Who knew when he would see it again? This week? Next? Never?
Too soon, his time was up and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the hall. The prison stank of sweat, floor wax and stale cooking odors. He resented those smells taking up residence in his nose and replacing the scent of cherry blossoms and springtime.
It was one of the few times when he had an idea of night and day. It had been near midday when he had been outside, and he did his best to gauge the time when he returned to his cell. When he deemed it night, he laid down on the thin mattress and pulled the blanket over his head. Between that and draping his arm over his eyes, he achieved some darkness. He missed the blackness of night.
