That thought kept going through Maura’s head as she walked through visitor processing. As she removed her watch and placed it, along with her handbag, in a locker. She could bring no jewelry or wallet into the visitors’ room, and she felt naked without her purse, stripped of any proof of identity, of all the little plastic cards that told the world who she was. She closed the locker and the clang was a jarring reminder of the world she was about to enter: a place where doors slammed shut, where lives were trapped in boxes.
Maura had hoped this meeting would be private, but when the guard admitted her into the visiting room, Maura saw that privacy was an impossibility. Afternoon visiting hours had commenced an hour earlier, and the room was noisy with the voices of children and the chaos of reunited families. Coins clattered into a vending machine, which disgorged plastic-wrapped sandwiches and chips and candy bars.
“Amalthea’s on her way down now,” the guard said to Maura. “Why don’t you find a seat?”
Maura went to an unoccupied table and sat down. The plastic tabletop was sticky with spilled juice; she kept her hands in her lap and waited, her heart hammering, her throat dry. The classic fight-or-flight response, she thought. Why the hell am I so nervous?
She rose and crossed to a sink. Filled a paper cup with water and gulped it down. Her throat still felt dry. This kind of thirst couldn’t be quenched by mere water; the thirst, the quickened pulse, the sweating hands-it was all the same reflex, the body preparing itself for imminent threat. Relax, relax. You’ll meet her, say a few words, satisfy your curiosity, and walk out. How hard can that be? She crushed the paper cup, turned, and froze.
A door had just opened and a woman entered, her shoulders squared, her jaw lifted in regal confidence. Her gaze settled on Maura and for a moment it locked there. But then, just as Maura thought:
Maura halted in confusion, not knowing whether to sit down or remain standing. Then the door opened again, and the guard who had spoken to her earlier reappeared, leading a woman by the arm. A woman who did not walk but shuffled, her shoulders slumped forward, her head bent, as though obsessively searching the floor for something she’d lost. The guard brought her to Maura’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat the prisoner down.
“There, now, Amalthea. This lady’s come to see you. Why don’t you have a nice talk with her, hmm?”
Amalthea’s head remained bent, her gaze fixed on the tabletop. Tangled strands of hair fell across her face in a greasy curtain. Though heavily streaked with gray, clearly that hair had once been black. Like mine, thought Maura. Like Anna’s.
The guard shrugged and looked at Maura. “Well, I’ll just let you two visit, okay? When you’re finished, give me a wave and I’ll take her back.”
Amalthea did not even glance up as the guard walked away. Nor did she seem to notice the visitor who had just sat down across from her. Her posture remained frozen, her face hidden behind that veil of dirty hair. The prison shirt hung loose on her shoulders, as though she was shrinking inside her clothes. Her hand, resting on the table, was rocking back and forth in a ceaseless tremor.
“Hello, Amalthea,” said Maura. “Do you know who I am?”
No response.
“My name is Maura Isles. I…” Maura swallowed. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
The woman’s head twitched sideways. Not in reaction to Maura’s words, just an involuntary tic. A stray impulse sparking through nerves and muscles.
“Amalthea, I’m your daughter.”
Maura watched, waiting for a reaction. Even longing to see one. In that moment, everything else in the room seemed to vanish. She did not hear the cacophony of children’s voices or the quarters dropping into the vending machine or the scrape of chair legs across linoleum. All she saw was this tired and broken woman.
“Can you look at me? Please,
At last the head came up, moving in little jerks, like a mechanical doll whose gears have rusted. The unkempt hair parted, and the eyes focused on Maura. Fathomless eyes. Maura saw nothing there, not awareness. Not a soul. Amalthea’s lips moved, but soundlessly. Just another twitching of muscles, without intent, without meaning.
A small boy toddled by, trailing the scent of a wet diaper. At the next table a dishwater blonde in prison denim was sitting with her head in her hands and quietly sobbing as her male visitor watched, expressionless. At that moment a dozen family dramas like Maura’s were taking place; she was just one more bit player who couldn’t see beyond the circle of her own crisis.
“My sister Anna came to see you,” Maura said. “She looked just like me. Do you remember her?”
Amalthea’s jaw was moving now, as though chewing food. An imaginary meal that only she could taste.
No, of course she doesn’t remember, thought Maura, gazing in frustration at Amalthea’s blank expression. She doesn’t register me, or who I am, or why I’m here. I’m shouting into an empty cave, and only my own voice is echoing back.
Determined to dredge up a reaction, any reaction, Maura said with what was almost deliberate cruelty: “Anna’s dead. Your other daughter is dead. Did you know that?”
No answer.
“Well,” said Maura. “I’ll come back another time. Maybe you’ll talk to me then.” With a sigh, Maura stood and looked around for the guard. She spotted her at the other end of the room. Maura had just raised her hand in a wave when she heard the voice. A whisper so soft she might have imagined it:
“Go away.”
Startled, Maura looked down at Amalthea, who was sitting in exactly the same position, lips twitching, gaze still unfocused.
Slowly, Maura sat back down. “What did you say?”
Amalthea’s gaze lifted to hers. And just for an instant, Maura saw awareness there. A gleam of intelligence. “Go away. Before he sees you.”
Maura stared. A chill clambered up her spine, made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle.
At the next table, the dishwater blonde was still crying. Her male visitor stood up and said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to accept it. That’s the way it is.” He walked away, back to his life on the outside where women wore pretty blouses, not blue denim. Where doors that locked could be unlocked.
“Who?” Maura asked softly. Amalthea didn’t answer. “Who’s going to see me, Amalthea?” Maura pressed her. “What do you mean?”
But Amalthea’s gaze had clouded over. That brief flash of awareness was gone, and Maura was staring, once more, into a void.
“So, are we all done with the visit?” the guard asked cheerfully.
“Is she always like this?” asked Maura, watching Amalthea’s lips form soundless words.
“Pretty much. She has good days and bad days.”
“She hardly spoke to me at all.”
“She will, if she gets to know you better. Mostly keeps to herself, but sometimes she’ll come out of it. Writes letters, even uses the phone.”
“Whom does she call?”
“I don’t know. Her shrink, I guess.”
“Dr. O’Donnell?”
“The blond lady. She’s been in a few times, so Amalthea’s pretty comfortable with her. Aren’t you, honey?” Reaching for the prisoner’s arm, the guard said: “Come on, upsy daisy. Let’s walk you back.”
Obediently Amalthea rose to her feet and allowed the guard to guide her away from the table. She moved only a few steps, then stopped.
“Amalthea, let’s go.”
But the prisoner did not move. She stood as though her muscles had suddenly solidified.
