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A robotic female voice greets me. “This is a call from an inmate at the Colorado State Correctional Institution. Would you like to accept? Pressone. If not press—”
I cut her off and press1. I’ve done this a hundred times.
“Hi, Eric.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “How did it go?” he asks.
“As best as burying your mother could go,” I reply a little harshly. The last five years have molded me into somewhat of a bitter beast.
“I’m sorry,” he comes back. “I tried.”
“I know.” I throw my keys and purse onto my dining room table and kick off the uncomfortable black heels.
“They don’t grant escorted funeral trips to inmates with a history of violence.”
I already heard this. He applied for a funeral trip and was denied. Involuntary manslaughter is considered violence. I mean, he did kill a woman, even if he hadn’t meant to.
“Was it a nice service, at least?” he asks.
I shrug. “Gravesite, that’s it. She didn’t want a whole wake and memorial service and all that. We said our piece at the cemetery. I had Cousin Andy record it. You’ll see it when you get home.”
“How’s Andy doing?” he asks as I pad through my house into my bedroom, where I yank off my clip-on silver earrings and throw them into my jewelry box.
“He’s fine. I guess. The same.” I peel off my black dress and tights. I find my sweats and tee slung over the chaise and shrug them on while switching the phone to my other ear.
He’s quiet for a minute before he asks, “Did Carter show up?”
I purse my lips in annoyance as I make my way back to the kitchen to get some water. “No, he sent a card to Mom’s house.”
“Seriously?” Eric asks.
I use the foot lever to open the recycle bin lid and pull out his card from the top. I read robotically, “Eric and Taryn, I’m sorry about your mom. She was a wonderful lady and will be greatly missed. If you need anything, I’m only a phone call away. Carter.”
“He didn’t say why he didn’t show?” my brother asks. It’s noisy in the background with men’s voices shouting and laughing, and I just can’t wait for him to get out of there. I’m sick of these phone calls. I need to see him, hug him for real. Talk to him face to face. Cry with him. Just not in a crowded, smelly prison visiting room.
“No, he didn’t. Whatever.” Of course, I haven’t told Eric what happened the night of his sentencing. I haven’t admitted that Carter fucked me and took my virginity and I haven’t heard from or seen him since. The condolences card was the first contact he’s made.
“What about your boyfriend, what’s his name?” he asks.
I sigh. “Ex-boyfriend, Richie.”
“Sorry to hear that. What happened?”
I was in no mood to explain my failed love life to my brother and how the asshole had dumped me two weeks ago to fuck a stripper he thought was his soulmate. “Just didn’t work out. Any—”
Beep.
“Shit, I have one minute left,” Eric says, sounding frustrated.
“Any news on your parole?” I ask, annoyed.
“Not really. I’ll email you. There’s a line of dudes waiting for the phones as usual. I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, sis.”
“Love you, too,” I reply as the call ends. I sigh and set my cell phone down.
After grabbing a drink of water, I stare down at the card and scowl. I’m annoyed Carter didn’t show—he grew up with us. My mom used to feed him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and then send him home with extras because his parents were neglectful assholes. He used to stay over every weekend and play sports in our driveway and my brother would give him rides to school in his beat-up Jeep.
Admittedly, I’d social-media stalked him over the years. After that night, when he’d left, I’d been so hurt. I wouldn’t contact him, though. I felt it was his responsibility to contact me. But he never did. Not a word. So after moping around my condo for a week, crying to my girlfriends over drinks that I’d finally lost my V-card at twenty-one to my brother’s best friend and he’d ghosted me, I got over it.
