Page 89 of Malaise
Tanya drops back in the driver seat and the guard opens the rear doors in turn to search the back. We’re asked to exit the vehicle as they give our seats a once-over, and then satisfied we’re not trying to get in a supply of crack or Hershey’s Gold for the inmates, the guard waves us through.
The car park alone is intimidating and confusing enough. Signs point to separate parking areas for the different sections of the prison, worn arrows painted on the concrete directing the flow of traffic between the areas. Tanya pulls the Falcon into a park surprisingly near to the main entrance and kills the engine.
“Look at me, hon.”
I swivel to face her. “What?”
“You can’t go in there looking like that.”
I lean over and grab hold of the rear-view mirror, angling it my way so I can get a look at what she means. “Do I have something on my face?”
She tuts, drawing my attention back to her. “Only the look of a woman who’s all but given up on life.”
“I do not.” I slump back in my seat, fidgeting with the edge of my T-shirt.
“He’ll be excited to see you regardless,” she assures me, “but there’s no reason to make him worry about you when he can’t do a damn thing about it.”
My chest expands with a deep breath, and I focus on a good memory to pull me out of this. “How’s this?” I lay on the best smile I can, and immediately lose it at the shocked expression I gain in response. “What?”
“On second thoughts, just be you.”
“No good?”
“Not unless you’re going for ‘crazy lady about to abduct Girl Guides for their cookies.’”
I chuckle, staring out the windscreen at the nondescript automatic doors. A large planter tub sits on either side with a spiky fern in each. My gaze drifts to where the visitor approval letter sits on the dashboard. Brave face, Meg.
“Anything you’d like me to tell him?” I ask.
Tanya shrugs, staring down at her hands as she methodically wrings them around the bottom of the steering wheel. “Don’t think so. I’ll wait to see when his trial date is set for before I worry about getting visitor approval.” She shrugs again, a small smile full of hope playing on her lips. “It might not be that long, given his offences are minor.”
“Except for the assault on an officer,” I remind her.
“Yeah, that.” She reaches across and passes me the letter. “Now go, before you’re late and they make you reschedule.”
I pull in a deep breath and take the slip of paper, adorned with the New Zealand coat of arms, from her grasp. “See you on the flip side.”
The gentle breeze that tickles at my ears as I step out of the Falcon pisses me off immediately. It’s a hint of summer, a reminder of Christmas holidays spent running around backyards, playing in the long grass on the vacant sections near our house that are now populated with apartment blocks. It’s happier times, mocking me with their contrast to where life ended up.
A buzzer sounds as the main doors are opened from inside, and I make my way across the clinical white tiles to the front desk. A woman in a pale grey uniform moves to my end of the counter and looks at me, waiting.
Heel of my hand working circles on my chest, I state, “I’m here to visit an inmate.”
“Prisoner,” she corrects gently, looking down to her desk as she types on a concealed keyboard. “We call them prisoners. Who are you here to see, love?”
“Brett Carver.”
“And your name?”
“Megan Andrews.”
Her fingers beat out a rhythm on the keys, and she frowns, her arm moving as she presumably works a mouse. Heat builds behind my ears, my stomach doing flips as she murmurs under her breath. What’s wrong? Surely I’m not going to make it this far and be denied?
“Ah, there it is.” She flashes me a warm smile. “Just a number I needed was entered in the wrong field.”
Breathe, Meg. “Oh, okay.”
A printer whirs behind her, and she swivels to snatch up a slip of paper with adhesive labels affixed. Tearing one off, she applies it to a fluorescent green wristband, and gestures for me to offer my arm. I stick my hand out, and she explains as she affixes the identity band.