You never know, Devin responds. Come on, we have a little bit of time left before theyre expecting us at Gertrude House. Lets get something to eat.
As Devin pulls up in front of the halfway house where I will be staying for the next six months, it begins to rain again. It is a huge Victorian, with peeling white paint, black shutters and a porch lined with white spindles. I didnt think it would be so big, I say, looking up at the house. It would be scary if it werent for the beautifully landscaped front yard.
It has six bedrooms, with two or three women to a room, Devin explains. Youll really like Olene. She started Gertrude House about fifteen years ago. Her own daughter died after getting out of prison. Olene felt that if Trudy had had a place to go to after she was released from jail, a court-mandated place, she would still be alive today. So she opened Gertrude House as a way to try and educate women on how to live successfully after prison.
How did she die? I ask as we get out of the car and walk to the front door.
Trudy refused to move back home with her mother. Instead, she moved in with the boyfriend whod got her hooked on drugs in the first place. She overdosed three days after she got out of jail. Olene found her.
I dont know what to say to that, so we move out of the rain and onto the porch in silence. Devin knocks on the front door and a woman of about sixty, wearing a shapeless denim dress, appears. She is slim, with closely cropped silver hair, and has tanned, leathery skin. She looks like a withered orange carrot left too long in the crisper.
Devin! she exclaims, wrapping her in a tight hug, her silver bracelets clinking against one another on her thin wrists.
Hi, Olene, Devin says with a laugh. Its always good to see you, too.
You must be Allison. Olene releases Devin and takes my hand in hers. It is warm and her grip is strong. Its so nice to meet you, she says in a low, gravelly voice. A smokers voice. Welcome to Gertrude House. Her green eyes never leave my face.
Nice to meet you, I answer, trying to meet her gaze.
Well, come on in. Ill give you the grand tour. Olene steps into the foyer. I look at Devin, a flurry of panic rising in my chest, and she gives me an encouraging nod.
Ive got to get back to my office, Allison. Ill give you a call tomorrow, okay? She sees the worry in my face and leans in to hug me. Even though I keep my body rigid and tense, I am grateful for the touch. Bye, Olene, and thank you, Devin calls. To me, she says, You hang in there. Everything is going to be okay. Call me if you need anything.
Im fine, I say, more to assure myself than Devin. Ill be fine. I watch as she walks quickly down the porch steps and back to her car, off to live her life. That could have been me, I think. I could be wearing the gray suit, driving clients around in my expensive car. Instead, Im carrying a backpack filled with everything I own and moving into a house with people who, in my other life, I would never give the time of day. I turn back to Olene. She is examining me carefully, a look of something I cant quite identify on her face. Pity? Sadness? Remembering her daughter? I dont know.
She clears her throat, a raspy, wet sound, and continues the tour. We currently have ten residents staying hereeleven, now that youve joined us. Youll be sharing a room with Bea. Nice woman. This used to be a library. Olene nods toward a large, square room to the left. We use it as our meeting room. We gather here every evening at seven. This is the dining room. Dinners at six sharp. Breakfast and lunch, youre on your own. The kitchen is just through thereIll take you in when were done with the tour. Like most homes, the kitchen is the heart of Gertrude House.
Olene is moving more quickly now and I have to focus on keeping up with her instead of stopping and taking in each of the rooms individually. After my plain prison cell, Gertrude House is an overwhelming assault on the senses. There are brightly painted walls, paintings and photos, furniture and knickknacks everywhere. Music is playing in a far-off corner of the house and I think I hear a baby crying. At my questioning look, Olene explains. Family members can visit. You hear Kaseys baby crying. Kasey is leaving us next week. Going back home to be with her husband and children.
Why is she here? I ask as Olene leads me to what appears to be a family room.
At Gertrude House, we dont focus on one anothers crimes. We try to zero in on what we can do to make everyones lives better and try to help the other residents reach their goals. That said Olene acknowledges with a shake of her head word travels quickly around here and youll get to know one another quite well.
Im suddenly very tired and wonder if Olene will take me to my room soon. I just want to crawl under the covers and sleep. We pass a short, heavy woman with waist-length black hair and several piercings in her nose and lip. Allison, this is Tabatha. Tabatha, this is Allison Glenn. Shes bunking with Bea.
I know who you are. Tabatha smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she lifts a large bucket filled with cleaning supplies. I never really thought I could keep the reason I was sent to jail a secret, but I would much rather have been known as the girl who stole cars or snorted coke or even been the one to whack her abusive husband than who I really am.
Nice to meet you, I say, and Tabatha gives a snort so loud I expect the force will cause one of her nose piercings to fly out and hit me on the chest. I think of my friend Katie and almost laugh. When we were fourteen, she got her naval pierced without her parents knowledge. By the time she showed it to me, it was oozing and infected. I tried to help her, but she was ticklish and started to squirm every time I went near her stomach. Brynn walked in while I was helping her clean it up and we couldnt stop laughing. Every time Brynn and I saw someone with unusual piercings, wed get the giggles.
I decide to ignore Tabatha and turn to Olene. Are we allowed to use the phone here? Can I call my sister?
Brynn
I hear the ring of the phone and my grandma calls, Ive got it! A minute later she comes into the kitchen, where Im making a sandwich. I see the look on my grandmas face and I know this has something to do with Allison. Its your sister, she says. Already Im shaking my head back and forth. Brynn, I think you should talk to her.
My grandma is trying to sound stern, but I know shell never force me to speak to her. No, I say, and go back to spreading peanut butter on my bread.
Youre going to have to talk to her sooner or later, she says patiently. I think youll feel better.
I dont want to talk to her, I say firmly. I cant get angry with my grandma. I know shes caught in the middle. She wants whats best for the both of us.
Brynn, if you dont talk to her on the phone, dont answer her letters, Allison is going to find another way.
All of a sudden, its clear. I see it in her old, kind blue eyes. Allison is getting out of jail. For all I know, she might be out already.
My hands begin to shake and a glob of peanut butter drops from my knife to the floor. Im afraid she is going to show up here unexpectedly. Ill be in the backyard, training my German shepherd-chow mix, Milo, to walk past a treat without eating it and Ill turn around and there shell be, looking at me. Waiting for the words that I know wont come. What could I possibly have to say to her? What more could she say to me that she hasnt already said in her letters? How many ways can someone say theyre sorry?
I bend down to wipe up the peanut butter with a paper towel, but Milo gets to it before I do. I cant talk to her.
My grandmother presses her lips together and shakes her head in defeat. Okay, Ill go tell her. But, Brynn, youre going to have to face her sometime. I dont answer, but follow her into the living room and watch as she picks up the phone.
Allison? My grandmas voice trembles with emotion. Brynn cant come to the phone. Theres a pause as she listens. Shes doing great just great
I cant stand it anymore; I hurry back to the kitchen, grab my sandwich and leave out the back door to my car. Animals are so much easier to deal with than people. I learned that a long time ago. My parents never let me have a pettoo furry, too messy, too time-consuming. Every time I brought home strays, I would hope, pray, that they would let me keep them. Just once. I tried to spiff them upI smoothed their tangled fur with an old comb, spritzed their fur with body spray, scrubbed their teeth with an old toothbrush. Ancient, arthritic mutts, one-eyed cats with notched ears. I would parade them in front of my parents. See how good he is? See how soft her fur is? See how tame, how sweet, how smart? See how lonely I am? Do you see? But no. No pets allowed. My dad would take me to drop the animal off at the shelter and every time I would cry and hold so tight to the animal that it would claw and scramble to get away from me.
My grandmother lets me have animals in her house, though she has drawn the line at five. We have two cats, a mynah bird, a guinea pig and Milo. Grandma said enough is enough, that she doesnt want to turn into one of those dotty old cat ladies that animal control has to come out and visit.
Im training Milo to be a therapy dog. Hes learning how to sit-stay or down-stay for thirty seconds and to come when hes being called. Grandma is helping me to teach him how to sit quietly by, when two people are arguing. We make up silly fights about whose turn it is to take out the garbage or make dinner. I think Milo knows were not really serious; he just yawns and lies down and looks back and forth at us until we both start laughing. When were finished with the training I hope to be able to take Milo into nursing homes and hospitals. Its a proven fact that animals are able to help ease pain and anxiety in the sick and elderly. One day I want to open my own business, training animals for pet therapy. For once in my life Ive got a plan. A good one, for that matter. I dont want anyone or anything to distract me from my goal. Not my parents and certainly not my sister.
If only Allison had done what she always didmade the right choicethings could have been so different. She wouldnt have had to go away. Our parents would have been happy and I could have just faded into the background where I belong. But she didnt. She screwed up royally, and she left me in that house alone with our parents.
I wasnt the perfect girl like she was, and I never will be. Oh, but they tried. All through high school, it was pressure, pressure, pressure. Staying in that house, I couldnt get my thoughts straight, couldnt make a decision, couldnt breathe. I tried to go to St. Annes College, tried to keep up with my classes, tried to make friends, but whenever I walked into the classroom a wave of panic would come over me. It always started in my ears, a strange buzzing sound that would trickle down my throat and out toward my fingertips, leaving them numb. My chest would tighten; I couldnt catch my breath. The instructors and students would gawk at me and I would stare back until they seemed to melt before my eyes. Their ears would slide down their cheeks, their lips would dribble down their chins, until they were nothing but fleshy puddles.
It wasnt until I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills that I found in my mothers medicine cabinet that my parents finally decided to leave me alone. They gladly sent me over the river and through the woods to Grandmothers house with a suitcase and a prescription for an antidepressant.
Things feel right here. Grandma got me to go to a doctor; I took my medicine and it got me back on track. Im doing fine. But I wont talk to Allison. I cant talk to her. Its better this way. Better for her and better for me.
For once in her life, Allison got what she deserved.
Allison
I set the receiver back into its cradle, all the while knowing that Olene is watching me carefully with her quick, birdlike eyes. Once I get settled and find a job, one of the first things Im going to buy is a cell phone so I can have a little privacy when I talk. Im sure my parents would buy me a phone, but I dont want my first interaction with them to be about money. Besides, I want to show them that Im going to be okay, that I can take care of myself. I wonder if they are thinking about me right now. Secretly, I had hoped they would have been parked in front of Gertrude House to welcome me when I arrived.
Olene must be psychic, because she says, Many of the residents have cell phones, but we have guidelines here that phones need to be turned off while doing chores or when we are having group sessions. We want to respect others need for quiet.
Olene picks up where she left off with the tour. She leads me through the kitchen, where we will take turns making dinner, and to an octagonal room with a ceiling that extends above the second floor. This is where the residents watch television. A gray-haired woman wearing a waitress uniform is dozing on a sofa and a young, petite, dark-skinned woman is holding a toddler on her lap and singing softly to him in Spanish. The television is tuned to a soap opera, the volume muted.
This is Flora and her son, Manalo, Olene says in a whisper. And thats Martha. Olene waves a hand toward the slumbering woman. Floras eyes narrow into suspicious slits and she gathers Manalo more closely to her. The little boy waves a chubby hand at us and grins.
Nice to meet you, I say.
Flora speaks rapidly to Olene in Spanish, her tone tight and hostile, and Olene responds back in Spanish, as well. I have the feeling that Olene is going to have to do a lot of talking to calm the other residents of Gertrude House when it comes to me.
Lets go on upstairs and Ill show you your room, Olene says, taking me by the elbow and steering me from the television room to the spiral staircase that leads to the bedrooms. I can feel Floras eyes on my back as I follow Olene up the steps. Ive been here for all of twenty minutes and everyone already seems to know who I am and what Ive done. I know I shouldnt let it bother me so much, I had to deal with the same things in jail, but this seems different somehow.
The expectation is that everyone takes an active role in the upkeep of the house, Olene says, and I can see this is true. There isnt a speck of dust anywhere and the floors gleam. Olene gently knocks on a closed door before opening it to reveal a small room with bunk beds and two small dressers. The beds are made up with blue and white floral comforters and thick, soft pillows. Another rush of exhaustion overtakes me and I want to go lie down. The walls are painted sky-blue and there are crisp, white curtains covering the windows. Its a very peaceful room.
Your roommate, Bea, is at work right now. Shell be home in a few hours. Why dont you unpack your things, get settled and Ill come back in a little while and we can finish the orientation. I look at the bunk beds and hesitate, wondering which one is mine. You get the bottom bed, Olene says. Bea likes to sleep on the top bunkshe says that the bottom bed makes her feel claustrophobic.