Devora emerged from the last of her many community showers, threw on her robe, and headed back to her “house” at the Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility. Once inside, she peeked through the tiny slit of a window and smiled, seeing that it was a warm, sunny spring day, just as she’d hoped. Devora loved spring. Her few pleasant childhood memories were of the freshness and hope of a warm spring day. Moving quietly through the tiny room so as not to awaken her bunky, she got dressed and gazed into her tiny hand mirror.
It was a standard-issue, hazy, stainless-steel mirror of course. She liked what she saw. Devora looked every day of her forty-nine years—and then some. However, reflecting on how she got here, she didn’t complain. Her life had been a transient one. Home to home, family to family, school to school, and even a stint at a mental hospital in her early teens.
But, unlike many of her fellow inmates, she still had her teeth, she had a smooth complexion and a nice smile, and she was surviving. Devora smoothed her freshly cornrowed hair and tested out that smile that would take her into the world.
Seeing that smile took her back to her younger self. Life with her real family had become a faint memory. Although she could still see her parents’ faces, she had little memory of them. She did, however, remember life with her brother, Jeff.
Her most prominent childhood memory was the day that she and Jeff started living in what she later learned was a foster home. She was in first grade, and Jeff was in third. At the time, Devora never quite understood why they had new parents. She just accepted it. She’d later come to expect that parents were just temporary. She and Jeff went from one foster home to another. She didn’t know why. At least she always had her brother and that made her happy.
When she was in third grade, they were placed with the Wilbourns, who had no children of their own. It was the first time she’d had her own room, school clothes, and even a bicycle. Most of all, she liked how the Wilbourns celebrated holidays—especially Easter. It was springtime. There were Easter baskets, church, and shiny new shoes. Devora and Jeff would talk about how they thought this is what heaven would be like. Turned out heaven is temporary too.
“What’s happening? Where’re we going?”
It was Friday and they’d just gotten home from school. Devora couldn’t make sense of what lay before them. Jeff was just as puzzled. Suitcases were packed and sitting at the front door.
“Hi,” Mama said, barely glancing their way.
Devora felt an all-too-familiar sick feeling in her stomach accompanied by a putrid taste in her mouth. Why hadn’t Mama met them at the door as she usually did? And, why wouldn’t—or couldn’t—she look at them? Instead, Mama nervously busied herself at her sewing machine as she repaired church choir robes. Feeling somewhat relieved, Devora thought at least that was normal. Mama Wilbourn always repaired and pressed them every Friday. In a heartbeat, however, the other shoe dropped.
“Devora, Jeff, I’m Mrs. Quinlan, your new case worker.”
Cheerfully bounding from the bedroom with more of their stuff (shiny shoes and all) was their latest social worker.
“I’m taking you to meet your new families today!” she offered in that disgustingly sweet social worker way that Devora had come to despise. This one was young and probably had no idea how many times Devora had been here. She immediately hated Quinlan. I’m no fool, she thought as Quinlan announced, “I’ve packed your things, and it looks like we’ll even have time to stop by McDonald’s on the way! Won’t that be great?”
I might be ten years old, but I’m not a fool, bitch, she heard herself think. I don’t need your fuckin’ burgers. In fact, YOU CAN SHOVE ’EM UP YOUR ASS!
It was the first time Devora had felt and heard Hester’s commanding voice blaring in her head, yet coming from Devora’s mouth. She was startled and confused.
However, it was Devora who, without uttering a sound, gave the do-gooder a bone-chilling stare. Quinlan’s sweet, young smile tearfully dissipated. Devora savored the hurt Hester had inflicted on pretty, young Quinlan with the shiny brown hair and smooth white skin. Quinlan tried to put up a brave front. But Devora could see that she’d been reduced to a frightened little girl. Quinlan’s teary doe-like eyes had betrayed her. She’d better grow up, Devora thought. Life’s no fairy tale.
“Mama, what did I do wrong? What did we do? Please tell me,” Devora beseeched of her latest savior.
Jeff steeled his jaw and said nothing. A single tear in the corner of his eye betrayed him: he was a scared little boy.
“Nothing, child, you’ve been good children and I’ll always love and care about you,” Mama Wilbourn said while inspecting the child-size robe she was working on.
When Mama looked up one last time, Devora hoped for a reprieve. Maybe they could stay in heaven after all. But “God always has a plan for you, honey” was all that Mama offered. Satisfied with her work on the robe, she lovingly smoothed and folded it before setting it aside for the next.
From that day forward, Devora didn’t call them foster homes. No, they were just places for her stuff until another family got tired of her.
Devora was on her own after McDonald’s. Jeff too. It was under the golden arches that Quinlan announced that they were being separated. Their frightened eyes locked immediately as they hurriedly planned how they’d reunite. In their hearts, however, they knew that life would never be the same.
“We’ll get our own place one day, Devora,” Jeff said.
“You know, that’s right!” she answered. “Then we can just be together and take care of each other. We don’t need anybody else, we can take care of ourselves!”
In whispered tones they proclaimed how they’d reconnect and swore each other to secrecy. Life was tough, and they’d learned that they could only trust each other.
Though Jeff was two years older than Devora, people thought they were twins. They were tall and thin with curiously slim faces, high cheek bones, and oversized eyes. Their smooth almond-brown complexions beamed, making them quite attractive. So much so that Devora used to wonder why no one wanted them. After a while, she didn’t care. Soon they’d be in high school and old enough to work. With jobs, they’d get their own place, and life would be sweet, warm, and sunny again.
“Okay, it’s time to go,” Quinlan said.
Devora felt the sickness in her stomach again. It churned. She and Jeff looked each other in the eye. It was a long knowing look—plans had been made and the deal sealed.
Quinlan helped them clear the table and ushered them into the back seat of her little blue Toyota. First stop was Devora’s placement. Climbing out of the car with her bag of stuff, Devora hugged Jeff and waved to him, unaware that she’d never see him again.
Revisiting the pain made Devora shudder and return to the task at hand. Her little plastic clock signaled that she needed to get back to her packing. She was finally leaving, after spending the last thirty years in prison. There wasn’t much to pack. Everything she owned would fit into a brown paper bag. As she carefully folded and placed her things in it, her thoughts drifted back to how she got here.
Middle and high school were a blur of foster home placements, detentions, and suspensions. There were a lot of well-meaning social workers who tried to fix her. “You’re just so bright,” they’d say. Devora had had a number of short-term placements after leaving the Wilbourns. They were always three months, two months, maybe six—but no more.
The constant upheaval in her life took a mental and emotional toll, and she no longer had her brother to cling to. Slowly, the bright, attractive, and pleasant young middle schooler became surly and unkempt. Her grades suffered and she didn’t seem to care. She started swearing and talking trash to teachers as well as to her foster parents.
A social worker finally sent her for a psychiatric exam, after Devora confessed that she’d been acting on the commands of a voice in her head. Her diagnosis: adolescent-onset schizophrenia. Everything fit. Devora had grown distant from her peers, and she appeared to be living in a world of her own. Her auditory hallucinations came through as a person identifying herself as Hester. Hester was aggressive when Devora couldn’t be. Hester was strongest when Devora was at her weakest.
She was placed at an inpatient mental health treatment center for adolescents. There, she was given her first round of antipsychotic meds. First, there was Haldol, but the side effects were too debilitating. She felt and moved like a zombie. So she went on a newer-generation med, which she tolerated much better. It was also more effective in keeping Hester at bay.
Devora was released back into foster care after six months of intensive counseling and when it seemed that the medication was doing its job. She returned to school and functioned pretty well, all things considered. Devora was always very strong willed, so she was able to do her school work and interact despite her ongoing bouts of insomnia—a common side effect of her medication. She also learned to mask the flat affect commonly associated with schizophrenics being treated with antipsychotic drugs. She was determined to look normal—not like a zombie.
Then came Jacques.
She met him at a second-chance high school, where they clicked immediately because they both came from chaos. Devora smiled to herself, thinking how she fell for his name, Jacques, even before she fell for him. He was cute and kind. The twinkle in his eye and his big beautiful smile captured her heart. He was bright like Devora. And he completely accepted her, even after she’d told him all about her history of mental health problems. He understood.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he’d promised. He also promised to help her find Jeff. She liked that. They traded stories about their families and foster homes and vowed that they’d never put their children through the same nightmare. It was going to be Devora and Jacques against the world.
In hindsight, Devora could see how this relationship, too, wouldn’t last. It wasn’t for lack of trying. The truth was that they both were well-meaning but fractured souls. Growing up in foster care didn’t exactly foster a sense of stability and trust. While they tried to navigate the world as best they could, they were each challenged with adapting to new homes, schools, social workers, and sets of expectations. They were expected to be grateful for whatever new family took them in—and happy and successful to boot. Why didn’t their case workers understand that it was hard to be happy when you knew that life could change in an instant? Despite the fits and starts of foster care life, Devora and Jeff continued to be hard workers and above-average students.
In high school, they worked together at Wendy’s before moving on to retail jobs at the mall. The money was better, but they had to work more hours. Life got complicated.
Foster care life was time consuming. In addition to school, work, and household chores, Devora had to keep appointments with her social worker and a therapist who’d given her an even newer generation antipsychotic. He’d decreased the dosage because Devora presented so well at her appointments and seemed to be functioning very well in her life. The new med helped keep Hester at bay, but it made it difficult for Devora to function at times. If she wasn’t drowsy, she suffered insomnia. Jacques was always understanding and supportive. But, in reality, he was just a kid trying to maintain his own bearings in the tumultuous world of foster care. Emancipation was the answer—they thought.
Just as she’d done with Jeff, Devora planned an escape with Jacques. They didn’t want any more foster parents, social workers, or court dates. No! A court-appointed guardian ad litem helped them prepare emancipation petitions. Both dutifully gathered all of the documents needed to support their petitions. There was proof of their incomes plus letters of support from teachers, counselors, and even the school nurse. It was a long process, but ultimately it was successful. They were elated and they were free.
Predictably, things soon spiraled out of control. They’d managed to scrape together enough money to get a tiny, cold walk-up flat on the east side of Detroit. The landlady was the nice grandmotherly type, yet the building and the neighborhood were shaky. So much so that Jacques was afraid to leave Devora home alone. The outside looked like a nondescript brick apartment building. Once inside, however, one found dark, sooty hallways lined with bare lightbulbs.
They moved in in the dead of winter. It was cold and depressing. Devora no longer had the energy for school, work, and therapy. First, she dropped out of school. Then work dropped her.
When they discovered that Devora was pregnant, Devora and Jacques took up his cousin’s offer to live and work with him. His apartment wasn’t much nicer, but they had a bit more space, and less responsibility. Jacques’s cousin took care of the rent, and he had a car that they could use.
In time, Devora noticed Jacques changing—and not for the good. He’d quit his job at the mall and didn’t have what looked like a regular work schedule. She blamed his cousin, who was more street than Jacques. She hardly saw him anymore. He finally admitted that he was selling drugs for his cousin.
“Just slingin’ a few rocks,” he’d said. It didn’t amount to much.
Devora didn’t like it, but they had money, food, and a roof over their heads. Since she was pregnant and not working, she had no room to complain. So she stopped. She also stopped seeing her therapist regularly, which meant that she wasn’t taking her meds either. Despite their side effects, they’d actually been pretty good at silencing her auditory hallucinations—Hester. Devora soon discovered that street drugs were a satisfactory substitute. That all fell apart when her baby girl was born addicted. Child Protective Services came around, as did parenting classes, drug treatment, social workers, and more court-ordered mental health counseling.
Devora glanced back at her clock. She was almost finished packing. Finally, she picked up the thick brown envelope with her parole papers. She held them tightly. They were her ticket to freedom. Then, for the first time in years, she allowed herself to think back on the day when her life came crashing down around her.
She’d gone downtown for a court-supervised visit with her baby, who was in foster care. Jacques couldn’t make it, but there was no way she was going to miss seeing her baby girl. Holding her for the first time in a month, Devora stroked her chubby round cheeks and smoothed her jet-black curly hair. Her baby was perfect in every way. Except her right eye was off to the side a bit. The doctor called it strabismus, a condition that was easily corrected with therapy or surgery. The visit was much too short—fifteen minutes—before her baby was whisked away. The other forty-five minutes were spent trying to convince the court worker that she was doing what she could to provide a stable home for her baby.
After scheduling her next visit, Devora caught a bus and returned to their apartment. All hell broke loose as soon as she stepped inside. It was like entering a nightmare.
Devora paused and looked over at her bunky, who was still asleep. After taking one final sweep of the room, she sat down and reentered her hell. Everything was in slow motion—like in an instant replay on TV. There were faces she didn’t recognize and the pungent odor of freshly fired gun powder. Jacques’s cousin was motionless on the living room floor. Jacques ran from the kitchen, stuffed a gun in her tote bag, and tugged her through the front door with him. Plainclothes narcs were in hot pursuit.
“Get in the damn car!” Jacques said, shoving her into his cousin’s shiny black Nissan with matching tinted windows. Sweaty and silent, he got behind the wheel and they were off—tearing through rush-hour Detroit traffic at blinding speed.
“What the hell’s going on, Jacques? What the hell’s going on?” she demanded.
Gripping the steering wheel, darting in and out of traffic, and running red lights, he didn’t answer.
“What the fuck happened, Jacques!”
“Shut the fuck up!” he screamed, still gripping the wheel and looking straight ahead.
That’s when she noticed tears streaming down his smooth brown cheeks. Suddenly he looked like a scared little boy. That’s when it had sunk in: he couldn’t take care of her like he’d promised.
Devora settled back into her seat and started thinking on how she’d deal with this new, fresh hell.
“The fucking cops killed Nate! You saw him!” Jacques screamed, finally breaking an uncomfortable silence. He’d turned and looked her directly in the eye when he said it, showing her his shame.
Devora looked straight ahead without saying a word.
Jacques gripped the steering wheel with one hand while wiping away tears with the other. After a ten-minute chase that seemed more like four hours, they were trapped on a dead-end street. At once, flashing lights were everywhere and they were surrounded.
“Get out of the car with your hands up! Slow!” they heard over a loud speaker.
“The hell I will!” Jacques whispered to her while looking in the rearview mirror. “Give me the gun.”
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and handed it to him.
Glancing up and wiping her eyes in the hazy prison mirror, Devora accepted that when she’d handed Jacques the gun, she’d handed him her life.
He stuffed the gun in his waistband. Then they got out of the car with their hands up—just like on TV. The narcs moved in, one approaching either side of the car. Devora was immediately cuffed. That’s when she heard the sound that would haunt her dreams for years. It was the crack of the gun firing as Jacques unloaded it into the other officer’s skull. She gasped, screamed, and was horrified at the sight of him smiling while staring at the motionless officer on the cracked and crumbling asphalt street.
Just thinking back on that moment sent a chill through Devora to that very day. Jacques was still smiling when a gang of officers rushed in and pushed him to the ground. They cursed and kicked him over, and over, and over. She recalled that they were like a pack of wild dogs who’d finally taken down their prey.
Devora felt a burning flush throughout her body. She’d actually had an out of body experience, right there on the streets of Detroit. She was surrounded by shades of red, black, and orange, as if she were in hell.
Jacques was bloody but still smiling when he was whisked away in one cop car and she in another. What was wrong with him? She’d never have a chance to ask him because they’d never speak to each other again.
According to news reports, the dead officer was a twenty-four-year-old rookie who was trying to get ahead by working undercover. He was married and the father of two small children, ages one and three. Devora and Jacques were in big trouble.
Neither was able to post bond, so they awaited trial in the same jail. At first, he sent her kites, or jailhouse notes. She tore them up and threw them away. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. He’d promised to take care of her like so many others. He hadn’t, and he certainly couldn’t help her now. After a while the kites stopped. People came and went from her life and it hurt. Devora decided that she didn’t want to hurt anymore.
She began to withdraw while awaiting trial. Again, she was ordered into therapy and placed on her antipsychotic meds. In fact, she’d been in therapy until just a month before getting her parole.
Her Huron Valley therapist, Dr. Bob, was convinced that Devora was fixed. After all, for the last two or three years, their sessions had been nothing more than friendly chats. Despite the fact that it’s commonly accepted that schizophrenia is treatable—but not curable—she was able to convince him to wean her off of her meds. And Dr. Bob didn’t hesitate to write a letter to the parole board telling them that Devora was well. She wasn’t.
She was better able to cope with her depressions and the occasional voices. But she wasn’t cured. Devora checked the big brown envelope with her parole papers to make sure the letter was there. It was. She wanted it at the ready, in case her parole officer tried to make her return to counseling.
While waiting at the door for an officer to release her to breakfast for the very last time, she thought about the last time that she had seen Jacques. They were in a courtroom in the Hall of Justice on St. Antoine in Detroit. She’d just pled guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to thirty to forty-five years. She hadn’t recognized him at first. The bright shiny face that she’d fallen for was gone. There was no twinkle in his eyes, and his front teeth were missing. He looked ten years older—and broken. He hadn’t recognized her. This hurt her, though she wouldn’t admit it.
She later learned that Jacques was found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to life with no possibility of parole. Maybe ten years ago, she got word that he’d been killed in a prison knife fight. Devora almost felt a twinge of envy. For him, the nightmare was over. She had to press on.
And she would, she thought. She hoped. Devora was finally going to prove that she could be a free woman in control of her own life. There was just one last stop on her way to freedom—breakfast with Big Mama.
Walking to the cafeteria, Devora knew she wouldn’t eat. No appetite. Her bag of stuff in hand, she slowly and deliberately strolled through the hustle and bustle of inmates getting breakfast. For them, it was just another day at Huron Valley. For her, it was her chance to start anew. It was spring.
Devora took her time looking around the cafeteria as if registering everything for a story that she’d have to tell one day. There were the cafeteria workers in their hairnets and uniforms dishing up the mushy scrambled egg product, oatmeal, potatoes, and white-bread toast. They were always friendly enough and made nice chitchat with the inmates as they made their way through the cafeteria line. Devora scanned the rows of cold industrial gray cafeteria tables and dull brown bench seating, filled with fellow inmates. While there were some familiar faces, there were many that she didn’t recognize. She’d seen a lot of women come and go—and come back again—in her thirty years.
Devora had socialized more when she started her bit. As time passed, however, she seemed to have little in common with many of the other inmates. She grew closer to staff and older inmates like Big Mama. And there she was. At the end of a long table on the right side of the cafeteria. It was her seat—and she held court there every day. Today, however, Big Mama was alone, having saved this time for Devora.
Big Mama was tall like Devora, and a bit heavier, but she wasn’t really all that large. Everyone called her Big Mama because she was older than most of the inmates—even Devora—and she’d assumed a motherly role to them. She had a slow and deliberate way about her that suggested that she was an elder entitled to more respect. She wore cornrows that meticulously traversed her head from front to back. They were salt-and-pepper gray and complimented her eyes, which were a mix of light brown and green. Devora thought that Big Mama was probably quite a catch in her younger years. She was probably wanted. Big Mama always had a big smile and welcoming presence. She went out of her way to help everyone, yet as time passed, Devora decided that everything with Big Mama was transactional.
As a trusty inmate, Big Mama was allowed to freely walk around the prison and enjoyed special privileges. She took care of the younger inmates, and it seemed as if by magic she could get things for them. Whether it was a commissary order, recreation time, or even a job, Big Mama could make it happen. Devora owed Big Mama big time for pulling strings to get her into a special computer training class. The class had changed Devora’s life.
She took to the computer immediately. It clicked. And it was just the challenge she needed to make life behind bars bearable. Devora was proud when she was summoned to troubleshoot problems in the administrative offices that the clerical staff couldn’t solve. For the last three years, she’d been an assistant in the prison library. There, she kept things organized and helped other inmates with basic computer hiccups as well as finding publications for their class assignments. It made her feel important.
This conversation with Big Mama was going to be tough. Devora was ready to take control of her life. Was Big Mama ready to let go? Devora knew that she was smarter than Big Mama, but what Big Mama lacked in intellect, she made up for with shrewdness—in spades.
Devora took a deep breath and approached her mentor with outstretched arms and her broadest smile. Big Mama greeted her with a big hug and a smile to match. Both looked up at the clock before sitting to talk. The transport van would be out front at 8:00 a.m. sharp. There was no time to waste.
“Okay, honey, are you ready? Do you have everything?” Big Mama asked.
Here goes, Devora thought. I’m not a child. I’m grown.
“Yes, Big Mama, I got all of my stuff together last night and packed my bag this morning. I did just like you told me.”
“Very good, child.” Big Mama patted Devora’s hand and said, “Now let’s go over your plan one last time.” Devora had learned to disguise her frustration.
“The van drops me off at the Hall of Justice. My cousin is picking me up there. She’s going to let me live with her for ninety days max. So I have to get a job quick.”
“What are you gonna say, when they ask where you’ve been working the last thirty years?” Devora knew Big Mama’s stern expression was meant to help prepare her for the outside, yet she’d outgrown Big Mama and resented having to perform for her.
“My parole officer will help me find work. She’ll send me to people who know about my record, so it won’t be a problem.” Devora played along.
“You got your parole papers, honey?”
“Yes, Big Mama.”
Exchanged smiles masked a recognition that neither would reveal. On the one hand, Big Mama knew that Devora was ready to leave the nest. She’d raised her well, she thought. On the other, Devora recognized that she had larger battles ahead, so she decided to let Big Mama indulge her need for control.
Big Mama wanted to see the papers. Devora reached into her bag, got the envelope, and handed it to Big Mama, who perused every single sheet.
Watching her, Devora thought, What does Big Mama know about parole? She’s never been on parole and she never will be. Big Mama will die in prison. Everyone knew that she was doing mandatory life for killing her three young kids. No one knew why she did it. They talked about it amongst themselves, but never with Big Mama. Maybe that’s why she tried to mother all of the girls—to make up for killing her own kids. At first it was nice having Big Mama’s help. It was comforting. Lately, though, Devora had really come to resent Big Mama’s controlling ways.
“How’re you getting to the parole office?”
“My cousin is taking me,” Devora replied.
“It says you have to be there once a week. Is she taking you every week? Does she have that kind of time?”
Devora’s voice slowed and softened with her mounting frustration. “It’s once a week for the first month. Then it’s only once a month.”
“Oh, okay,” Big Mama said with an equally hushed tone.
“What about counseling? I don’t see it here?”
“I don’t have to do it anymore,” Devora curtly replied.
“Who said?”
“Dr. Bob, my counselor. I have a letter, Big Mama.” Feeling full of herself, Devora thought, That’s right. We fooled his ass too!
Tired of the game, and ready to leave, Devora stood straight up and looked down at Big Mama, who didn’t look quite so big anymore. Then she unloaded, letting Big Mama have it about everything—even Spring!
“Look, I’m gonna live with my cousin, do my parole, get a job, and start looking for my own place to live! And I’m gonna go find my baby girl!” She suddenly realized that all eyes were on them and that she’d been shouting.
Devora immediately regretted what she’d done when she saw the hurt in Big Mama’s eyes. Deep down, she cared about Big Mama. And she knew she’d struck a nerve. Devora longed to find her Spring. That was her daughter’s name. Big Mama was dead set against it.
“Sit down, child!” Big Mama ordered. Devora sat. “How many times have we talked about this? I know you think you love the girl. Look, you haven’t seen her in over thirty years! Do you think you could really be a mother to her now? Huh? It’s best to just let the child go on with her life, and you go on with yours.”
Big Mama was back. Devora looked around and saw the other inmates quickly look away as if they hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
“Big Mama, Spring is all I’ve got. I know it’s been a long time. But she’s still mine, and I just want to see her and talk to her. And maybe try to explain where I’ve been.”
“I know how you feel, baby. I know how you feel. Come on, child, sometimes you just have to let go. Your baby was taken from you before she could even walk or talk. You’ve never really been a mother. It’s not a fairy tale, honey. Being a mother can be hard.”
Gently wiping the single tear from the younger woman’s cheek, Big Mama smiled at her and said, “Honey, I know the truth hurts. I know it hurts! Look at me. Big Mama wouldn’t steer you wrong. I’m looking out for you and only you. Believe me, I want you to succeed out there.”
“And, I’m gonna succeed, Big Mama.” Taking both of Big Mama’s hands in hers, and with the softest and gentlest of eyes, Devora said, “I’m going to succeed because of you! I’m ready to make it in the world because of you. I was a young know-it-all child with a huge chip on my shoulder, when I came here. You showed me the ropes, how to get along with staff, and you got me into computer class. With what I can do with computers, I’ll be able to get me a good job. And it’s all because of you, Big Mama.” I can do my parole, work, find a place to live, and look for Spring at the same time. I know I can do it all, Big Mama. And it’s because of you. But I promise to think about what you said. I will.”
Devora was lying, and Big Mama knew it.
It was 7:55 a.m. Five minutes till freedom. Under the careful watch of officers, Devora and Big Mama left the cafeteria and walked past the control center to the lobby, where Devora got her first glimpse of freedom. Devora and Big Mama were a striking pair. Two tall mature figures walking with a sense of self-assurance and purpose—despite having spent most of their lives behind bars. Two strong women. Two survivors. Two killers.
Devora deliberately walked a little slower than normal so that Big Mama could keep up. She’d had a stroke a few years earlier that affected her gait. Big Mama tried to disguise it and Devora pretended not to notice. As they walked toward the officers who would escort her to the van, Devora and Big Mama encountered a surly new inmate who was giving the officers a hard time. She must have just arrived. A new project for Big Mama no doubt.
As they got closer, Devora couldn’t bring herself to look at the young woman who seemed all too familiar. It broke her heart to see the girl starting the journey that she was finishing. Devora and Big Mama moved past the new inmate, minding their own business.
Big Mama stopped at the door as Devora took her first steps back into the world. She slowly walked to the van with her bag of stuff and a nagging self-doubt.
“DEVora?” the driver asked as she stepped into the van.
“My name is DeVORA!” she replied. Startled, the pale, portly driver said nothing and checked off her name on his clipboard.
Devora gave Big Mama a final wave before taking her seat. She was excited, but she was even more frightened. Since leaving the Wilbourns, she’d longed for the day she could be on her own. She would be in control of her own life, and no one could hurt or reject her again.
Well, that day had finally arrived, but there was no elation. The sun was shining, yet no birds were singing. Devora didn’t feel sunny and bright. All she felt was fear clawing its way back into her heart. Once more, she was the hurt little girl turned away by Mama Wilbourn all those years ago. There was no Jeff and there was no Jacques to plan a future with. She was on her own. As the van lurched forward Devora heard an all-too-familiar voice say, Hold on, sista, it might be a bumpy ride! Life’s no fairy tale, you know. Devora sat back and held on.
Big Mama turned and walked back toward the control center at her own measured pace. There, she again encountered the surly new inmate, whom she’d have to groom. She seemed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, a bit heavy, with a large afro and a strikingly pretty, round face. She must have just gotten through quarantine and was being escorted toward her permanent house. She had the requisite scratchy sheets, paper-thin blanket, and assorted toiletries in hand.
Big Mama introduced herself. “I’m Big Mama. What’s your name?”
“I’m Chunky,” the young woman said. What she thought was, What does this bitch want? She considered cursing her out and telling her to mind her own business. Instead, she decided to play along to check out the old woman’s game.
Big Mama noticed that Chunky had an odd way of looking—yet not quite looking—at her. She made a mental note of it.
“Where’re you lockin’ and what’s your bit, Chunky?”
“I’m lockin’ on Three West. I hear there’re some crazy bitches up there. Mess with me, and they’ll see some crazy alright! I got a thirty- to forty-five-year bit for murder two. Can you believe that shit? No way I’m doing that kind of time. My lawyer’s gettin’ me out of here long before that.”
Nothing new, Big Mama thought. She’d heard this tough talk from fish all the time. Chunky would settle in fine, just like the rest.
As Chunky walked on with the officer, Big Mama shouted back to her, “Chunky, what’s your real name? I try to help everybody out, especially when they’re new here. I need to know where to find you.”
“Spring. My name is Spring,” she replied.
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