This time, it's a complex of former warehouses which have been converted. I enter the heavy metal door, approach the little basket with 1x4 inch strips of paper and begin to fill in his name, his CID number, and birthdate. From behind the thick glass window, I am motioned to slide the paper and my ID through the invisible slot at the bottom of the glass. There actually is a slit there, but it's not visible to the naked eye. He types in my information and then says slot 21 and gestures to my right. . . . .
. . . . At the last place, I filled out the same little slip of paper but there was no window, then was sent around the corner to get a thickly laminated sign with a number on it. I approach the elevator and show my sign with the #7 to the camera above my head. The elevator opens and I show the sign again to the camera in the elevator. When the elevator opens I go to the booth with the corresponding letter, also on my sign. I sit on the metal stool and wait for him to come through the door to the booth on the opposite side of the glass. He comes in, we pick up our telephone handsets, and begin. . . .
. . . . at the new place, I find slot 21, sit on the metal stool, and wait. It takes almost 20 minutes before he arrives. As I sit there, my ears are ringing from the noise of the group down the way. If I didn't know better, I'd think they were at a party having a great time. Perhaps this is all too commonplace for them, but it still isn't for me, even after all these times. Instead of the noise, I focus on the surroundings. This time, there is no phone handset. By watching the people next to me, I realize that there are built in speakers on both sides of the windows. I say speakers, but it's really just an amplification, kind of like when we used to tie two paper cups to a string and talk to each other. Then I notice the gooey swatch of orange stuff on the window in front of me. I don't even want to know, I'll just avoid that spot. Across the glass from me are the thick cage bars you expect to see. As I watch them come and go in and out of the barred openings to meet with their visitors, I see all kinds of men, all colors, all ages, all various stages of tough appearance.
I'm listening to the people next to me. A grandmother with a little girl, little boy, and an adult daughter. They are there to visit her son, the father of the two kids. The tattooed young man behind the glass can't be more than 25 years old. The little boy says, "Daddy, can we come visit you some other place next time? It's boring coming here." Brings tears to my eyes. I'm fragile already because I know I'll have to tell Ethan about the loss of yet another one of his friends, but I suck it up because I don't want to greet him with tears. When he finally arrives, he knows I've got bad news, and I tell him. His tears come immediately, his face turns red, and he sobs into his elbow, but he can't allow himself to do it for long. He can't show that sign of "weakness" in there.
. . . . As we visit, I think of all the times I've had to visit Ethan in the last 7 or so years. I've been visiting him for a third of his life in some secured environment. The first time was at the short-term "care" (and I use the term very loosely) facility when he first asked for help at the age of 14. Asa was only 10 then, and when I couldn't find someone to keep him during visitation, I had to leave him in the waiting room with his Gameboy while I went back because he was too young to visit. Of course, he was too young to be left up front, and they called me on it a couple of times. Were there options? Then, traveling up to the state hospital in Wichita Falls, entering through the security gate, the tall fence with barbed wire, all the metal lock-ups, etc. Visitation at the juvenile detention center here in town. Metal doors, jumpsuits, shackles, cuffs, etc, etc, etc. Visitation at a couple of other adolescent rehab centers. Visitation at the state hospital in Vernon. An attempted visit at one of the first adult rehabs in Florida before he took off again. Visitation a month ago in another rehab in Florida. Most parents look forward to visiting their kids at college or in their first apartment. I haven't had that luxury yet. Hopefully one day. But for now . . . .
. . . . He tells me that the noise we're trying to talk over, from the group down the way, is constant in there. The large space consists of something like six giant cages, or pods. In each pod, there are 24 men. I have no idea how many of the warehouse buildings are full of these. It's always noisy and the lights are always on. He says he is spending a lot of time reading, especially the Bible again. (Jail tends to bring him to that, the ideas just need to stick.) He says that he begins his day with a 54-year-old heroin addict who leads him in Bible study. He ponders all of the poison noise he's put into his brain over the years along with all the poison substance he's put in his body. He also spends a lot of time reading other things, mainly history books.
. . . He thinks about his friend again and the tears roll down his cheeks for a minute. He asks the inevitable and constant question, "Why are all of them dead and I'm still here, Mom?" I answer as I always do that this is what he's supposed to figure out. He suffers from survivor's guilt, and I too suffer from parental survivors guilt. It is haunting sometimes. I've met too many parents who have lost their children to addiction, yet mine is one of the worst addicts I know, and he's still here. I know that it's not "right." Somehow, he always survives. I have no idea how.
, , , Our time is up and the guard unlocks the bars for him to leave. We do the classic hand touch through the glass and say our I love yous. He puts his hands behind his back and is escorted back to his cell. I leave the facility, but before I can head back home, I have to go to downtown Ft. Worth to the main jail to put some money on his books. Each time I've been there I've been astonished at the number of homeless who appear to live there on the sidewalks and just outside the doors. I suppose it's a safe place for them, or perhaps they simply have nowhere to go. I fill out another little slip of paper for the deposit, make the payment, and head back home. I'm not sad that Ethan is in jail. It's saving his life right now. I am sad though that it has taken him so many times of being locked up in an institution, in a rehab, and in his own addiction to buy him this clean time and another opportunity to make a life for himself. Maybe someday I'll still get to visit him in his grown-up apartment. As long as he's alive, there is that chance.
