In Waiting
by Elizabeth Hawes
“I’m going to sign us up for two hours, so we’ll have more time to talk.”
Blah-blah-blah.
Her grandma had already told her this—five times—before they even got into the car.
Sam didn’t care about anything but seeing her mom. It had been six months. She used to visit her at the prison two or three times a week. They had normally spent four hours every other Saturday through the Parenting Program. Sam and her mom could share lunch, snuggle on a quilt, work on homework, or watch movies together. Just hang.
Then the pandemic had shut everything down. Even the visiting room was off limits.
Sam lived with her grandma—her well-meaning, anxiety-prone, not-able-to-make-a-decision-on-a-pizza-topping grandma. “Maybe we can go through the Subway drive-through after we visit. I think there’s one just off the frontage road.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sam didn’t think that Subway was even open at 10:00 am but guessed they would find out. She wished she had brought her Mario Kart game. It would have made for a faster trip.
It’s not that Sam hadn’t talked with her mom all summer. They spoke on the phone every day at six o’clock, but it wasn’t the same as being face to face. Or mask to mask even.
Her mother had been in prison since Sam was just five months old. Sam would be seventeen before she was out. She tried not to think about it. It hurt too much. Not all the time hurt, but an out of nowhere ache, like when Sam would see a girl walking a dog with her mom—or after a basketball game when one of her teammates got a hug from a mom who’d been there, cheering in the stands. There was an unspoken loneliness in her life.
Sam’s mom was her favorite person—the person who was always there for her—even if she wasn’t there. Sam sighed and looked down at her fingernails. She had just painted them Sapphire Blue Sparkle. Mom will laugh, she thought. Her mother encouraged her to paint them because Sam used to bite her nails; the polish was a deterrent.
Grandma was talking about how Sam was well overdue for a haircut. She wondered how long her mom’s hair was. Both Sam and her mom had hair that grew like weeds. In the past, they always tried to schedule their hair cuts on the same day. Sam would schedule an appointment with the Curl Up & Dye salon down the street from Grandma’s townhouse, and Sam’s mom would sign up at the prison’s cosmetology school. More than once they had donated hair to “Locks for Love,” an organization that made wigs for cancer patients.
Her mom noticed everything. She would see how much Sam had grown over the summer and how tan her arms and face were. She would ask about Sam’s retainer and if she had everything she needed for school. She would ask about horseback riding last Saturday.
Grandma must have read her mind. “You should have put on your blue equestrian shirt for your mom to see.”
“It’s eighty degrees outside. I’m not wearing a long-sleeved shirt.”
“Well, you could have worn a tee shirt under it, and then you could have taken it off if it got too hot.”
“Nope.”
Sam looked out the window. Trees were shedding their first leaves. A lady wearing a mask pushed a navy blue stroller followed by a happy, golden lab on a leash. Sam pictured the lab wearing a mask too.
Six more blocks to go.
Sam’s mom worked in textiles at the prison. They had been making masks since April. There was an order for three million of them.
Her mom loved science and hoped to go into research when she was released. Sam like to picture her mom in a lab coat, hair in a ponytail, wearing safety glasses and looking through microscopes.
Her grandma pulled into the “Visitors Only” section of the parking lot. Even though it was early, there were ten other cars. People had not been able to visit since mid-March; everyone wanted to see their people. After they had checked in and said “Hi” to the nice officer with the crew cut—he was there most weekends—Sam and her grandmother sat in the lobby with a dozen others. Everyone wore a mask. Everyone was spaced four chairs apart. Sam felt jumpy and her foot got twitchy. She looked around—there were a lot of twitchy feet.
At 8:05AM, names were announced in the lobby, allowing people to enter into the visiting room. When Sam’s mom’s name was finally said over a loudspeaker, Sam and her grandmother were led through a metal detector, buzzed through two sets of doors, and finally shown to the visiting room—a large conference room with windows at the far ends. It was furnished with blue plastic chairs and a big desk stationed in the middle where a corrections officer sat watching. Now, half of the chairs had gone. Mom stood by a chair waiting for her—Sam could tell her mother was smiling behind her mask.
Sam had waited and wished for this day for too long; it was everything she could do to not run to her mother. She said to herself, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” as she began crying. She couldn’t help it. When she reached her mom, they hugged for a long time.
It’s okay,” her mom said into her hair as she kissed her.
“It is now,” Sam thought.
And it was.
*Note: Currently in most countries--due to Covid-19--no one is able to visit or have physical contact with prisoners, and when they do they will have to remain six feet apart. Let's hope children and parents who are kept apart from one another will be reunited soon! This is an especially good time to write to someone who may be lonely for whatever reason - in prison, quarantined, living alone, in a nursing home, or anyone you think might feel a little isolated right now. Consider taking action so that one of your fellow travelers on this planet can be a little less lonely (and you will be a little less lonely too).
Blah-blah-blah.
Her grandma had already told her this—five times—before they even got into the car.
Sam didn’t care about anything but seeing her mom. It had been six months. She used to visit her at the prison two or three times a week. They had normally spent four hours every other Saturday through the Parenting Program. Sam and her mom could share lunch, snuggle on a quilt, work on homework, or watch movies together. Just hang.
Then the pandemic had shut everything down. Even the visiting room was off limits.
Sam lived with her grandma—her well-meaning, anxiety-prone, not-able-to-make-a-decision-on-a-pizza-topping grandma. “Maybe we can go through the Subway drive-through after we visit. I think there’s one just off the frontage road.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sam didn’t think that Subway was even open at 10:00 am but guessed they would find out. She wished she had brought her Mario Kart game. It would have made for a faster trip.
It’s not that Sam hadn’t talked with her mom all summer. They spoke on the phone every day at six o’clock, but it wasn’t the same as being face to face. Or mask to mask even.
Her mother had been in prison since Sam was just five months old. Sam would be seventeen before she was out. She tried not to think about it. It hurt too much. Not all the time hurt, but an out of nowhere ache, like when Sam would see a girl walking a dog with her mom—or after a basketball game when one of her teammates got a hug from a mom who’d been there, cheering in the stands. There was an unspoken loneliness in her life.
Sam’s mom was her favorite person—the person who was always there for her—even if she wasn’t there. Sam sighed and looked down at her fingernails. She had just painted them Sapphire Blue Sparkle. Mom will laugh, she thought. Her mother encouraged her to paint them because Sam used to bite her nails; the polish was a deterrent.
Grandma was talking about how Sam was well overdue for a haircut. She wondered how long her mom’s hair was. Both Sam and her mom had hair that grew like weeds. In the past, they always tried to schedule their hair cuts on the same day. Sam would schedule an appointment with the Curl Up & Dye salon down the street from Grandma’s townhouse, and Sam’s mom would sign up at the prison’s cosmetology school. More than once they had donated hair to “Locks for Love,” an organization that made wigs for cancer patients.
Her mom noticed everything. She would see how much Sam had grown over the summer and how tan her arms and face were. She would ask about Sam’s retainer and if she had everything she needed for school. She would ask about horseback riding last Saturday.
Grandma must have read her mind. “You should have put on your blue equestrian shirt for your mom to see.”
“It’s eighty degrees outside. I’m not wearing a long-sleeved shirt.”
“Well, you could have worn a tee shirt under it, and then you could have taken it off if it got too hot.”
“Nope.”
Sam looked out the window. Trees were shedding their first leaves. A lady wearing a mask pushed a navy blue stroller followed by a happy, golden lab on a leash. Sam pictured the lab wearing a mask too.
Six more blocks to go.
Sam’s mom worked in textiles at the prison. They had been making masks since April. There was an order for three million of them.
Her mom loved science and hoped to go into research when she was released. Sam like to picture her mom in a lab coat, hair in a ponytail, wearing safety glasses and looking through microscopes.
Her grandma pulled into the “Visitors Only” section of the parking lot. Even though it was early, there were ten other cars. People had not been able to visit since mid-March; everyone wanted to see their people. After they had checked in and said “Hi” to the nice officer with the crew cut—he was there most weekends—Sam and her grandmother sat in the lobby with a dozen others. Everyone wore a mask. Everyone was spaced four chairs apart. Sam felt jumpy and her foot got twitchy. She looked around—there were a lot of twitchy feet.
At 8:05AM, names were announced in the lobby, allowing people to enter into the visiting room. When Sam’s mom’s name was finally said over a loudspeaker, Sam and her grandmother were led through a metal detector, buzzed through two sets of doors, and finally shown to the visiting room—a large conference room with windows at the far ends. It was furnished with blue plastic chairs and a big desk stationed in the middle where a corrections officer sat watching. Now, half of the chairs had gone. Mom stood by a chair waiting for her—Sam could tell her mother was smiling behind her mask.
Sam had waited and wished for this day for too long; it was everything she could do to not run to her mother. She said to herself, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” as she began crying. She couldn’t help it. When she reached her mom, they hugged for a long time.
It’s okay,” her mom said into her hair as she kissed her.
“It is now,” Sam thought.
And it was.
*Note: Currently in most countries--due to Covid-19--no one is able to visit or have physical contact with prisoners, and when they do they will have to remain six feet apart. Let's hope children and parents who are kept apart from one another will be reunited soon! This is an especially good time to write to someone who may be lonely for whatever reason - in prison, quarantined, living alone, in a nursing home, or anyone you think might feel a little isolated right now. Consider taking action so that one of your fellow travelers on this planet can be a little less lonely (and you will be a little less lonely too).
About the Author
Elizabeth Hawes
dancer, gardener, playwright, poet activist
Elizabeth has won multiple awards for writing including five national PEN prices, two Minnesota Broadsides, and a Fielding A. Dawson Prize. Two of Ms. Hawes' pieces were read at the World Voices Festival in Brooklyn. A story and two poems were read at the Segue Reading Series at the Zinc Bar in New York City.
Copyright notice: In Waiting by Elizabeth Hawes - © 2020 All rights reserved.
Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:
Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:
- you may print or download to a local hard disk extracts for your personal and non-commercial use only
- you may copy the content to individual third parties for their personal use, but only if you acknowledge the author as the source of the material
Image by Xandra_Iryna from Pixabay
