***
The following week, I tried arranging another visit, but Ronan wouldn’t take my calls. Then I tried showing up and found out my name wasn’t on the approved visitor list.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Who approves the list?”
The woman behind the glass smiled pityingly. “The inmate, honey.”
A few days later, after Ronan had been transferred to San Quentin, I tried there too. I got the same response. Ronan had meant what he said about me moving on and living my life. Not waiting for him.
Except hewasmy life, and waiting for him or not wasn’t a choice I could make.
I called Violet, crying, and told her the whole sordid story. She cried with me and said she’d see if Miller could get through to him. But Ronan had cut him off too. Probably Holden as well, though he was still MIA.
The Lost Boys were broken, when that had seemed impossible.
I visited Maryann and her girls at the complex, hoping she’d had better luck.
“He won’t talk to me either,” Maryann said, making us some tea, and my heart sank.
“Who won’t, Mommy?” one of the twins asked.
“Ronan?” asked the other. They were both suddenly on the verge of tears.
“Yes, Ronan,” Maryann said, stroking their hair.
“Are you his girlfriend?” one asked.
“You’re so pretty,” said the other.
“Oh! You’re the one who made that necklace he always wears.”
“Yeah, I made that,” I said, my throat thick.
For when you’re adrift.
Now that pendant was locked in some prison storage room, and I was adrift.
“He hired a management company to take care of us,” Maryann said.
“From prison?”
She nodded. “Apparently, his uncle owned both complexes free and clear. Ronan’s company has orders to keep the rent the same no matter how long he’s gone and to use every penny of our payments to make repairs as soon as an issue comes up. No scrimping.”
Maryann’s eyes filled, and she reached across the table to take my hand.
“I’m on the verge of a breakdown over him,” she said. “I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling.”
Sick. I felt sick at the idea of a life without Ronan.
I left Maryann’s place with hugs from her twins and a promise from her that we’d stay in touch. In the parking lot, I looked up at the corner unit, the window dark.
I ducked inside the car just as a torrent of sobs racked me.
At home, Bibi was knitting on the couch, Ethel and Lucy curled around her ankles.
“Hey, honey,” she said. “Hungry? I have some chicken with biscuits and gravy cooking. Maybe some basil mint lemonade?”
The idea of food made my stomach twist. “Maybe later.”