Nate dropped back down on the bunk. ‘I can make my own choices too. You could take me with you.’
‘Listen to me. I’m not going anywhere. And even if I was, I couldn’t take anyone with me.’
‘But I’m clean now, I detoxed in the med unit. I can stay clean when I get out, how fucking hard can it be?’ She clutched at Jodie’s arm. ‘We can make different choices any time we like, right?’
Jodie took in the over-bright eyes, the brittle fervour. She looked at Nate’s forearm, at the cuts the girl had made to help her forget, trying to obliterate one pain with another when crack was unavailable.
She patted Nate’s hand. ‘Sure we can. We can change our lives any time we want.’
She glanced at Momma Ruth, who sent her a bleak look, and knew it wasn’t true. Not for Nate, not for herself. Their choices were locked in tight. For Nate, it was crack. For Jodie, it was Ethan. She’d chosen to kill him once before. It wasn’t in her blood to choose differently second time around.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Jodie said.
She glared at Momma Ruth, who’d taken a seat on Nate’s bunk after the younger girl had edged over to the door.
Momma Ruth waited, her broad face passive. Jodie had never known anyone with such a capacity for stillness, and right now it bugged the hell out of her. She lifted her chin.
‘Acceptance, am I right? Soldier on, wait for parole, what’s another eight years. Not to mention, I suppose, that escape is just about impossible.’
Momma Ruth shrugged. ‘That last part’s true, at any rate.’
‘But some women get out of here. At least for a couple of days.’
‘Breaking out is tough, especially this time of year. Last woman who tried it died of exposure in the blizzards. Days later, they were still trying to thaw her out.’
Jodie swallowed, and tried to block the image out. ‘But people still try?’
‘Oh sure.’
Momma Ruth folded her arms, her posture tranquil, and seemed content to leave it at that. Jodie leaned forward.
‘How does anyone even make it past the main gates?’
‘I guess mostly it happens while they’re being transported somewhere else. To another prison, usually. They see a chance somewhere along the way and they take it.’
Jodie frowned. Her gaze drifted back to Nate, who was still fidgeting over by the door. Momma Ruth went on.
‘You can’t get far on foot, especially not in the snow. Boston’s only twenty miles away, but it may as well be two hundred.’
Jodie chewed her bottom lip. Outside, the clamouring backdrop surged: yelling, banging, metallic crashes of lockers and doors. Her eyes stared unseeing over at Nate while her mind riffled through an array of scenarios, discarding most. Hovering over one.
Was it possible?
Momma Ruth was eyeing her closely. ‘You think you’ve got a way out of here, don’t you?’
Jodie shook her head. ‘It’s not foolproof.’
‘Nothing is.’
Jodie’s fingers gripped the side of the bunk as she played through the details in her head. If anything went wrong, chances were she’d end up dead. And with Ethan still alive, she was no longer ready for that.
Momma Ruth was still watching her. ‘Dixie reckons you’ve got no money.’
‘I’ll find some.’
She had to. Dixie was right. Without money, she’d never get anywhere. Momma Ruth shifted her weight on the bunk.
‘I got money. You can have it.’
Jodie looked up, startled. ‘I can’t take your money.’
‘Why the hell not? No use to me in here. Been sitting untouched for thirty-two years.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not in any bank, you’ll have to go find it. Should be over sixteen thousand dollars. If it’s still there.’
‘But why would you help me? I don’t get it, what happened to acceptance, and making peace with my lot?’
Momma Ruth leaned forward, her gaze penetrating Jodie’s.
‘Something’s changed in you. Clear as day. For the last two years, you’ve had a look in your eyes I’ve only ever seen in two kinds of people: the ones on drugs, and the ones on suicide watch.’ She shook her head. ‘But you don’t have it any more.’
Jodie looked at the floor. Momma Ruth was right, though she’d never guess why. Ironic how hate could destroy you, but at the same time could keep you alive.
Momma Ruth squeezed her hand. ‘Looks to me like you’ve decided to live. And if getting out of this place is the only way you can do it, then I’ll help you any way I can. Hell, anything’s better than watching you lay down and die.’
Jodie closed her eyes briefly, and felt like a fraud. If Momma Ruth knew the reason she wanted to live, she might not be quite so supportive.
After a moment, Momma Ruth said, ‘When will you do it?’
Jodie’s adrenaline spiked. She swallowed, and whispered,
‘Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
For the next twenty hours, Jodie slogged through the prison routine: sitting tight through the cell count; lying on her bunk till lights out at ten; up at six, down to chow; on duty as porter from seven till two, cleaning the unit, her movements robotic; and all the while, her brain manic, replaying the risks over and over, rehashing all the things that could go wrong.
It was mid-afternoon before she got back to the art room, doubt still gnawing at her gut. She stared at the mannequin in her hands.
Her muscles felt rigid. Stupidly paralysed. She swore softly at herself. How hard could it be, for God’s sake? It wasn’t so different from her original plan. Except this time, she wanted to live.
It was Nate who’d given her the idea, with her talk of detox in the prison’s med unit. A unit that dealt mostly with cold-turkey and routine healthcare.
Jodie grasped the mannequin’s head and wrenched it off, peering into the hollow torso. The white cotton wads were still snugly packed inside. Her stomach dipped. Some part of her had been hoping the doll would be empty.
She reached for a pair of tweezers from Mrs Tate’s trays, using them to prise the wadding out onto the counter. A handful of Tylenol pills clattered out after it, the rest still wrapped up in cotton. Jodie unfolded the bundle, tipping the white oblongs into a pile. Thirty-six pills in total.
Her last plan had been easy: swallow the lot, the more the better. But this time, things weren’t so clear-cut. This time, she needed to strike a balance: swallow enough to get seriously ill, but not so many that they’d kill her.
She’d tried to research it in the prison library, tried to find a magic number that would keep her from tipping over the edge. But the few available medical textbooks were vague on the topic.
Jodie filled a beaker of water at the sink. Set it down beside the pills. Then she gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.
Just do it.
She gathered up half a dozen tablets, cupping them in the palm of her hand, staring at the white capsule-like shapes, at the Tylenol brand stamped in orange on the surface.