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The Visitor: Monica's Diary, Satuday June 10 free porn video
The Visitor
Monica's Diary
Saturday, June 10
Since we didn't have to schedule an appointment to see Timothy, Nathan
slept in till 8:00 o'clock. I got up at my usual hour and packed
everyone's lunch. The plan was to leave around nine or so and get to
Amarillo in plenty of time to find the sheriff's office/jail and learn
what procedures we had to go through to see Timothy. We would have lunch
in a park we liked after the first visit, do all our shopping, and then
see him first thing in the afternoon schedule. That would give us time
to come straight home and get most of our weekend work done.
Things went pretty much as planned. The children, excited about the
trip, got up earlier than Nathan, so I fed them a quiet breakfast of
fruit and cereal. After we got everyone fed, dressed, and packed into
the Suburban, it was just past nine. We didn't find the sheriff's office
until just before 10:30, so Nathan went right in to make arrangements.
When he returned, just after 11:00, he looked serious, as though he were
concentrating on some tedious problem.
"How is he, Daddy?" Hannah asked as soon has Nathan had gotten into the
car.
"I have never seen a boy his age so frightened in my life," Nathan
replied.
"Was it as bad as Cynthia said?" I asked.
"At least," he replied. Nathan took a deep breath and then started the
car. "What's our first stop?"
"The park," I replied, and he put the vehicle in gear and we pulled out
of the lot.
"When you go in, you tell one of the people at the front desk who you
are and that you're there to see a juvenile inmate. They'll want to see
your driver's license. They had me empty my pockets, so you may want to
leave your purse here."
"Why did they make you empty your pockets?" Mark asked.
"Checking for weapons I guess," Nathan answered.
"Did they give you all your stuff back?" asked Josiah.
"Yeah they did." Nathan paused and then went on. "A jailer will
accompany you into the visitation room. It's long and narrow and divided
by a wall that's half wood and half glass and subdivided into little
alcove-like compartments. In each alcove there's a chair and phones on
both sides of the glass. You sit in your chair and wait for them to
bring Timothy to you. There's always at least one jailer on your side of
the glass and always at least one on the other side." We slowed to a
stop at a red light. Nathan turned to look at me. "You should know that
it's a very, very rough place."
"How so?" I asked.
"Well, the inmates all look like they've been 'rode hard and put up
wet,' as they say. And the people visiting them don't look much if any
better. The jailers are an especially hard bunch. They look like they
are ready to pounce on anyone who gets out of line. I don't know when I
have felt such aggressiveness before. It was almost palpable."
"Did they have guns?" Josiah asked.
"No. Well they had what sort of looked like guns, but I think they were
tasers. And they carried clubs." The light turned green and we
accelerated. Nathan glanced at me again.
"Even though you are talking on the phone to each other, it's very
noisy. People are shouting, and everyone can hear everyone else. The
language is horrible, not just vulgar and profane but continually
blasphemous."
"Oh, Mama, don't go!" Elizabeth said, touching my shoulder.
I could see from the tense expression on Nathan's face that he was as
uncomfortable with me going into the visitation center as Elizabeth. I
knew, however, from our years of marriage that he would not forbid it.
We both knew that we were a team. He knows that I depend upon his
strength and leadership and provision. I know that he depends upon my
gentleness with people and the insights into them that that gentleness
elicits.
"You said he was frightened?" I asked.
"Frightened and bruised and exhausted," Nathan replied.
"There's the park!" The kids chorused, and we made the turn toward it.
Once we had stopped, the boys shot out of the car like they'd never seen
green grass and tall trees before. Nathan followed after them with some
balls and gloves and other assorted paraphernalia in an effort to
organize their mayhem. The girls helped me unload the Suburban and get
our picnic set up on the nearest table. It didn't take long for the
appearance of food to draw the male half of our family back into our
orbit. Nathan returned thanks for our food, asked for God's mercy upon
Timothy, and asked that we might be used to extend that mercy.
"He did a strange thing as soon as he sat down," Nathan said the moment
he had finished praying. We all looked up at him. "He reached his hand
out and put his palm flat against the glass separating us. I looked at
his hand then at his face. His eyes had a desperation in them. I think
if there had not been a wall between us he'd have hugged me and not let
go. So, I put my hand up against where his was, and we talked like that
the whole time."
"What did he say?" I asked as we all started munching on our sandwiches.
"Mostly, that he wanted out," Nathan replied. "Right off he started
crying and begging me to take him home with us. Over and over he sobbed
'I'll be good. I'll be good. Please take me. Please take me.'"
"Are they treating him badly there?" I asked.
"I don't think the jailers are doing anything to him, but the other
inmates won't leave him alone. Apparently, he gets into at least one
fight most every day."
"That's not very lady-like," Hannah observed.
"Neither are the women who are attacking him," Nathan said. "At first,
he was in some sort of group cell, but after they beat him to a bloody
pulp, the jailers transferred him to a two-person cell. That was better,
but they are all released into a common area at certain times of the
day. Different groups jump him in different locations. He has learned
something of how to fight, but he isn't very good at it."
"What can we do? Is there anything we can give him?" I asked.
"We can't give him anything directly. We can give stuff to the jail
earmarked for Timothy, and they will see that he gets it. Whether he can
keep anything we might give is an altogether different story. According
to him, those women have taken everything the jail issued him. He can't
brush his teeth. He doesn't have a blanket or a pillow. They even stole
the little flip flop shoes they have to wear in there."
"How does he bathe?" Sarah asked.
"They have this one big shower room," Nathan replied.
"Oooooh!" the girls chorused.
"Don't worry; he doesn't go in there. They stole his soap first thing,
and he's afraid they'd bash his skull against the concrete wall if he
ever tried."
"So, he's Mr. Stinky again," Josiah said wrinkling his nose.
"I don't know, but I expect your right," Nathan answered.
After that we turned to eating. When we finished our meal, we played
some in the park and then ran our shopping errands. Soon enough it was
3:00 o'clock, and we headed back to the sheriff's office.
It was much as Nathan had described it. The voices were gruff; the tone
was no nonsense; and the attitude was their way period. There were
cameras everywhere, and the jailers were always staring right at me. I
got the feeling that they wanted me to know that they were watching
every move I made.
Nathan's description had not, however, prepared me for the way the
visitation room smelled. It wasn't just the harsh odor of ammonia mop-
water such as assaults your nose in a hospital corridor. There was the
bleed through of unwashed clothes, body odor, and a pungent something I
could not identify.
And then there was Timothy. From Nathan's description of their
interview, I half expected an even greater display of desperation.
Nathan's heart had clearly been moved. I feared mine would be broken.
When he took his seat, however, his body language was stiff, almost
formal. There were no tears in his eyes. He did not reach his hand out
to touch the glass. He sat at an angle to me, knees together, and hands
in his lap. I picked up the phone and then so did he.
"Good afternoon, Timothy."
"Please call me Skyla."
"Okay, Skyla, if you wish."
"You always see me at my worst!" His tone was sharp, almost accusing.
"I don't understand," I replied.
"First the creek, now here. I can look better, a whole lot better. I can
look pretty good, but nobody gives me the chance." He was angry, angry
in the pathetic way that a person powerless to do anything is angry--a
fly caught in a web.
"Skyla, I'm sorry that you have to go through this."
"But?"
"But nothing. I can see you're hurting. I would not want any of my
children to endure what you are suffering. I would rather take the pain
in their place than see them go through what you are. I know your mother
feels the same way."
"My father doesn't though. He hates me. He doesn't care if I live or
die."
"I think your father does love you. I think he would probably rather be
blown to bits on some battlefield than see you commit the suicide you
are contemplating."
"You don't even know my old man!" Timothy blazed. "He's been brutal to
me since like forever. He's never once been kind or gentle. If I don't
do just exactly what he wants he smashes me. And who said anything about
suicide anyway!"
"Okay," I said. "Let's say you get your way. Let's say you do everything
you have to do to become the Skyla you want to be. That means the end of
Timothy, the Timothy that God gave to your parents."
"I would still be the same person," Timothy protested. "I will still be
me."
"No, you won't. You won't be your father's son. You'll never be a
husband. You'll never be a father. From what I understand you are an
only child. You do this, and your father's line dies with you."
"Serves him right," Timothy said.
"To quote one of my daughters, 'that's not very lady-like.'"
"Let me guess; Hannah, right?" I nodded. "What's that even supposed to
mean?"
"It means that women are all about life. We conceive it; we carry it; we
bear it; we nurture it. We do not kill what God has given us."
"I'm not killing anyone," Timothy shouted. This attracted the attention
of jailers on both sides of the divide. Timothy immediately dropped his
phone, raised both hands, lowered his head. "No problem, officer, no
problem!" The jailers stared at both of us for several seconds and
finally took a step back.
"Listen, Skyla," I said after he picked up the phone again. "I'm not
trying to upset you. I know you are going through a horrible time right
now. But stop and think. Could the desires that you have be some
unconscious effort on your part to get back at your father?"
"What? That's crazy."
"Well yes, it would be. But if he hurt you all your life by holding his
son to some impossible standard, what better way to get back at him than
by killing his son and presenting him with a daughter?"
"No," Timothy's voice caught. His eyes became moist and then tears
rolled down his face. "No. It's not like that. You just can't see me. I
can be. I can be pretty, but no one will let me." He dropped his phone
and began weeping into his hands.
That ended our session. I returned to the parking lot wondering what had
happened. I had prayed to show God's mercy. I had wanted to be kind.
Instead we got into a fight. We drove home in silence. We spent the rest
of the afternoon and evening getting our Saturday work done. Throughout
all our chores and supper and family devotions I could not get that
picture of Timothy out of my mind. After putting the children to bed, I
remember hugging Nathan especially hard.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I never knew."
"Never knew what?"
"How hard it was to be a man," I said.
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