Orange Soda

Maybe, we establish traditions in order to feel normal. At age sixteen I decided to visit my father in prison —to see him for the first time in ten years.

The thought of going to the prison by myself made me nervous. I remember visiting him in another facility once when I was six years old, but that was with my mother and two younger brothers. Back then, we visited my father in a tiny room where he was by himself. On that day, I asked to use the toilet. A guard said he would show me where it was.

We walked down a corridor. When we passed a room with a glass door and single chair in the middle, I asked him what this room was for, he said, “It’s where we put people like your father to die.” I was stunned and scared, and I didn’t know what he meant. Looking back, I wonder if he was trying to convince me it was an electric chair. Or perhaps it was his habit to try to bully the family members of the inmates, to punish them, too. I don’t know; I was six.

I used the toilet as fast as I could and then ran past the guard on the way out, all the way to the end of the hall where my father, mother, and two brothers were. Now it was time to leave. I cried because I was still scared and confused by what the guard had said to me. I didn’t tell anyone about that, so they must have thought I was crying because we were going home without my father. I cried about that later.

But now, at sixteen, I had my driver’s license, which meant I had the ID I needed to be able to visit someone at the NH State Prison by myself, and my own car, so I planned my first visit.

I wanted everything to be perfect, and for my father to think I was a successful person, not someone who struggled to pay her rent while working and making her way through high school. So, I decided to wear a nice outfit.

I didn’t own a nice outfit, so I shopped at St. Vincent de Paul, the second-hand shop run by the church. It was upstairs in the building where my brothers and I used to go to Sunday School. The ceiling there was low and the air stagnant with the smell of other peoples’ perfume. Long cafeteria tables were shoved into the eaves and piled high on ten long cafeteria tables.

Two ladies from church looked on while I sorted through the piles of clothing that the people in our town no longer wanted. For a total of $1.50 I found an ankle-length, pleated, cobalt and black floral-patterned skirt, a black turtleneck, and a black cardigan. I would wear my black ankle boots, the only shoes I had. This outfit would be perfect, I thought.

Back at the apartment where I lived by myself, I took the clothing from the wrinkled paper grocery bag. I discovered that the skirt fit me, but the turtleneck was a little tight and the cardigan a little large. Then I noticed that the seams under each sleeve of the turtleneck were ripped open, from halfway under my arm all the way to the side of my bra. Whoever donated this shirt must have believed that a poor person would be happy to repair it. And I would have, but I didn’t own a sewing kit. I would just keep the sweater on, I decided. I hung the whole outfit on a hanger and stepped back to admire my choices. I spent a lot of time ironing the pleats in the skirt to get them perfectly straight.

When I arrived at the prison, I felt nice. Anyone who didn’t know me might have thought I was from a respectable, middle-class family.

Inside, it was cold. Everything echoed: the slamming of doors, the voices of the guards, my footsteps. A sign just inside the door read “Visitors will be searched.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. I asked the guard who was sitting behind a glassed-in metal counter. He smirked and without blinking said, “That means we can strip search you.” I instantly recalled the prison guard from the visit when I was six years old, and I felt momentarily stunned and scared.

No one ever strip searched me, but now I began to realize the intention of that threat: to strip my dignity. They tried in various ways over the following years. My father was doing 25-to-life. The guards always seemed to want to punish me, too. But by the time I was sixteen, I had a chip on my shoulder and this guy could fuck right off. I returned his smirk. I wasn’t going anywhere without seeing my father.

I removed six quarters from my leather purse and put it in a locker. I dropped the quarters into a bowl-like section of the counter between the glass so the guard could check them. Then he told me to remove my sweater. I immediately thought of the tight turtleneck and my exposed underarms and sides, but I unbuttoned the sweater and removed it. I thought he would then say to put the sweater back on, but instead he told me to put it in the locker.

Now I was cold, and not only aware of the open seams in my shirt, but also my cold nipples. I could feel the guard looking at them. Not glancing; staring. I gripped the six quarters in my fist and tried only to look ahead of me as he pressed a button to unlock a barred door. There was a loud buzz and clank. I paused. I hadn’t done this before. He yelled, “GO!” Maybe he didn’t want to have to press the button to release the door again.

After I was through the barred door, another guard escorted me to a large room with high ceilings, a dozen small tables, and a vending machine. There was the background sound of something like electricity. Maybe it was the fluorescent lights. But it was surprisingly clean. Even in the green-ish fluorescent light, the floors and tables shined.

I sat at the only open table and waited for my father. I worried. What if I didn’t recognize him? What if I didn’t know what to say? At other tables, some people laughed, while others cried. A child screamed.

In my chair, I pulled down the bottom of my turtleneck to try to tuck it into my skirt. It wouldn’t reach, so I instead concentrated on positioning my arms to hide the open seams.

Finally, a man entered from the opposite side of the room. He was wearing a blue-gray shirt and pants and big, metal-rimmed eyeglasses. He wasn’t as tall as I remembered. He walked directly toward me with a closed-mouth grin—my grin. He knew me. I had been told that we weren’t allowed to touch, which was a relief. I wouldn’t know how to hug someone, and my seams were open.

My father spoke as though we were a normal father and daughter who had spent sixteen years together. Not, “How do you like school?” but “How was school yesterday?” Then he told me I looked nice. I confessed about the seams I had been trying to hide. He gave me a warm smile. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

It was then I decided to stand up. Still holding my quarters, I said, “I’ll get you a soda.” I didn’t ask what he wanted. A daughter would already have known. I ignored my turtleneck and its open seams, and I didn’t feel cold anymore. I walked across the room to the vending machines. Everything was out, except the Sunkist. I never drank orange soda, but I bought two and brought them to our table. This became our tradition.

At the same moment, we pulled back the tabs on the tops of the cans. They made a cracking sound, which seemed to echo. He raised his can, and I copied him. “To family,” he said.

“To family.”