P.D. Workman - Tattooed Teardrops

(i)

T AMARA FRENCH HAS BEEN a model inmate throughout her incarceration.

Great reference. You could go far on that one. Tamara sat on an uncomfortable bench in the brightly-lit lobby waiting for her ride. It was strange being on the other side of the guard booth. She stared at the too-white sneakers that stuck out below her dark pant cuffs, wondering what kind of life she had to look forward to with that ringing endorsement. She jiggled her legs up and down, trying to resist picking her nails. Eventually, a tall, middle-aged woman with a bun came in and stood before her. Tamara stared at her boxy black shoes for a moment before reluctantly looking up at her.

Tamara? the woman said.

Yeah.

Ready to get out of here?

I guess.

I expected a bit more enthusiasm, the social worker said with a hint of a smile in the corners of her lipsticked mouth.

Im sorta nervous, Tamara said.

I guess thats understandable. Come on, lets go.

Tamara sat there for another moment, then finally stood and followed the woman out of the juvenile facility. She got in the car and buckled up, holding her bag tightly on her lap.

The social worker introduced herself, but Tamara paid no attention, completely forgetting her name the next minute. The woman attempted small talk a few times, but Tamara turned on the radio and stared out the window, freezing the social worker out. Eventually the woman got the message, and stopped trying to engage her.

(ii)

They pulled up in front of a brick house that was at least a hundred years old and needed some work. There had been an attempt made at landscaping, with some flowers and bushes bunched around the concrete steps leading up to the porch and the front door. There was peeling paint on the fence and mailbox post.

Here we are, the social worker announced. Lets go in.

Tamara unbuckled and got out slowly. The social worker took her in, knocking on the front door and entering without waiting for an answer.

Hello, Marion, come on in, a womans voice called from up above. Ill be right down.

Tamara stood beside the social worker, waiting. She held her paper bag awkwardly at her side, wishing that she didnt have anything to hold onto. She made a show of examining the front hall and living room of the house, but in all honesty, she didnt care what it looked like. It wasnt prison. Her concern was not with the house, but what the foster parents were going to be like. The front room was fairly neat and presentable. No childrens toys scattered about. A load of laundry neatly folded in the basket sitting on the couch. The TV shut behind the doors of an entertainment center so it would not be the central focus of the room. The furnishings were nice, not thrift store or destroyed. There were footsteps on the stairs, and Tamara looked up for her first glimpse of her foster mother.

Mrs. Henson had a pleasant, round face. Blond hair that had been lightly styled in an attempt to hide that it was starting to thin. She didnt look more than forty. She was overweight, but not grossly. She just looked soft and comfortable. She was wearing a sweater and pants, and inconsequential gold jewelry. She didnt look anything like Mrs. Baker, but that was no guarantee.

Hello! her voice rang out cheerfully.

Gerry, this is Tamara, Marion introduced as Mrs. Henson reached the bottom of the stairs. Tamara, Mrs. Henson.

Hey, Tamara muttered, without meeting her eyes. Where do you want me?

Your bedroom is at the top of the stairs. First door on the right, Mrs. Henson offered. Tamara made the trek up the stairs. There was a dark wooden bannister, ornately carved. Not too scarred for being in a foster home. Tamara turned at the top of the stairs and opened the door to her right.

There was a bed and a crib, and Tamara stood there, her heart speeding up, wondering if shed been sent to the wrong room. Surely they wouldnt have given her a room with a crib in it? She could almost see Julies still form lying on the high mattress Mrs. Henson was there a moment later, having said a quick good-bye to Marion. She breathed a little heavily after her trip back up the stairs.

Go on in, Mrs. Henson encouraged. We sometimes take teen moms, to help teach them how to take care of their babies. We dont have any right now, so you get this room. That way you dont have to share.

Tamara walked into the room. The walls were a light green, freshly painted, with a white board wainscoting all the way around it. There was a pull-down blind with gauzy green curtains around the window. Tamara tossed her bag onto the bed, where it sat looking pitiful and inadequate.

The others will be getting home soon, Mrs. Henson offered. Ill introduce you then.

Yes, maam.

Im happy to have you join us, Tamara. I was very impressed with your file.

Sure. It was certain to be the last place she went that anyone was impressed with her prison record. Shed wowed them all at her parole hearing. There had been tears, and not all of them hers. So many of the inmates protested their innocence and refused to take responsibility or express remorse at their parole hearings. Tamara had been working on her performance for three years, and it was good. The boards vote was unanimous. Now she was free. But to what kind of life?

Mrs. Henson stirred, making Tamara jump, startled. They both looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Mrs. Henson smiled and nodded.

Make yourself at home, she encouraged, motioning around the room.

Tamara nodded. Mrs. Henson backed off, and left her alone. Tamara stretched out on the freshly-made bed to wait. If there was one thing she was used to doing, it was waiting.

(iii)

There were no bells that rang to mark the passage of time and the transition from one activity to another. Instead, disconcertingly, it flowed along with small shifts and gradual transitions. Tamara heard the front door open and close several times, with voices reaching her ears even through the closed bedroom door. Mrs. Henson did most of the talking and others answered her questions or made comments during the pauses. Tamara couldnt tell what any of them were saying, just the tone of voice. They all seemed to be casual and relaxed.

There was a knock on Tamaras bedroom door, and before she could get up to answer it, Mrs. Henson poked her head in.

Were going to get dinner going, she said. Why dont you come down and help? Then you can meet everyone.