Five Years

1996:

My mother, my father and I drive up to York, Pennsylvania to visit my brother. My father had been up to the York County Jail once before, but it was dark. At ten thirty Christmas morning, we find ourselves lost on Main Street, snow starting to fall, everything closed.

We see a bar with the front door propped open, glimpse pool tables inside. Rolling Rock neon sign in the window. My family is one of those families that gets dressed up for Christmas day; our coats flap with the wind’s gusts. We walk in. Five or six men, all with mustaches, all in jeans and biker boots and gimme caps, one woman, in jeans and a leather jacket. All white. We ask about the jail. The tall guy in the sleeveless black Iron Maiden shirt gives us directions.

“Hey,” he says. “Take care. I been visiting up there on Christmas myself.”

Afterwards, my brother goes back to his cell.

1998:

My mother, my father and I drive up to Hagerstown, Maryland to visit my brother. We’ve all been to the State Prison before: my dad would drive up from DC, my mom from Maryland; I would drive down from Pittsburgh. The hills are beautiful once you get off the interstate.

We’ve learned to wear loafers or shoes that are easy to take off, to not wear belts or watches, for the metal detector. The first time my mom visited they made her take off her underwire bra and leave it in one of the storage lockers.

The little kids there make it OK. They’re happy no matter what: it’s Christmas, and they’re seeing Daddy. It’s all an adventure. It’s hard to not grin when you watch them.

Afterwards, my brother goes back to his cell.

1999:

My mother, my father and I drive up to Hagerstown, Maryland to visit my brother. It’s not snowing this year, but the day’s light is dim and gray.

One of the families we meet in the waiting room tells us about a nearby hotel that has a cash bar and buffet open on Christmas. After we visit my brother, we eat in a dark, smoky room, unable to turn in any direction where we’re not facing a TV. I have a warmed-over Reuben and a Budweiser.

My brother goes back to his cell.

2000:

My mother, my father and I drive up to Hagerstown, Maryland to visit my brother. Light gusts of snow; wind; a high, thin sun.

After the visit, we find a gas station that also sells deli sandwiches. We lay them out on the car’s white hood and eat. It’s the best chicken salad sub I’ve ever had. It’s almost warm for Christmas Day, almost 40 degrees.

My brother goes back to his cell.

2001:

I drive my mother up to the Jessup Correctional Training Center to visit my brother. My father’s been up the previous day. Mix of snow and rain.

I ask the guard at the front desk if we can bring in a pencil and paper so my mom can write to my brother, since she can no longer speak. The guard picks up the phone and calls the visiting room officer. They talk. She hangs up. “They’ll give you writing materials in there,” she says.

She waves at my mom and says hi. “I’m sorry she can’t talk,” she says to me. “She always used to be so nice when she would come in here.” My mom smiles back and nods, a little wide-eyed. “Merry Christmas,” the guard says.

In the visiting room with my brother, she cries, soundlessly, her mouth wide, her eyes shut. In the visiting room, you’re only allowed to embrace at the beginning and end of a visit.

After the visit, all the restaurants on the way home are closed. My mom has a hard time eating anyway, with the disease.

My brother goes back to his cell.