Amanda Kernahan

Word Count 1119

When my youngest brother was arrested for a bank robbery at 22, I was devastated. A future flashed before me where we would drift so far in different directions we would barely recognize one another, a future I was already living with our older brother who was incarcerated in a distant state. I could not bear the thought of losing another.

As James sat in the county jail detoxing from the drugs that nearly killed him, I made plans to visit him with Shane, my one remaining brother still on this side of freedom. I left my purse behind, carrying only my car key and license, not wanting anything to jeopardize our visit. I wanted to see his thick mane of dirty blonde hair, to search those blue eyes that had been lost since our Mom died. I worried she was the only one who could reach him beyond the plexiglass, both adrift in other realms.

It was an unseasonably sunny day for November, a jarring contrast to the dim waiting room. Dirty beige walls and a line of dilapidated lockers welcomed us into this alternate world. We signed in on the clipboard under the watchful eye of a guard with a buzzed military-style cut.

“Driver’s Licenses” The guard prompted, a hint of exasperation in his voice. His eyes moved from Shane’s license to the form, then back up again, an uncomfortable number of times. Shane gave a nervous half smile, our eyes flitting to each other in uncertainty.

“The address on your license doesn’t match what you wrote down.” His stern voice in the empty concrete room made this sound like a crime.

“Oh, umm, yea sorry, I moved and I haven’t updated my license yet” Shane replied with an anxious laugh.

“Well, when you move you need to update that with the DMV.”

My heart sank as the guard continued. “Do you have a piece of mail with your new address on it that you can show me?”

“Um… no… I rode with my sister so I really don’t have anything with me.”

I smiled despite my annoyance during the standoff. I always default to a friendly face even when internally I storm with emotions.

After several moments the guard looked Shane in the eye, “I need something with your new address on it…”

Shane didn’t pick up on the way the guard leaned forward, making eye contact as he spoke deliberately, slowly. He tried again, “Sir, I need you to show me something with your new address on it…. anything…” adding a wink to emphasize the charade.

“OH!” Shane caught on a little too loudly and reached into his wallet to awkwardly show the officer a random credit card. We exhaled relief, but it was short-lived when the officer turned to me.

“Your Apple watch can’t go in,” he said. I had completely forgotten about it. “You can return it to your car but you won’t be allowed in until halftime. He can go in now,” he nodded towards Shane who proceeded without me through the heavy door dividing our world.

I sat alone on a bench waiting for halftime, disturbed at how the term made this sound like a game. A game to the officials but not the bystanders, the players. A game I knew few people won.

A twenty-something black girl came in and completed the sign-in sheet. She handed her I.D. to the guard. “Your address doesn’t match your I.D.”

“Yea, I moved,” she replied with a sigh, an audible heaviness. I resonated with it, the weight of loving someone you can’t reach.

“Try again tomorrow.” He returned her I.D. and went back to his paperwork, breaking eye contact.

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. We had been given a pass. My white skin flushed with shame as she left. I said nothing to her. I said nothing to the guard. I didn’t question the blatant hypocrisy or veiled racism. I sat silently and waited for my turn. I tried to imagine justifications for the guard’s change in demeanor. Perhaps he knew this girl from previous visits and she was given the kindness we were at one point. Perhaps he only gives one family a pass each day. I compiled a mental list of justifications for my own silence. I would lose my visit if I said anything. It wouldn’t change the system. I drove four hours to see my little brother, I didn’t know when I could come back.

We had our visit that day, a perfect mixture of somber honesty and airy sibling jokes. I memorized his grin, his perfect teeth, the way the left side of his mouth would turn up first, revealing the whispers of a dimple.

Years later, the grimy smell of the waiting room stays with me, the hard plastic chair that held me for thirty minutes is remembered with more clarity than the face of the guard that morning. I remember the visit as thirty minutes of my youngest brother’s life who would die less than a year later. One memory in a finite catalog. I hold it like a kaleidoscope, beads falling into place to show a smirk I miss every day. But if I tilt it slightly, the image changes and I remember the girl who was turned away. I remember the guard who was the gatekeeper to our loved ones. It was one injustice in the millions of injustices that go unacknowledged. I wanted to believe there was a reason beyond race for the difference in how we were treated that day, but if I look at it squarely, without any kaleidoscopic distortion, all I can see is our skin. My pale appearance with a nervous smile, her dark skin and exasperation with the system. I often wonder if she was a sister too. If her loved one made it out. If I am a coward for remaining silent. If the value of that memory outweighs my selfishness. If the guard ever thought about us again, the two women asking for a thirty minute memory to be granted. To be denied.

In the end, she and I sat on the same sideline, just trying to get through this long painful game with as few penalties as possible. We were waiting for halftime. Despite my brother dying shortly after he was released from the system, I often think of her and hope her person got the ending we both dared to imagine. I hope they can visit freely and have dinner together with no metal detectors to pass through or forms to fill out. I hope she got that elusive win we all dream of in those lonely waiting rooms.

Amanda is a writer, host of the Grief Trails podcast, founder of RememberGrams, and a proud Adirondack 46er. She has been published in Slate Magazine, The KeepThings, and Anti-Heroin Chic. She is working on a memoir about her long trek through grief, love, and nature as she hiked the 46 Adirondack High Peaks. Find her on Instagram @AmandaKernahanWrites or on Substack @AmandaKernahan. She lives in Rochester, NY with her husband, two children, and their big loveable German Shepard.