This Is Not My Life Read online

  I thought about the difference between the words grateful and thankful. I didn’t mean he should be grateful. There was something condescending about that word in this circumstance, casting me as Lady Bountiful and him as the wretched sot who should be down on his knees kissing my feet in gratitude. I meant thankful in the sense of feeling fortunate. I meant thankful in the way I felt fortunate to live in this house, small and somewhat untidy though it might be. I meant thankful in the way I was thankful for my writing, my son, my good health, my life as it was now and as I imagined it would continue to be. How was it that he never seemed to feel thankful for anything, least of all me?

  SHANE’S HEARING FOR FULL PAROLE was scheduled for a Wednesday morning in mid-October, just after Thanksgiving. This time I would be his assistant, and Stuart from LifeLine would be an observer. I found it odd that to be an observer you had to submit an application and be approved, but to be an assistant, all you had to do was declare your intention and show up. Because Shane was no longer incarcerated, this time the hearing would be held at the National Parole Board Regional Office in Kingston.

  The halfway house rearranged his passes to make things easier. He would come home for the first weekend of October as usual. The following weekend, he wouldn’t come home until Sunday, returning to Peterborough on Wednesday afternoon after the hearing. During the week between, I would prepare what to say to the Parole Board as his assistant, bearing in mind the advice we’d received from the halfway house supervisor, who said that what the Board really needed was to be “comforted.”

  ON THE FIRST WEEKEND OF OCTOBER, I finished up some work on Friday morning, then headed to Peterborough. It was overcast and raining lightly. Shane drove on the way back, taking a more southerly route through the countryside, following the back roads he’d known in his youth. I reminded him perhaps more often than necessary that my car was a Toyota Echo, not the souped-up Mustang he’d been so proud of back then. He slowed down. The clouds began to lift, and the sun came out. By the time we reached the outskirts of Kingston, we had seen six rainbows along the way. I was counting out loud.

  Who doesn’t love a rainbow? How could a rainbow ever be anything other than a good sign? How could the sight of six rainbows in one afternoon ever be anything other than miraculous? How could we not see this as a promise to the future, a promise to our future together in which we would indeed live happily ever after, amen?

  Yes, we were having some problems, but on a good day, on a day with six rainbows, we both believed that once Shane got home to stay and we were relieved of the pressures of a long-distance relationship, then everything would be fine. I should perhaps have given more thought to the fact that a rainbow, even a rainbow multiplied by six, is essentially a trick of the light, an optical illusion that cannot be physically approached or located. On reflection, I can see that we were complicit in our belief that full parole would be the magic key by which all that was wrong would be righted, all that was damaged would be healed, all that was broken would be fixed. Yes, I believed that true love could overcome all obstacles, that the love of a good woman could make him happy and whole. Yes, I believed I was a good woman.

  IN BED THE NIGHT BEFORE THE HEARING, while Shane snored on beside me, I found myself thinking about a movie we’d watched together early in our relationship. This was back when I was still sleeping over at his mother’s, and it happened that one of his favourite movies was being shown on late-night TV. Made in 1986 and billed as a comedy adventure, Tough Guys stars Burt Lancaster as Harry Doyle and Kirk Douglas as Archie Long, two aging bank robbers who have just been released from prison after serving thirty years. They are the last of their kind, the last great outlaws, the last men in America to have robbed a train, the Gold Coast Flyer. It doesn’t take them long to discover how much the world has changed since they went to prison back in 1956. It doesn’t take them long to get back to doing what they do best.

  As we watched the movie curled up together in Vera’s sofa bed, I could see that for Shane this was the story of him and Lenny, right down to the body types. He was Burt/Harry, tall, muscular, imposing, and Lenny was Kirk/Archie, small, wiry, a little jumpy. I could also see this was how Shane wanted to think of himself: as an honourable outlaw, a noble and good-hearted tough guy who just happened to live on the wrong side of the law.

  After trying to put their old gang back together but finding the other guys well past their outlaw days, Harry and Archie decide to go it alone, first stealing an armoured truck, only to discover that all it contains is a single roll of quarters. Learning that the Gold Coast Flyer is about to make its final run, Archie gets the bright idea to hijack the train and drive it straight across the American border to Mexico. Harry tries to talk him out of it, but before you know it, there they are on the train, southbound to freedom, singing “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad” at the top of their lungs. It looks like they’re going to go out in a blaze of glory. They don’t realize until they’re almost there that the track ends just a few feet beyond the border. But there is no turning back now, and they decide to go for it anyway.

  In bed beside Shane the night before the hearing, I kept thinking about that train. Seventy tons of shining steel barrelling along at a hundred miles an hour, and when the track suddenly ends beneath its iron wheels, the train keeps going right across the border in a barrage of bullets until it is buried deep and forever in mountains of hot brown sand. The Mexican border patrol appears with their guns drawn.

  ON THE MORNING OF THE HEARING, we met Stuart in the parking lot shortly after eight o’clock. We smoked and paced and smoked some more, not only anxious about the hearing, but also alarmed about the results of the previous day’s federal election. Inmates had had the right to vote since 2002, but Shane said most of them had been apathetic and usually didn’t bother. Now more and more inmates, including him, were exercising their right to vote, trying to defeat the Harper government. Still, the Conservatives had come out on top again, with a stronger minority this time. Those Tough on Crime drums that had been beating in the distance were moving ever closer.

  We went inside and upstairs to the second floor. Shane and I sat together at one table facing the Board members at another. Stuart, as an observer, sat in a chair against the wall behind us. This time there were three men on the Board, one of them participating by video conference from Ottawa. Shane’s parole officer had recently retired, and his new one would deliver her report via speakerphone from Peterborough. It took some time to get all the technology working properly, but finally we were ready to begin.

  The parole officer said that Shane had been compliant with the terms of his day parole, showed a good prosocial attitude and a strong work ethic, and maintained consistent communication with his Case Management Team. She noted that our relationship was stable and prosocial. In conclusion, she stated that CSC recommended full parole be granted.

  The lead Board member began the interview by asking Shane about his early years in Kenworth, where he was known as a “tough guy.” I tried not to think about that train. I tried to think about six rainbows instead.

  Through the questioning about his family, his marriages, and his criminal life, Shane was often barely audible, groping for words and stumbling over them when he did find them. As the questioning moved to the present and our relationship, his answers became clearer and more focused. He said he knew that what he used to treasure was nothing compared to what he had now.

  The Board member in Ottawa noted that past problems in intimate relationships had caused him to react in unexpected ways. How would he deal with it if I broke up with him? Shane said he loved me more than he had ever loved anyone, but he also knew there could be life without me. He’d learned to stand on his own two feet, he said, but he’d also learned to ask for guidance when he needed it.

  After noting that the parole officer, the psychologist, and the halfway house all thought he was ready for full parole, the Ottawa Board member then asked him, “Do you think you’re re
ady?”

  Shane’s reply was a long and thoughtful explanation of why he thought that yes, he was ready. All three Board members seemed satisfied with his answer. Nobody asked me if I was ready.

  Finally, after two hours, it was my turn to speak. I began by saying that Shane was a success story. I told them how well he’d handled various situations that might once have triggered him in a negative way. I told them the whole story of what had happened after Vera’s funeral, with emphasis on the fact that it was Shane’s idea to go to the police, that he had remained calm, reasonable, and cool-headed throughout the entire episode.

  I confirmed that in the three years I’d known Shane, he had never shown any interest in drugs, alcohol, or criminal activity. I explained that having been on my own with Alex for almost as long as Shane had been in prison, I was extremely independent and sometimes found it difficult to adjust to no longer being the only one in charge; however, we were both committed to working out these problems as we went along. They did seem “comforted” by what I had to say—and maybe relieved when I finally stopped talking.

  We waited with Stuart in the next room while the Board deliberated. After fifteen minutes, we were escorted back into the hearing room. The lead Board member cut to the chase. When he said, “We have decided to grant you full parole,” Shane gave a little giggle and so did I. The lead Board member reviewed the conditions they were imposing, which were the same as they’d always been, with the addition that Shane must immediately report all intimate relationships and any changes in our relationship to his parole officer.

  Then the lead Board member, by way of goodbye, said, “We hope not to see you again, especially not at a post-suspension hearing.”

  Shane said, “Thank you, sir. You won’t.”

  PART THREE

  October 2008 to August 2009

  I was not ready.

  After the hearing, we came home and had a quick lunch. Shane made a few phone calls to share the good news. I didn’t call anyone, because I didn’t know who would consider it good news. Then he called his employer to tell them he would be leaving Peterborough for good on Friday. He was no longer working at the recycling plant but at a company producing plastic car parts. He said he wouldn’t be returning to work and wanted his cheque tomorrow. The receptionist said this was not possible; his cheque would be issued at the end of the current pay period as usual. It could not be issued tomorrow. They went back and forth a few times, Shane becoming increasingly agitated. Finally, he said, “Go fuck yourself, you stupid cunt! And shove your fucking lousy job up your fat fucking ass!” and slammed down the receiver.

  I stood stunned in the middle of the kitchen staring at him, probably with my mouth open.

  He said, “What?” and went to put his duffle bag in the car.

  I WAS NOT READY.

  It was Wednesday night. I was to pick him up on Friday at noon and bring him home to stay. I had one day to get ready. On Thursday morning, I emptied a dresser drawer and made room for his clothes in the closet. I cleaned the bathroom and made a permanent space in the cabinet for his toiletries and his shaving kit. On Thursday afternoon, I got groceries, cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed and dusted the whole house, washed the towels, changed the bed. I didn’t know what else to do. I’d thought about a cake, balloons, a WELCOME HOME banner, but he’d said, “Don’t bother with silly shit like that.”

  Why hadn’t I started getting ready for him to move in weeks ago, when we first learned the hearing would be in October? I was too busy. I was too tired. I was too frazzled. No, that wasn’t it. Maybe I was being superstitious like those people who don’t prepare the nursery until after the baby is born. Maybe I was afraid of counting my chickens before they hatched. Maybe I was afraid of getting my hopes up. No, that wasn’t it either. The truth was, I didn’t believe it was really going to happen. I didn’t believe he was going to get full parole this year. I thought that, as I knew often happened, he’d have to try two or three times before he actually got it. I thought we would have more time to get things right.

  I was not ready, and I knew it. Shane was not ready either, and despite what he’d said at the hearing, I think he knew it too. Later we would be accused of intentionally setting out to deceive the Parole Board. No, that wasn’t it. We weren’t trying to deceive them. Stranded somewhere between delusion and denial, we were trying to deceive ourselves, and we succeeded. Briefly.

  I WAS NOT READY.

  What if I’d said that at the hearing? What if when it was finally my turn to speak, I’d said, “No, I am not ready. No, he is not ready. No, we are not ready.” What if—as when the minister says, If anyone present knows of any reason why this couple should not be joined, speak now or forever hold your peace—I’d said, “No, we are not ready to take this step, but we don’t know what else to do.”

  I felt trapped with Shane on that train hurtling forward even with the end of the track in sight. I was the centrepiece of his release plan, the linchpin of his freedom. Despite what Dr. Quinn was still saying to the contrary, it felt true to me that his full parole and our relationship were inextricably entwined. It also felt true to me that there could be no turning back now. I had been dealing with CSC long enough to know there was an all-or-nothing bottom line to their ideology and a conspicuous absence of flexibility. We’d submitted our plan, and we’d best stick to it. They had put all the steps in place in order, and we must follow them, no detours allowed. This was the next step. I didn’t know of any other way to proceed. Perhaps I’d caught some of Shane’s paranoia, but I didn’t trust any of them enough to imagine they would let us step back from the brink and catch our breath.

  I was sure that if I’d stood up at the hearing and said, “I am not ready,” the whole thing would have blown up in our faces. I was also sure that never in the whole history of the world had a man being granted full parole stood up and said, “Thanks, but no thanks. I am not ready.”

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, I arrived at the halfway house at eleven-thirty. Shane’s belongings were already packed and stacked in the parking lot. Two items were missing: my old pillow, which had disintegrated when he put it in the washing machine, and my father’s cane, which he’d lost. He and Lenny were on the front steps waiting for me. We loaded the car, then Shane went inside to hand in his key. Lenny and I stood there smoking. I could see tears in his eyes.

  I hugged him and said, “Don’t worry, everything will be all right. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him.”

  Lenny sighed and said, “He’s a heavy load, you know.”

  I said, “I know.”

  Shane came back outside, they had a manly hug, and then we got in the car and drove away. In the rear-view mirror, I could see Lenny alone in the parking lot, waving. We turned the corner and headed home.

  We lived together for forty-nine days.

  I THOUGHT WE WOULD AT LEAST HAVE a honeymoon stage before getting down to the business of figuring out how to live together. I thought he would be happy just to be home. Looking back, I realize I didn’t know then and don’t know now what “happy” would have meant for him, what exactly this condition we call “happiness” would have entailed. How often do we make this mistake, assuming we know what these words mean for someone else, for someone we love? How often do we assume their definition of happiness must be the same as our own?

  He was now as close to total freedom as he, a lifer, was ever going to get. I thought freedom would be enough for him. Being with him had reminded me of how precious it was—and of how those of us who’ve always been free simply take it for granted. But once he had it himself, it seemed an impossible gift he didn’t know what to do with. I thought I would be enough for him. But I was wrong about that too.

  Shane had said so many times that all he wanted was a quiet, peaceful, ordinary life—with me. In retrospect, I can see how utterly naive I was, imagining he would know how to do that. Perhaps I should have given more thought to the fact that there seemed to be a pattern in his previous beha
viour—that every time he’d come close to having that, he had done something to make sure it didn’t happen. In retrospect, it was as if by granting him full parole, the Board had given him to me, just handed him over and said, “Here you go, ma’am. We’ve looked after him for thirty years. Now you do it.”

  He was miserable from the minute he walked in the door that first Friday afternoon. I helped him unpack and put away his things. I noticed but didn’t mention that the paint-by-number sets I’d given him were still untouched, and the blank notebooks were still blank. What I remember most of that first weekend is him sitting on the couch scowling at the TV. Scowling at me too every time I went near him. The cold he’d had before the hearing was back, and it was much worse. I remember saying I’d go to the drugstore and buy some NeoCitran. I remember him saying he needed some lotion too, because his skin was dry and itchy. I said I’d buy some Keri lotion. I knew it was his favourite. He said it was too expensive. Then we had an argument about the cost of lotion.

  I understood that he wasn’t feeling well. But I didn’t understand why he was so angry at me. This was when he started calling me “the new warden” and himself my “pet convict.” I did not yet understand that he had to have someone to fight against—that he had been for so long in the “me versus them” mode that he couldn’t find another stance, another way to be in the world. When he was at Frontenac, he could fight against the staff, his parole officer, the warden, all the other guys. When he was in Peterborough, he could fight against the director and the supervisor, his employers, his co-workers, all the other guys. Once he came home to stay, there was nobody to fight against except me. He did not know how to stop fighting against and start fighting for. I did not yet understand that he was only comfortable when he was miserable, that he was only happy if he was making someone else miserable too.