Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,130
leans over and speaks soft and close with Yvonne.
“I just can’t,” Yvonne says, her voice shaky and frantic.
“This is about relieving yourself of all that weighs on you. Making peace before you go home.” Shawn takes my hand, and I squeeze it back. We both step closer.
“How do I make peace? How do I stand in front of my maker after what I done?”
“We are all God’s children, Yvonne.”
“Not all of us, Chaplain.”
“Yes. All of us.”
“Even those of us who turned some of God’s children into orphans?” My fingers jerk around Shawn’s hand, and I can hear myself gasp. I freeze.
“Yvonne, you’ve confessed your sins. You’ve done your time.”
“And those kids? What about them? You know, Brandi-Jaques and that bastard husband of mine may have deserved what I done. Both of them. Birds of a feather, those two. Didn’t care nothing for nobody.” Yvonne’s voice cracks and chokes. The chaplain passes her a tissue. She continues, “But those girls? What did they deserve?”
“Yvonne, please—”
“I’ve started a million letters, but how do you say sorry for taking someone’s momma? Even if that momma is BJ Wake,” Yvonne says, her voice sliding over Momma’s name like it’s poisonous.
“Do you want to try to write another letter? We can do that right now. Make amends? Ask for forgiveness?”
“Chaplain, no one’s going to forgive me.”
I look from that grainy screen right up into Shawn’s eyes. He just nods. He pulls out his key card, and I watch on the grainy black-and-white screen as Shawn walks down that long hallway and gets the chaplain’s attention; then I see them both walk back down the hallway. The metal door I’m never supposed to enter opens up and there are Shawn and the chaplain.
“Chaplain Boothe, this is Queenie Wake,” Shawn says.
“Wake,” the chaplain says, extending his hand to me. He hesitates as we shake.
“I’m BJ Wake’s daughter. One of them.”
“I’m not understanding. Why isn’t Ms. Wake with the other execution witnesses, Mr. Richter?” the chaplain asks, his voice calm and official.
“Queenie is the chef here in the Death House. She’s making Yvonne Chapman’s last meal,” Shawn says.
“Oh. Oh my.” The chaplain situates and re-situates the cuffs on his starched white shirt.
“I’d like to talk to her,” I say.
“Ms. Wake, I—”
“She’s asking for forgiveness, and I can give it to her. You want her to make peace? I can give that to her. Don’t you want that for her?” I ask, my voice edgy and out of control. The other guards are now watching us. None of them moves.
“Ms. Wake, these are someone’s last hours here on earth that you’re tampering with. I am unsure you grasp the enormity of what you’re suggesting,” the chaplain says.
I am quiet. My eyes shift back over to the TVs, and I watch as Yvonne lets her head fall into her hands. She’s got just under six hours left on this earth. I look back at the chaplain. My breathing is now calm. My shoulders low.
“Please,” I say.
The chaplain looks from me to Shawn. Shawn gives the chaplain a nod. And with that the chaplain looks back at me and speaks.
“Follow me, Ms. Wake,” the chaplain says, turning and facing that metal door. Shawn puts his key card in and the door clicks open.
Squeaky shoes. The clock moves forward and the click echoes around the long hallway. My breathing is shallow, and I’m beginning to panic. I can see the side of the cell, the stripes of the bars playing tricks on my eyes. I snap my eyes away from the bars, down the long hallway, and they fall on the execution room at the end of the hall. My mouth is dry as I steady myself, planting my feet one after the other.
The chaplain and Shawn stop in front of the cell and both look to me. Shawn opens up the cell and holds the door for me. I breathe in. Deep.
I walk the few steps, past the chaplain and Shawn, and turn to face the inside of Yvonne’s cell. She is sitting on the cot just past the door with her head in her hands. At the sound of my shoes squeaking against the sterile white floor, she looks up and it’s as if she’s seen a ghost. She stands. Then sits back down. Steadies herself. And stands again. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Tears stream down her face as she searches for something to say.