Repeat Visitor

by Rachel Wagner

My son knows his way around the county. He could practically do a visit himself, while first-timers are over at the lockers struggling to figure out which one is available or where to put the money. They do every single thing wrong, getting chastised by the COs talking about “come on a kid could do it.” That’s my kid who can do it. He knows to go to a locker with an orange key. He puts two quarters in before closing the door like you’re supposed to do. He goes through the metal detector alone. He knows which elevator to take. He tells me our joke about standing in lava when we’re on the orange tiles, waiting for it to come. Inside, he says we’re going up not down. He can’t open that first door on the fourth floor by himself, but, once I open it, he runs full speed down the hallway.

A group of COs are there waiting for people to come wait in the waiting room. They all peek over at him. Every time I think someone might say like, stop running, but by now I guess they’re used to it. I always sit in the last row, stage left. The one time I didn’t, my son kind of got frustrated, so I sit there even if I don’t really feel like it. He learned his father’s full name in that waiting room. He gets excited when he hears it get called and jumps up from his seat. He runs down the ramp towards the next elevator. He makes a sharp turn into the right room where we wait some more for this one CO to come let us upstairs. We both look down at our feet on the ride up there. Then we hand over the yellow slip of paper with everyone’s name, plus 1 child. The white copy is stacked up already with that group of COs. Not sure what the pink one is for. A souvenir? An alibi? Something to play with during the visit?

Anyway, in the little visitation room, my three-year-old looks through the big glass window and then through the windows on the door. Staring downstairs. We ask ourselves out loud: is that him? No. Is that him? No. Then it finally is him. He reminds us not to touch the black shit around the window. He mentions that his dad is stuck. He wants to hug him, but he knows he can’t. He talks about how the craters in the walls match his father’s bullet-scar-ridden stomach. Sometimes he wants his dad to stand up and lift his shirt to compare, but otherwise he barely even needs us there. He slides his metal chair in and out. He pretends to push the walls or lift the window between us up. He’s figured that space out, and there’s no way out. We all know two knocks on the door means it’s time to go. Time for a pound through the glass or a high five and an iloveyouseeyoulater.

After that, we just stand around waiting with everyone for that CO again. Back downstairs, my son runs up the ramp, through the waiting room, and down the hall again. He presses the elevator button before anyone else has a chance. He doesn’t get on the elevator to the right that’s always sitting there with its mouth wide. That one won’t take you anywhere without a key. Me and him stop back at the lockers again before we actually leave. He takes a quick drink from the water fountain, with some always getting on his shirt. Out the doors, he races down the hill away from the structure of that great green monster. He steps down its steps and gets ready to rescue the toys he left behind in the car.


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A version of "Repeat Visitor" previously appeared in Jellyfish Review.

Rachel Wagner is a writer from New Jersey, currently living in Newark. She writes poems, essays, and scholarship about her life and the books she's reading. Rachel also teaches first year writing at Seton Hall University, runs an online bookstore called Ten Dollar Books, and started a literacy program called Not School. More of her writing can be found at Rachel-Wagner.com.