Part One: Little Friday

Here's where it began

Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

The Thursday I learned my son was in jail was preceded by a Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of my waking up each of those days and thinking it was Thursday. Or, more accurately, hoping it was Thursday. Very strange since there was nothing special happening on Thursday, April 6.

It wasn’t payday. It wasn’t mani-pedi day. My husband, Rob, and I didn’t have plans for the evening. All that particular Thursday had going for it was what all Thursdays have going for them — they’re the day before Friday. Friday eve. Or, as I like to say, Little Friday.

And yet, I was looking forward to Thursday, even did a little happy dance in the kitchen when I awakened and it was, finally, Thursday.

“Oh yay! It’s here! It’s Thursday!” I sang, sipping my coffee.

I sang and sipped my way to my desk, looked down, and saw the number two on the little phone icon on my cell.

Two missed calls? But it didn’t even ri —

Oh dammit.

I had it set to “Silence Unknown Numbers.” Why? Because I’d just figured out how to do that and was trying it out.

Might have been nice if I turned it off.

In any case, there were two missed messages to go with the two missed calls from the same unknown number. Someone was really trying to reach me, but who?

Could it be Publisher’s Clearing House?

Oh it was a house alright. The Big House.

“This is a free, one-minute call from (my son’s voice stating his name), an inmate at the Rappahannock Regional Jail. If you accept the charges, please press…”

What the hell? I play the second message as I’m running to Rob’s office.

“This is a free, one-minute call from (my son’s voice stating his name), an inmate at the Rappahannock Regional Jail. If you accept the charges, please press…”

WTF? This is a joke, right?

It’s probably my wailing that prevents Rob from hearing the message, as he’s only heard the words “please press…” so I have to play it again. Which I do as I collapse onto the floor by his chair and cry, “This isn’t real, right? He’s goofing around on me, right?”

“No, it’s real,” Rob says, after hearing the whole thing. “But it’s good for a man to spend at least one night of his life in jail.”

I look at him like he has two heads which, under better circumstances would be awesome as he’s really handsome, and wail, “But he has autism! He’s not a man. He’s a 13 year-old in the body of a 31 year-old!”

I don’t know what to do first, so I try calling the number back while Rob Googles the number for the jail. The jail! My son is in jail! I can’t get through and no one answers when Rob calls so, praise God, he finds an email address and basically says, Hey, have you got my son? And if so, why?

And you know what? They respond. Fast.

Yes, we have your son. He was picked up last night for solicitation.

Excuse me? My son? This is a mistake. He doesn’t do ….that stuff. Holding hands is about as much action as he’s ever been interested in and honestly? He’s not even interested in that. I mean, if you’re telling me he was picked up for stalking Lionel Messi or harassing Trevor Lawrence to get him a try out for the Jags, I’d say, yup, sounds like my kid. But solicitation for S.E.X.?

No fucking way.

I’m not going to lie. I lost my shit.

While Rob does his best to get my son on the phone, I call the attorney who handled my divorce. The attorney is in Virginia. My son is in Virginia. Rob and I? We’re in Naples, Florida.

Do I get on a plane now? I ask the attorney. Tomorrow? Can you get him out? He’s schizoaffective. He takes medication. He’s already missed one dose. You need to get him out now. Tomorrow, the latest. He needs his meds! And he’s autistic!

It takes 13 days to get my son out of jail. And I still have no idea why I was looking forward to Thursday.

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Due to this situation, I’ve been unable to write. Over Labor Day weekend though, I felt the desire to start getting “it” — all the stuff, the pain, the frustration, the fear — out. I have no idea how this situation is going to end. But, five months after it began, I feel the need to share it with you, my friends and readers. It’s a sad topic to be writing about, but it’s so good to be writing again.

Thank you for reading. xo