With Love from the Inside (13 page)

Sophie stood frozen in the hallway outside an empty doctor's office. She knew her next move needed to be well planned out. Her first, second, and third reactions were to barrel through the door and dissect Eva's cheating heart with a scalpel. Surely Thomas had one around here somewhere.

Then after a few moments of reasoning, intermixed with intense gum chewing, she realized Thomas should be the one to blame. Her anger should be directed toward him. First for his lies, then for his poor choice in women to cheat with. She could see the headlines now: “Doctor's Wife Kills Husband's Mistress with Own Scalpel.”

Neither option was rational or productive, since the paper would then read “Daughter Shares Cell with Mother on Death Row,” but the longer Sophie stood outside Thomas's door, the madder she became. Hearing Eva giggle and Thomas laugh . . .

What were they doing in there? It didn't sound like sex, but it didn't sound work-related, either.

Sophie started to knock, to confront them both, but just the thought of seeing Eva straightening her silk blouse with that “he wants me more than you” look made her want to hit something. The safest thing for her to do was leave before someone other than her got hurt.

—

W
HY
WOULDN
'
T
T
HOMAS CHEAT ON HER?
Deep down in the places Sophie tried so hard to cover up, to reconstruct, to move past, there
remained an orphan whom nobody ever wanted. No Elizabeth Arden lipstick or Chanel satin scarves would make her worthy of a life she didn't deserve to live. She couldn't believe it had taken Thomas this long to stray.

Sophie wasn't going home, but she was tired of driving. So after an hour of dissecting herself and fantasizing about dismembering Eva, her car ended up in the parking lot of St. John's Hospital.

Visiting hours for non–family members were over at eight, but Sophie hoped her status had progressed to more than that, considering she spent so much time with Max. If it hadn't, maybe Mindy was on and could let her at least read him a story before he fell asleep.

Mindy was pushing the medicine cart when Sophie walked through the door into the pediatric wing. The first thing in her horrible day that had gone right.

“Are you okay?” Mindy asked her. “You look like hell.”

Her brutal honesty made Sophie laugh, since Mindy was normally very careful to word her comments gently.

“Tell me what you really think,” Sophie said. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the stainless-steel linen cart in the hallway. “This mascara is supposed to be waterproof.” She scrambled through her purse for a Kleenex.

Mindy handed her a wet wipe from the top of the medicine cart. “Want to talk about it?”

“Actually, I do,” she said, before her internal guards stopped her. “But now's not the time. You're working, and besides, I need to see my little man.”

Mindy nodded. “You better hurry. His big eyes were drooping just a minute ago.”

Sophie stopped by the restroom before going into Max's room. The last thing she wanted to do was scare the poor boy before he fell asleep. The black smudges underneath her swollen eyelids startled even her.
Her cell phone beeped as she was wiping the black tracks from above her cheekbones.

Finding her phone buried deep in her purse took more energy than she wanted to expend, but the repeated alerts made ignoring the message impossible. When she found the phone, a message from Thomas read
Leaving work now. I miss you
.

Sophie thought about tossing the phone against the wall or into the toilet, but she remembered her mother's attorney had her number. Not that she wanted to hear from him or any other man in her life, but some gnawing sense of obligation won her over.

Ignore Thomas,
she told herself.
Deal with him later.
First of all, she didn't know what she would say or how she would say it. If you call someone a cheater with a southern accent, does that make it sound any better?

She shut off her phone and threw it in her purse. The only person she felt sure about was waiting for her across the hall.

Max's back was turned to Sophie when she entered his room. Buzz Lightyear and his companions all stood across from one another around the perimeter of his bed. In formation for an upcoming battle, no doubt, thwarted by a little boy's sleepy eyes and worn-out body. His
Toy Story
blanket had fallen out of his crib and was lying on the floor.

Sophie bent down and picked it up. She placed the trim close to his face, just the way he liked it. Her heart weighed with the thought of it falling out and Max crying for it with no one to hear or come to pick it up. Did he cry for long? Or did he never start, knowing his tears were futile because no one was around to wipe them away?

It wasn't that the nursing staff was inattentive—quite the opposite. Max got all his physical needs met. Vitals every four hours, a nurses' aide to pour milk on his Cap'n Crunch, and an occupational therapist to give him wagon rides and teach him to tie his shoes. The secret trips to McDonald's and hiding under the covers with his mommy were what he was missing.

Who comforted him when he woke up in the middle of the night
scared of a bump forming in the hospital curtains or the creaking noise coming from under his bed? Who told him everything was going to be okay when his lungs filled up with fluid and his body shook from shaking chills from one more high fever? Who would be his tooth fairy when his front incisor fell out? All those milestones would go uncelebrated in the history of this little boy.

Sophie leaned over the side rail and brushed the long waves away from his face. He needed a haircut, she thought, making a mental note to ask Mindy how that worked in the hospital. Max's arms stirred and he looked like he was about to wake up.

“Max?”

She realized waking him was selfish, but she knew he could always use some love, no matter what time of night. When he didn't move, she bent over and kissed his plump cheek. Her lips lingered a little too long, still hoping he would wake up and show her his toothy smile. Or sit up and be so glad to see her she'd have a reason to stay. A place to stay. She could sleep right beside him in the recliner.

When he didn't wake up, she pulled the chair by his bed and watched his tiny chest move up and down. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he was dreaming of somewhere or something sweet. For the first time, she thought about scooping him up and taking him home with her. Making all the wrongs that had been done to him all better with one gigantic act of right. She could love him and take care of him, since his mother wouldn't. At least then he'd have a fighting chance.

Thomas had lost his right to an opinion. If she stayed with him, and that was a big if, he'd have to get over the fact that having a child, a special-needs child, would be challenging and time-consuming. She could hear his arguments now.
Max needs
a full-time caregiver. Are you prepared to do that?

She didn't care what he thought. For once, she didn't care what Thomas needed. She cared only about Max and what was best for him. It was the
first definitive decision she'd made in a long time. And this decision felt right.

—

S
OPHIE WOKE TO SOMEONE RUBBING
her shoulder. “You going to stay here all night?” Mindy said in a voice just above a whisper. “Thomas must be worried sick about you.”

“What time is it?” Sophie replied, trying to find her cell phone.

“Five-fifteen in the morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I can't believe I fell asleep!” She turned on her phone and quickly became distracted by the multiple alerts: 9:17 p.m.—
where r u? Call me.
9:45 p.m.—
worried, call me.
Five missed calls, five voicemails, all from Thomas. The last one saying if she didn't call him soon he was calling the police.

“Better take care of this.” She showed Mindy her phone, then pushed the recliner back against the wall and kissed Max one final time before leaving. “Let's talk soon?” she said to Mindy. “I want to know how you're doing with Stephen being gone.”

“Anytime,” Mindy told her. Sophie held her arms out and gave Mindy a much-needed hug.

“Hey, isn't today your birthday?” Mindy asked her, after their longer-than-ever embrace.

“Oh, I guess it is.” The large whiteboard in Max's room displayed today's date.

“Well, happy birthday! Call me later and we will celebrate.”

“Will do,” Sophie told her, as she left a sleeping Max and dialed her husband's cell number.

—

T
HOMAS ANSWERED THE PHONE
on the first ring. “Thank God. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I didn't mean to scare you. You said you were going to be late, so I went to visit Max. I fell asleep.” There were several things she purposefully left unsaid in that sentence.

“I thought something happened to you. I called every hospital between here and Charlotte. The police were no help. They told me to call back today if you didn't show up.” Sophie could tell he was frustrated. Relieved, but frustrated.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you.” She couldn't believe she was the one apologizing. “We need to talk. I'm walking out of the hospital. I need to go through Starbucks first and get something to drink. Want anything?” Had she really just asked him if he wanted Starbucks? She was as crazy as her mom.

“I want you to be at home, that's what I want—” His frustration was now turning into irritation.

“I said I was sorry,” she snapped back.

“I'm glad you're okay,” Thomas said, regrouping his tone and his choice of words. “Every noise I heard I prayed it was the garage door opening. I need to leave for an early surgery. Fifth cup of coffee, I guess I'm a little on edge.”

“We both are.” Sophie did not want to wait any longer to confront him about his late-night affairs, but she didn't want to do it on her phone in the hospital corridor, either.

“Remember we have the Heart Ball tonight?” he asked before she could make it to someplace more private. “My whole office is going. It'll be a good chance for you to hit some of them up for donations.”

The Heart Ball. She had completely forgotten. Her birthday—she guessed he didn't care.

Thirty years old today, and the only present she wanted she'd just left, asleep in his bed all by himself.

I haven't written Sophie in a few days. My eyesight's been a bit fuzzy since the fall. I've tried to nap two or three times this afternoon, but the sound of cursing, toilets flushing, and opposing radio stations kept waking me up. Carmen was listening to twang (she calls it Grand Ole Opry music), and Roni had on a NASCAR race. I contemplated taking out my own stitches so my head wouldn't explode.

My pillow had just gotten comfortable when the officer yelled, “Stand for count.”

Flashing dots obstructed my vision, so I couldn't see who was shouting at me through the window as I tried to stand. I braced my leg against the side of my cot so I didn't lose my balance.

“Bradshaw, the chaplain is here to see you.”

“Sir?” I replied. He had to know the doctor gave instructions for me to stay in bed.

“Move it along. Put your hands through.”

I held on to the side of the wall and tried to move as fast as I was being ordered to, but the room started to fade. My choices were obey and fall on the concrete floor or disobey and fall on my bed. I chose the bed.

“Bradshaw, if you ever want to see the light of day again, stand up and give me your hands.” His words faded and I didn't hear what he said next. He continued shouting as he opened the door to my cell.

“When I give you an order,” he bellowed close to my face, “you follow it.”

I'd never seen this guy before. He grabbed my arm and forced me to stand up. The metal on his belt buckle caught the side of my forehead on my way up. I felt one of my stitches pop.

“You can make your last days pleasant or unpleasant. The choice is yours,” he barked as he shoved me against the wall. The cold of the cinder blocks felt good against my face.

He cuffed me and I followed him the best I could to the dayroom.

Live life with a counterintuitive love.
I could hear Paul whispering one of his sermons in my ringing ear.
Let your enemies bring out the best in you, not the worst.

“She's bleeding,” Ms. Liz said as we approached the table she was sitting at.

“She doesn't follow orders,” the officer replied, stretching out the word
she
. He pulled out a chair and pushed me down in it. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, and walked away.

“I asked for permission to see you
in
your cell
,” Ms. Liz said. She made sure the officer's back was turned before stroking my forearm. She pulled a tissue from her bag and blotted the blood dripping down the side of my face.

“Do you want to go to the infirmary?” she whispered.

“No.” I wanted Paul.

“Can you get me a drink of water?” The inside of my mouth felt sunburned.

She did, and a minute or two later I felt okay again.

“I have an answer to your question.” She unfolded a piece of notebook paper from her small black Bible.

“What question is that?” I asked her.

“The question you asked me a few days ago. I've thought a lot about it.”

She placed the paper on her lap and straightened it with her arthritic hands. “You asked me what's the one thing I'd want my daughters to know before I died.”

I had remembered, but I didn't think she would. When she left my bedside that day, I knew I'd crossed a line. In prison, relationships were one-sided. I was supposed to listen and obey. No questions asked. I'd let Ms. Liz into my life when I shared with her stories about my family. I hadn't expected her to let me into hers.

“The obvious answer to your question is that I would want my girls to know I love them.”

I could tell this conversation meant something to her, too, by the way she looked deep into my eyes.

“I think they know that, though,” she continued. “I also want them to know that every time I look at them, I'm swollen with pride. I still can't believe I”—she put her curled fingers to her chest—“got to play a small part in their creation.” She looked back down at her paper. “I hope they know that.”

I started to tear up and then I sniffled. She handed me another tissue. I leaned toward her because I didn't want to miss a word of what she had to say.

Ms. Liz opened her Bible. Notes written in black pen covered the margins. A dark purple velvet ribbon marked her place.

I thought she was about to read me Scripture, but she didn't. Instead she took a long sip of her bottled water.

“This isn't a standard conversation I have with inmates.” She put down her bottled water and hesitated, like she was making sure her seat belt was fastened or the stove was turned off. “But as I told you before, you're different. I feel I can trust you.”

I haven't heard those words in well over seventeen years.

“I haven't always been a great mother.” She lifted her Bible off her lap and then looked at me for my reaction.

“No judgment here.” I held up my handcuffed hands and we both laughed.

“Let's just say my youngest daughter and I have not always seen eye
to eye on things. I believed proper parenting meant I had to have a list of rules for my girls to follow. I wanted to raise good girls who waited until they were married to have sex, and didn't drink a sip of alcohol unless it was presented to them at the Communion table in the Lord's house.”

She brushed her hand over the cover of the Bible. “Olive always rebelled. If I said curfew was at midnight she'd come in at two. If I said she could date when she turned sixteen, she'd come in with a hickey at fifteen and a half just to spite me.”

Ms. Liz picked up the Bible and placed it on her chest. “I turned this book into a set of rules.”

“Five minutes,” the officer yelled.

“To make a long story short, Olive wouldn't award me Mother of the Year.

“She got into some trouble with a boy in high school, and she didn't feel like she could come to me.” Her voice cracked. I wanted to touch her hand or hug her.

“I would have helped her with the baby, but I guess she didn't trust that.”

I nodded like I knew how Ms. Liz was feeling.

“I didn't find out she had the abortion until months later. I overheard her on the phone with a friend.”

“How is Olive doing now?”

“She is doing fine, I think, but our relationship is strained. I can see it when she looks at me. Always wondering if I'm disappointed in her.”

Ms. Liz looked over at the officer. He started to walk our way. Our time today was almost over.

“So to answer your question—”

“Time's up.”

Ms. Liz slipped a folded-up piece of paper from her Bible into my hands before the officer noticed. I squeezed it tight, feeling almost normal as he escorted me back to my cell.