With Love from the Inside (17 page)

The will to do, The soul to dare.

—
SIR WALTER SCOTT

Sophie, I did something I thought I'd never do. I can twist, turn, and justify it a million different ways, but in the end, I am responsible because I chose not to be brave. Instead, I opted for the easier choice. I made the choice to do nothing.

Earlier this evening, Carmen stood with her back to all of us, whispering into the phone—the same ritual practiced every week when she made her collect call home. She knew the phone calls were being recorded, but that didn't stop her from engaging in some pretty lewd conversations with husband number four. Some days she spoke in a soft, sultry voice; other days she moaned and groaned so loud the officer cut her off midsentence.

She twirled her hair and swayed back and forth like a girl getting asked to the prom. I tried not to stare, but Roni, who was next in line, kept looking at the clock and then glaring at Carmen. Three minutes left, according to my timekeeping, and I thought Roni might explode.

The last letter Roni wrote to her father (I wrote—she dictated) said she'd call him on December 23.

Please be waiting by the phone,
she had me write,
because one try is all I get and I want to hear what your voice sounds like
.
I added the
please
.

“Hurry up, Carmen,” she growled, while pacing back and forth.

Carmen ignored her, but belted out a few seismic sounds in her direction.

Roni's dad worked the night shift at the gas station he owned. The call would not happen if she didn't reach him soon.

“One minute left,” the officer shouted unnecessarily—done or not, the line automatically cuts off when your time is up.

Roni pulled a small piece of paper out of the top of her pants and unfolded it. She studied the numbers while slowing her steps.

“Until next time,” Carmen said in the lowest pitch possible. She clinked the phone down loudly and then spun around to see who was watching.

“About damn time,” Roni said, her face inches from Carmen's. She brushed her unintentionally with her right shoulder as she reached to dial.

“Ouch!” Carmen screamed. The officer stood up from behind his desk and ran over. “She hit me.”

Before Roni had a chance to protest, the officer pushed her up against the wall.

“You just can't stay out of trouble, can you?”

Carmen put her hand over her left shoulder and cried, “I think it's dislocated.”

Roni looked over her shoulder to find me. When her gaze met mine, I looked away. I LOOKED AWAY.

The officer pushed her face back against the wall and cuffed her hands. As he escorted her back to the cell, she pleaded, “Tell him, Grace. You saw what happened. Tell him.”

I started to open my mouth, but the words refused to come out.
They're stuck inside me, reminding me of the last time I snitched. I needed to call Ben, and I knew no good deed was without consequence in prison. Three inmates had taught me the “code” with the melted end of a toothbrush after I witnessed a new lifer being harassed in her first few weeks at Lakeland. The officers stood by and did nothing. Don't be nosy and never rat on another inmate. Three months of not being able to sit down when you urinate is enough of a reminder that in prison one's moral compass doesn't always point you in the right direction.

The officer pushed Roni back into her cell. “How many write-ups does this make for you?”

She didn't answer, but I could have. None, in the last few months, anyway. Since her dad wrote her, Roni had done everything by the book, even asking Jada to turn down her music because Officer Jones rubbed her head like she had a headache.

None of that mattered. Roni would be on restriction. No hearing her dad say “I'm glad I found you” on the phone or examining his features to see if they looked like hers when he tried to visit on Christmas Day.

“Bradshaw, do you want your call or not?” the officer said after he locked Roni's cell.

My chin started to quiver as I made my way over to the phone.

I didn't know if I could hate myself any more. Or any more than I hated Carmen.

“Ben Taylor's office.” I thought it was Louise, his secretary, who answered the phone after the fifth ring, but I couldn't quite tell.

“Collect call from Lakeland State Penitentiary. Will you accept charges?”

“Prisoner's name?” She cleared her throat and coughed. Louise.

“State your name,” the operator said.

“It's me, Louise. Grace Bradshaw.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” Louise replied. “Of course I will.”

The phone line clicked and then an automated voice said, “Four minutes remaining.”

How was that possible? I started to argue but realized it was a moot point, so I spoke fast. “Can I talk to Mr. Taylor?”

“Grace, I'm so glad you called.” Louise stopped to cough. “He needs to talk to you.”

“Is he there?” I said, even faster.

Louise coughed again. “Damn frog caught in my throat.”

“The warden gave me papers and I'm scared to sign them without talking to Ben first.” Three minutes left.

“Don't do it. You can't trust that weaselly warden.” She put something in her mouth. I heard her sucking. “Ben's in court today, but he's dying to talk to you.” She paused for a second, and then her voice climbed higher. “Oh my, that came out wrong. Please forgive me.”

“No need,” I said. “About my case or about Sophie?”

Louise cleared her throat and coughed again. “I'm not sure I should be the one who tells you.”

I started to beg, but I heard her other line ring.

“Hold on. Ben's on the other line.”

She placed me on hold. “Jolene” by Dolly Parton belted in my ear and my stomach started to churn.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joooolene.
Please, God, let him tell me he's found Sophie.

“Grace, this is Ben.”

“Hi, Ben. Please tell me you have good news.”

And that was the last thing I said before the line went dead.

Sophie didn't know whom to talk to first. But when she returned to her car and took out her phone, it was Ben Taylor's cell number she dialed. “Please pick up. Please pick up.” After the fourth ring, his voicemail came on:
“This is Ben Taylor and
I am unable to take your call at this time . . .”
Sophie tapped her foot on the floorboard and waited for his greeting to end.

“Ben, this is Sophie Logan. Please call me right away. It's urgent I talk to you.”

This whole day had been a blur. So much information swelled in her mind, she couldn't decide what to think about first. Could it be true? Could her baby brother have been ill like Jack suggested? Sophie hadn't told him about her mother's conviction. She didn't have to. He'd assumed from the symptoms William had died of a metabolic disorder.

When Sophie hadn't argued the point, Jack continued. He told her these diseases often went undiagnosed, since they were rare, inherited disorders. Seventeen years ago, doctors weren't even aware some metabolic conditions existed.

It made sense to him. William had had a poor appetite and then became sick after he ate, since the babies with this disorder lack the enzyme that breaks down protein. The pieces fell into place while he was talking. “Why can't the doctors figure out what is wrong with him?” she'd heard her mother say on one of her many visits to the pediatrician. Later, her
pleas consisted of “I promise I didn't hurt your brother. You have to believe me.”

But Sophie hadn't believed her. No one had, except her father.

Every symptom William had had sounded like the disease Jack had described—what he said was possibly a metabolic acidemia or something along those lines. Sophie had had Jack spell it while she typed it into her phone.

The confusion was that it also reiterated the prosecutor's closing argument because all of those symptoms could have come from poisoning. Sophie tried to keep her emotions in check. Her feelings vacillated from exhilaration to guilt to pure fear. Her mother had been on death row for seventeen years. Not only did the system think she was a baby killer, her own daughter had, too.

Sophie's phone lit up.
LOW BATTERY
.

Where was her car charger? A frantic search through her glove compartment yielded nothing. In the console between the seats, a black-coiled car charger appeared along with the unopened envelope Ben Taylor had given her from her mother.

She tore open the envelope and pulled out a photo: Sophie, snuggled asleep in her bed with her princess tiara on. Teddy curled up right beside her. Her fingernails were painted with purple glitter nail polish. On the back her mom had written one word:
GRATEFUL
.

Sophie plugged in her car charger and redialed Ben's number. This time her message said “Ben, I hope you're home, because I'm on my way to see you.”

—

“H
EY
,
BABY
, I
WAS
WAITING FOR YOU.”
Thomas was sitting at the kitchen table holding a newspaper when Sophie walked in to grab a change of clothes for her trip. The color of his face matched his white oxford shirt. “Come sit beside me.”

He was never home in the middle of the afternoon. Sophie's thoughts hurled through an escalating list of worst-case scenarios.
He does love Eva? He found out about my mom? Jack told him about the baby?

“You feeling okay?” Thomas should've been the first person she called after she left the obstetrician's office, not her mom's death row attorney. What was wrong with her?

“We need to talk. Can you sit down?” By the look in his eyes, she knew what he was about to say was important. Did he mean what he said this morning? Was it his deception or hers? Did it really matter? She put her hand over her stomach.

“Thomas,” she said, pulling out the chair next to his. “I am so . . .” Her words fought their way through the thickness forming in her throat. She collapsed into the chair.

“I'm sorry,” Thomas said. He put his hands on her legs. “I haven't handled this whole thing the right way.”

Eva's alluring painted red lips burst into her mind. “I knew it. You cheated on me with Eva?” She took his hands off her knees and started to stand.

Thomas pulled her back down. “No, not Eva!” His tight face lightened a bit. “I haven't been completely honest, but I have been faithful.”

Faithful.
Sophie braced herself, not sure if his next revelation would be better or worse.

He held up a section of the
News & Observer
. “Doctor Implicated in Death of Girl,” headlined page four. “Do you want to read it or should I paraphrase?” Thomas placed the neatly folded article on the table and slid it over to her.

“Paraphrase.”

“A reporter interviewed the parents,” Thomas stammered. “They said I didn't even know their daughter's name. They said I didn't care.”

“How could they say that? You didn't sleep well for days.” She grabbed
the paper from the table, undoing Thomas's precise folds. “Who wrote this piece-of-trash story, anyway?”

Thomas rubbed his stubbled cheeks while Sophie scoured every word. “It doesn't matter who wrote it. That's how the parents feel.”

“This article makes you sound guilty. It's says you failed to give appropriate post-op care, you didn't take an accurate medical history.”

“I know what it says.” Thomas gripped the side of the table. “I, along with most of the community,
know
what it says.” His chair legs scratched their hardwood floor when he abruptly stood up.

“This baby's a good thing,”
Jack said.
“It'll take Thomas's mind off everything else.”

Thomas pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator while she mulled over when she should tell him about the baby.

Judging by the way he slammed his water bottle on the table when he sat down, today wasn't the best day.

“I've been talking to my dad and my brother, asking for advice on what to do.”

“What do you mean ‘what to do'?” Her question added weight to his already slouching shoulders. “If you aren't guilty, you should fight it.”

“I'm not guilty. Everything I did was standard of care.” He leaned in toward her and put his hands on her knee. “Don't you believe me?”

Sophie rubbed his hands. “Of course I believe you.”

“My dad and Carter, they're both telling me to make this go away. I should've already settled out of court.” Thomas rolled his bloodshot eyes. “For them, it was all about keeping this out of the papers.”

Sophie understood their concern. The stench of stale cigar breath assaulted her just thinking about the editor from the
Brookfield Journal
camped out on her porch steps, a bulky camera slung around his neck and a microphone perched in his hand.

“I've thought about listening to them. I have. I want to make this go
away.” Thomas took his hand from beneath hers and recreased the folded article with his thumbnail. “I could fight this. I could have my attorneys call in expert witnesses. Have them explain to the jury what this little girl died of was a rare adverse reaction to her anesthesia, and that would be totally true. Malignant hyperthermia is rare. Even if I'd been right by her side, given her a different medication—I don't think I could have saved her.”

“It wasn't your fault.” Why was it so easy to believe he was innocent and not her mom?

“I did all I could think of to do.” Thomas scratched the back of his head. “But I can't get her face out of my mind.”

The image of her handcuffed mother popped into her head.

She reached over and massaged the back of his neck for him. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to do what I should have done from the beginning.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I'm going to talk to the parents.”