With Love from the Inside (21 page)

A tray with a hard-boiled egg, a cup of mixed fruit, and a single sausage patty slid through my door to help celebrate my seventeenth and last Christmas Day on death row. I decided I didn't have much of an appetite. Instead I spent my time in my cell, forcing myself to remember every Christmas since Paul and I met and we started a family.

Daddy putting together your pink Schwinn bike after I tucked you in bed for the night and made you promise to go fast asleep. The white instruction pages spread across the floor in different languages, his hammer and every size screw and Allen wrench aligned in a row across the coffee table.

I stayed in the kitchen, gnawing the ends of carrot sticks in imitation of Rudolph's teeth marks, then took a bite out of the two Oreos you had laid out before going to bed. I poured half the glass of Santa's milk down the drain.

Paul or I would yell the next morning from the kitchen while you made a beeline to the tree, “Looks like Santa and his reindeer sure enjoyed the snack you left for them.” You'd rush over to look.

If I had enough energy left, I'd pull apart a cotton ball and leave small bits of fuzz stuck in the fireplace cover. “Poor Santa must've ripped the bottom of his pants again.” You jumped up and down, giggling. “Silly Santa,” you'd say.

I dreamed last night we were all in the same bed. Me on one side, you and William in the middle, and Paul on the other. The house made no sounds and the TV wasn't on. Just us, lying there. I could hear you breathe and feel William's arm brush up against mine. I felt like time stood still, like nothing could ever go wrong. I was in perfect peace.

When I woke up this morning, alone, still on the row, the noise of guards shouting and cell bars clanging, I felt as if the last bit of life I had in me had been sucked out. The peace from my dreams was gone and the chaos of my reality rushed in to take its place.

I used to pray God would let me be with my family each night when I closed my eyes. Those brief dreams helped me survive and helped me through the long moments when my eyes were forced to be open.

For a moment, I envied Jada. She stays to herself. She hoards her bread slices at mealtime and molds them into zoo animals. The giraffe knows more about her than I do. Her mind creates her reality, and her family lives with her there.

I've heard it said that right before you die, your life flashes in front of your eyes. Snippets of big and small, like “It's a girl,” then “He has your nose,” to “Of course I'll marry you” and “Don't give up. We'll get through this.” All the occurrences that elevate and deflate us and bore us to tears, all melted together to become the story of our lives.

Most people tend to remember the significant. The “I dos” and the “I will no longers,” or the exhilaration they felt the first time they pulled themselves upright on water skis. I do, too, but as I look back on my forty-nine years the most important moments are not the events but the seconds right after. When I'm snuggled in bed next to you at the end of a long Christmas Day, the floor overtaken with
crumpled wrapping paper and torn boxes, the mashed potatoes glued to the side of the pan, all my earlier energy depleted, and you look at me and say, “Mommy, did you have a nice Christmas?”

Relationships that messed me up are the ones that kept me going. Circumstances that made me crazy challenged me to be better. Those moments shaped my soul and energized my spirit. These are the things I want to remember, these little pieces embedded in me so deeply they've become a part of who I am. They will follow me to my eternity.

Don't live your life for the big events. Pause and enjoy the moments after.

Right now, Sophie guessed, Thomas was probably sitting around his family's breakfast bar while his mom fixed him the traditional Christmas-morning sausage and three-cheese quiche and crème brûlée French toast casserole. The smell of freshly brewed cappuccino lingering in the background was always Sophie's favorite part.

Vivianne would be asking, “Where's Aunt Sophie? She promised to paint my fingernails.” Knowing Thomas, he'd probably tell her that Aunt Sophie wasn't feeling well, needed to rest, and had asked him to go to Charleston without her. She pictured his mom raising her eyebrows when he explained, his dad looking over his bifocals.

She resisted the urge to call or text him because she didn't know what to tell him. “Hey, I have great news. My mom, the one you thought was dead, isn't, but she may be innocent.” No text seemed close to appropriate. Soon, though, she had to tell him about the pregnancy. He deserved to know he was going to be a dad.

—

A
FTER THEY FINISHED THEIR MEETING
with Dr. Robinson, Ben offered a spare bedroom for Sophie to stay in. The idea of returning to the only bed-and-breakfast in Brookfield, sniffing kitty litter and greasy bacon on Christmas morning, made her decision for her.
Who cares what this looks like,
she rationalized when she gave him a quick yes.

They needed to move forward with a plan if her mom had any hope of being exonerated. “Even though you and I both believe your mother is innocent,” Ben cautioned her, “we have to get the governor to agree to even hear our evidence.” He exhaled. “This is a long shot that may not be possible.”

“One hundred percent failure rate if we don't try,” she said back to him. This time she smiled.

And it was a long shot—that much Dr. Robinson had made clear. After he had the chance to do some research on the disease, he gave Ben and Sophie a call. “The kind of metabolic disorder William may have had, isovaleric acidemia, or IVA for short, is rare—about one in seventy-five thousand. No one diagnosed it around the time your brother was born.”

He asked if both of them were following along before he continued.

“Both of your parents had to be carriers for William to become sick. Since you don't have the disease, you have a fifty percent chance of being a carrier like your parents, or a twenty-five percent chance of having perfectly normal genes. Babies born with IVA have a hard time breaking down protein. I suspect that's why William threw up after he had a bottle. Without treatment, seizures and loss of life can occur. Today, it's treatable by simple diet changes and medication.”

A carrier.
Could my baby be sick?
Jack mentioned something about additional testing, but Sophie hadn't asked him to clarify. She started to twist her hair.

Ben must have read her worry because he grabbed her hand and asked Henry, “Where do we go from here?”

“I'd love to test William's blood. Any chance the DA's office would allow us to do that?”

“I've already tried. No blood was left. All of the evidence had been discarded, believe it or not.” He tapped his pen rapidly on his thigh. “Could we exhume William's body for testing?”

The thought of disturbing William's final resting spot made Sophie twist her hair even faster.

“I don't think we'll have to.” Static interrupted the clarity of his voice.

“Can you repeat what you said?” asked Ben.

“I said I don't think we'll have to. We can test Grace. I don't suppose the prison has any state-of-the-art genetic-testing facilities available?”

“Even if they did, the mounds of paperwork that would be required to push that through—it would never happen in time.”

“Since your dad is not alive,” Dr. Robinson asked Sophie through the speakerphone, “how do you feel about giving me some blood?”

—

S
OPHIE FOUND
B
EN IN HIS KITCHEN,
scrambling eggs. “How'd you sleep?” he asked her.

“Not too good.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “Innocent and on death row all these years.”

“It happens more often than you think,” he said. “Wheat or white?”

“Wheat, please.”

Ben popped two slices into the toaster. He had on faded blue jeans and a navy pullover sweater. His kitchen countertops, free from clutter, held a family of painted ceramic roosters on the end closest to the refrigerator. His wife's touch before she passed away, Sophie guessed.

“I'm thinking this isn't what you thought you would be doing on Christmas morning,” she said to him.

He handed her a glass of ice-cold orange juice. “My gift will be an innocent Grace Bradshaw walking out of prison.” He whisked the eggs and then put some link sausage in a frying pan. “Hope you're not a vegetarian.”

“I'd eat a twelve-ounce sirloin right now if you had one. This baby's making me hungry.”

“I called a friend who's an ER doctor at the hospital. She's out of town right now, but she told me the outpatient lab at Brookfield General is small and understaffed. And it's not open today, anyway.” He scooped some eggs onto a plate. “She suggested we go to a larger facility with special lab technicians who are well versed in genetic testing. I plan to call a genetics expert to interpret the results.”

“Where'd she have in mind?”

Ben handed her some butter and blackberry jam. “Duke. Isn't that right in your backyard?”

“Sure is,” Sophie said. Her two worlds had finally collided.

Ben turned off the stove and gave Sophie three link sausages and two generous scoops of scrambled eggs.

“So, if I understood Dr. Robinson correctly . . .” She started to take a bite of eggs and stopped. “If I have normal genes, we can't prove William had the disease.” She put her fork down and pushed her plate aside. “And my mom will die by lethal injection.”

She then put her hand over the place where her baby was growing. “If I'm a carrier, then my baby could have exactly what William did.”

“I know.” Ben turned from wiping off the stove. “That's a real catch-22.”

After a few moments of silence, she picked up her orange juice to toast. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Ben ignored her sarcasm and pulled out a chair across the table from her. “Either way, you'll need to find out. What'd your husband say?”

“He doesn't know.”

“About the testing?” Ben questioned.

“About anything.” She fought back the tears. “About the pregnancy, anything.”

“You want to surprise him?” Ben widened his eyes. Sophie could tell he hoped that'd be her reason.

Sophie knew she was about to disappoint him. “It'll be a shock, all right. He doesn't know I even had a brother. Thomas thinks my mother's already dead. Cancer. I blurted it out when we first started dating.”

Ben tore off a paper towel and held it for too long over his mouth. Sophie tried to read his expression. Did he understand, or was he appalled by her?

“How'd you keep that a secret”—he put the paper towel in his lap—“for all these years?”

“Lies,” Sophie responded. “Lots of lies.”

Ben's cell phone rang, but he ignored it. “That must've been a heavy burden for you to bear all by yourself.”

“It was.” She picked up his cell phone from where it was ringing in the center of the table and said, “Here, talk to your kids.”

Sophie watched Ben's face brighten as he heard his five-year-old granddaughter's excitement as she told him all the things Santa brought her. “I miss you more,” Ben said.

“Wish I could be there, too,” he said when his son picked up the phone. “I'd have to have a pretty darn good excuse to be away from my kids on Christmas morning.”

When he hung up, Sophie said to him, “Ben, can you do me a huge favor? Can you please take me to see my mother?”

Bear with me. I don't want to forget anything that happened, so I'm writing it all down. You'll understand why when you get to the end.

Christmas Day was interrupted by Carmen . . .

“I need to shower,” she yelled at whoever would listen. “My husband will be here soon and I smell like dirty toilet water.” No one answered. Shower day was yesterday, and she wasn't getting another one.

“Grace,” she screamed through the locked doors, “when are you gonna cut my hair?” I didn't answer. I forgot to tell her my beauty-shop privileges had been revoked.

Inmate is no longer permitted to work outside the current assigned housing unit due to impending status change.
Fancy prison talk that means I can't work in the beauty shop anymore.

The cell doors unlocked and Carmen was still ranting. She flew out the door with a plastic comb in her hand and said, “Can you help me do something with this?”

“Merry Christmas,” I said to Carmen and then to Jada, who was watching from inside her cell.

“Right back at ya, Grace,” Carmen said in the most unjoyful tone she could muster. “Now tease my damn hair before my husband gets here.”

I took the comb and followed her to the dayroom. I glanced inside Roni's empty cell. Maybe today we'd hear some news.

“Jada, you wanna join us?” I asked her as I walked by.

“No, I'm going to stay in my cell and get ready. In case my kids get a chance to visit.”

I gave her a “why, sure they will” smirk.

“Hurry up, Grace!” Carmen waved her hands all around her head. “He's waiting on me.”

I put the comb to Carmen's head and pulled her bangs straight up in the air. Her hair was thinning, making it difficult to get any height on it at all. After a few minutes of failed attempts, I said, “You look lovely.”

She grabbed the comb and walked over to the turned-off TV to study her reflection.

“Get ready for body search,” the officer informed us after he put down the receiver on the phone.

Carmen squealed like she won the lottery. “I'll go first.”

I ignored her. No body search needed for me and Jada. No one was coming to spend Christmas with me.

Carmen disappeared behind the curtain
and I settled myself in for whatever TV shows I
could find that would help pass the time. A rerun
of the Westminster Dog Show. I covered myself up with
a gray blanket I dragged from my cell and decided
to cheer for the Portuguese water dog. He reminded me
of Teddy, and he had a nice sass in his step.

xoxoxo

“Bradshaw, don't got all day,” the officer shouted at me from across the room.

“Get over here right now if you want to see your visitor.”

I turned down the TV and made sure he was talking to me. “I have a visitor?”

“Not if you don't move faster.”

I almost ran across the room to be searched. This must be a mistake.

Maybe Ben? I hadn't heard from him since my phone call to him disconnected.

Two officers escorted Carmen and me down the hall and through the series of automated checkpoints. My ankle shackles felt tight, as did my chest. I had to remind myself to breathe.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked the officer after we passed the checkpoint for the attorney-client room.

“Visitor area,” he said. I couldn't remember the direction. I hadn't been there in years.

COULD IT BE YOU?

I needed a drink of water.

The officer buzzed us through a few doors I'd never seen before.

“Number sixteen,” the control room man said to the officer escorting me.

“Number nine,” he said to Carmen's.

“You look mouthwatering,” she said through the glass to her husband as soon as she sat down.

The officer unlocked my ankle shackles and pulled out the blue chair for me to sit in. He clamped them back to the chair legs and took off my handcuffs.

No one was seated across the glass from me.

I looked at the officer and he shook his head. “No idea. I just do what I'm told.”

The black phone had been taken off the wall. Thick glass and mesh grates now separated me from whomever.

After a few long minutes, I heard an officer say, “Sixteen. Bradshaw is in sixteen.”

My hands started to tingle like they were falling asleep. I closed my eyes and prayed that when I opened them, I'd see you sitting in front of me.

I heard a chair being pulled out. When I opened my eyes, a young man sat down. He glared at me through the glass.

I dropped my head. I didn't want to give interviews. About my life or about my death. Especially not on Christmas.

“I'm not interested in being interviewed.” I tried hard not to sound rude. “I don't have anything to say.” I scooted my chair back, turned, and raised my hand for the officer.

“She has your dimples,” the young man said.

I
turned back around and studied his face. I had no idea who he was.

“Your high cheekbones, too.” He didn't look happy when he spoke those words, but he didn't look mad, either.

“Who are you?”

“I almost didn't get in,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the control room. “My brother pulled some strings.” He had on a tweed sport coat over jeans.

“Are you related to Ben, my attorney?” He didn't look like Ben. Taller and wider at the shoulders, but much thinner. I think he exercised.

He didn't respond but kept staring at my face. I couldn't remember if I'd combed my hair.

“I didn't believe it was true when I first heard it,” he said to me. “I had to call the district attorney's office myself.”

“Do I know you?” I asked the same question in a different way.

“I didn't know you were alive,” he said slowly; articulating the words seemed to cause him pain. “Until yesterday.”

I sat with my back straight up against my chair and glanced over to make sure the officers were still watching. He pulled out a picture from his wallet and pressed it up against the smudged glass. He and his wife in front of a church with hand-cut stained-glass windows and steep arches. Him in a black tux. Her in a fitted white beaded gown with an angel-cut wedding veil.

“My name is Thomas Logan. I'm married to your daughter.”