With Love from the Inside (27 page)

Dr. Johnson removed the measuring tape from Sophie's expanding midsection. “Eighteen weeks and three days,” she said. “The baby's growing right on schedule.”

Sophie pulled down her shirt. “So I can resume normal activities?”

“Normal activities, such as . . .” Dr. Johnson finished winding the tape and tossed it into a drawer. She pulled out a fetal Doppler. “Pull up your shirt again for me, please.”

Dr. Johnson pressed the Doppler low on her abdomen while Sophie fumbled for any combination of words that made “visiting my mother before her execution” fall under the umbrella of normal. After a few seconds, she gave up and closed her eyes to take in her new favorite sound, the rushed thumping of the baby's heartbeat.

“The baby's heart sounds good.” Sophie breathed the same sigh of relief she did every time.

“Listen, Sophie,” Dr. Johnson started, “your blood pressure has stabilized and you have no protein in your urine, but . . .”

Sophie prepared herself for what was next.

“If you want me to give you permission to go see your mom, I can't do that.” Dr. Johnson held out her hand to assist Sophie up and off the exam table. “That's a decision only you and Thomas can make.” Her baby, their baby, meant everything to her, but so did her mother. And
now that she'd finally figured that out, she couldn't believe she might be forced to choose.

“I understand,” Sophie said, “but you're saying I'm off bed rest?”

“I'm saying you still have to take it easy.” Dr. Johnson tucked her flatter-than-usual shoulder-length bob behind her ears. A long call night, Sophie conjectured, after noting the tiny smudges of eye shadow caked on her eyes. “But you can increase your activities.”

“Okay.” Sophie considered reassuring her doctor by saying facts like “Thomas can borrow a wheelchair for me” and “The visiting room on death watch is close to the parking lot,” but she opted to leave well enough alone. “So—two weeks.”

“Yes, but call me if you need me.” Dr. Johnson put her hand on the doorknob and then stopped and turned around. “Sophie,” she said; her tired eyes spoke compassion. “I know you're going through an unimaginable time right now . . . with, uh, your situation.”

Sophie fiddled with the thin white crepe paper crumpled beneath her. “With my mom, you mean?” The word
situation
did seem to flow a little better than “I'm sorry about your mom's lethal injection.”

“Yes, with your mom,” Dr. Johnson responded softly.

The clinical instructions, Sophie gathered, came more easily for Dr. Johnson than the personal ones.

“I can't begin to know what you're going through.” Her pager went off, thankfully interrupting before Sophie had to respond. “But try to remember, you have a complicated pregnancy.”

Back in the waiting room, Sophie's cell phone rang just as she finished scheduling her next two-week visit.

“Hey, Thomas,” she said, getting ready to put a positive spin on Dr. Johnson's cautionary advice.

“Sophie. It's Carter.”

“Oh.” She hadn't checked the screen before she answered. It had been
four days since she'd left the message at his office and she'd given up hope he'd call her back. “Hi, Carter. How are you?”

“The bigger question is how are you?”

“I'm okay, I guess. Just finished seeing my doctor. The baby is fine.” She almost said, “Your niece or nephew is doing fine,” but she thought better of it.

“Glad to hear that. Thomas told us the good news. Congratulations. Caroline's been planning to call, but she's been busy with Vivi.”

“I understand,” Sophie said, but they both knew she didn't. “I guess you're calling about my voicemail.”

“Yes, I am,” he said, his words morphing awkwardly professional. “I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to do much.”

“Why is that, Carter?” She pushed her challenge through her suddenly dry mouth.

“Because Mrs. Bradshaw has had seventeen years to prove she's innocent. She's had all her appeals. This looks like a last-ditch effort by a small-town defense attorney, and frankly, Sophie, the governor is not going to buy it.”

Sophie held the phone under her chin while she fished through her purse for her car keys.
Mrs. Bradshaw, really?
She dumped the contents of her purse onto the hood of her Land Rover. The keys were nowhere.

“We have proof, Carter.” Sophie put her makeup bag and her billfold back in her purse while searching the parking lot for her keychain. “We have a genetics test.”

“The D.A. has evidence, too. He found ethylene glycol in William's blood,” he said, more sternly than she'd heard him speak before. She pictured a sixteen-year-old version of Vivi tiptoeing across the maple hardwood floors twenty minutes after curfew, praying, “Please don't let my dad wake up.”

Sophie walked around to the back of her SUV and leaned against the bumper while Carter continued.

“The test on the baby bottles and your brother's blood samples were sound scientific evidence. Even if your brother had some kind of metabolic disorder, that still doesn't negate the fact your mother poisoned him.”

“No one ever tested his blood for a metabolic disorder. We have a test on the same baby bottle, and the results were completely different. His blood was tested
with antiquated techniques
. Please, Carter, I know my mother is innocent.”

“I'm sorry, Sophie. I am.” His voice softened a little. “But I'm not sure I can always believe what you say, not enough to stick my neck out, anyway.”

Sophie knew she deserved his second sentence. “You're right, I lied. I was ashamed. I wanted to fit in with your family. You can distrust me all you want, but please don't take it out on my mother.”

The door to the obstetrician's office opened, so Sophie walked around to the more discreet side of her SUV. “My mom didn't kill my brother.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Sophie heard the faint sound of keys jingling behind her. A lady wearing pink scrubs laid Sophie's keys down on the curb beside her. Sophie recognized her as the nurse who'd scheduled her next appointment. “You left these,” she mouthed, before rushing away.

Sophie watched her scurry into the office. Probably already gossiping about what she'd overheard. Let the Google searches begin.

“I wish I could help you, but I can't,” Carter continued, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “You better prepare yourself, because the governor won't, either.”

My cell door unlocked before anyone yelled “Stand for count” or a breakfast tray inserted itself through the slit in my front door. Officer Kollins walked in with a chair and a clipboard.

“Did you get any sleep?”

I knew her question was her way of trying to put me at ease, because the video camera mounted in the corner of my cell recorded my every move.

“Not much.”

“I don't think I introduced myself last night. My name is Officer Kollins.”

“Grace Bradshaw.” I held my hand out like we were making introductions at a PTA meeting.

She shook my hand.

“That's a first,” I joked, when the shaking ended.

“Not my regular practice, either.” She glanced up at the camera. “Officer Jones is a friend of mine. She asked me to help you with this transition.”

Transition—is that what they're calling it these days?

“Thank you for helping me. Will I see Officer Jones again?”

“I'm not sure,” she said as she skimmed through the papers on her clipboard. Her lack of eye contact told me probably not.

“I need to go over the procedures with you now that you are on death watch.”

“Okay.” I straightened the wrinkles on my pants while she began.

“With the exception of fifteen minutes that will be allowed for your shower, you will spend all your time in this cell.” Officer Kollins put the end of her black ballpoint pen in her mouth and pulled off the cap. “You'll be visited by a nurse, a psychologist, and a spiritual adviser daily. You're not allowed to have any personal belongings other than these.”

She placed a sheet, one pillowcase, a change of underwear, and some thin gray socks at the foot of my bed. She held up bottoms of the now all-orange prison uniform next to my waist and said, “These look three times your size. I'll send the property sergeant up to laundry and see if we can get you something that fits.”

I started to tell her not to bother. I knew full well how to twist and tie and make something that fell off me stay in place, but the consideration of waking up tomorrow without red marks from the excessive fabric knots swayed me to keep my mouth shut.

“The property sergeant will bring you down some toiletries before your shower this evening. Anything else you would like needs to be requested in written form.”

“Can I have some more paper?”

Officer Kollins nodded. “I'll bring you a form.”

My Bible lay open at the end of my bed. “Can I keep that?” I hesitantly tilted my head toward the book.

Officer Kollins flipped through the papers on her clipboard. “That's allowed.”

“Can I have visitors?”

“Visitation is allowed on the day of”—Officer Kollins cleared her throat and made some quick check marks with her ballpoint pen—“your execution.”

She left after telling me she'd try to get me some reading materials. “Do you like any particular magazines?”

“
Woman's Day
,” I told her, but wished I hadn't. I didn't need the month of menus anymore. I could count the days I had left on my hands.

Despite the doctor's cautions and Thomas's worries, nothing could have prevented Sophie from going to see her mom on what could be her final day. Although Thomas made a show of telling her to be careful, she knew he understood her reasoning.

What she didn't tell him was that she had to see her mom face-to-face to gauge for herself whether she held on to any trace of blame or of anger toward her. Being unsure about her mother's true feelings would crush Sophie in a way she'd never recover from.

She watched the cable news networks pick up the story with increased intensity as her mom's execution date approached. “South Carolina woman Grace Bradshaw will be executed in two days unless she receives executive clemency. She will be the first woman to be put to death in the state in twenty-four years.”

Ben continued to do what he could. He even landed an interview with a sassy former prosecutor on her late-night talk show.

“With all due respect,” the impudent TV host questioned, “your client had seventeen years to come up with this ‘metabolic theory,' and at the last minute, you throw this out. Why, sir, didn't you investigate this sooner?”

Ben combated her aggressiveness with his southern warmth and stuck with the facts. “Grace's husband passed away before the new evidence could be pursued. William Bradshaw died of a metabolic disorder. We have genetics tests from his sister to prove this.”

During commercial breaks, Sophie decided to make a Facebook page:
Free Grace Bradshaw—South Carolina Plans to Kill an Innocent Mother
. She called Thomas in from unloading the dishwasher to preview what she'd written.

“Are you sure you're prepared to go public with this?” He looked over her story, and the family photos she'd uploaded that he'd never seen. “I took them from my house when I visited Brookfield,” she explained.

“That's me, holding my mom's hand after I was born.” She had studied every detail of that picture, again and again, since she'd brought it home.

She watched her husband for his reaction. He touched her picture on the computer screen. “I've never seen a picture of you as a baby.”

“Neither had I. Not for a long time, anyway.” Sophie dropped her chin to her chest and exhaled before looking Thomas square in the eyes. “I'm proud to be Grace Bradshaw's daughter. My mistake was not realizing that sooner.”

Thomas enlarged the picture. “Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me?”

The ache in his words tore through her.

“I feel like this”—he swiped back and forth between them—“has all been one big lie.”

Sophie took his hand. “None of this is a lie. I thought if you knew, if your family found out, you'd leave me. My family is nothing like your family. You're nothing like me. I needed you to love me.”

Thomas moved his face closer to hers. “I do love you.” He gripped her face harder than she thought he intended to. “I don't want what my family has. I want what your family had, what our family can have.”

“I want that, too,” Sophie whispered. “I want that, too.”

Later that evening, Thomas logged on to his Facebook page. “Between us, we have a lot of contacts,” he said while scrolling through. “We might as well share this page with them all.”

Margaret Logan called Thomas's cell soon after. He took the call in the study, but Sophie knew by the way he pined around the rest of the evening that his mother hadn't offered much support. “I know what it feels like to be accused of something you didn't do,” he said to Sophie after they'd gone to bed. He wrapped his arms around her and slept with her close to him.

He hadn't told her any details about the pending lawsuit when she asked (“We'll worry about that later!”), so she texted Mindy.

Parents dropped lawsuit
,
but newspaper article destroyed his bid for chief of surgery.
A row of yellow sad-faced emoticons followed Mindy's reply.

The morning before the scheduled execution, Thomas called his office and told them he needed a few days off for personal reasons, while Sophie unsuccessfully dredged through the maternity blouses hanging in the upper rack of her closet.
Has any employee handbook in the history of
employee handbooks ever stated that a valid reason to use
a personal day included attending the murder of your mother-in-law?
Likewise, did the designers from A Pea in the Pod
say to one another, when sketching my beige peplum-and-lace button-down,
“Why, Jane, this will look especially good on a pregnant
woman if she has to attend an execution”?
When she didn't emerge after several minutes, Thomas finally made the decisions for her and selected a long-sleeved, cream-colored crocheted tunic and khaki leggings.

Sophie saw the florist truck parked in front of the clubhouse as they drove past. Thomas pulled to the side of the road when Mindy ran from behind the delivery truck and waved them over.

“I need to give you a hug.” Mindy pointed to Sophie through the rolled-up windows. Sophie opened her door as Mindy darted over.

“I'm holding you close,” Mindy whispered in her ear before they drove away. “You'll never have to go through anything alone again.”

—

T
HOMAS BOOKED THEM INTO A HOTEL
close to the prison. He mentioned the name of it after they were already on the interstate. He didn't know it was the one Sophie and her dad had stayed at the night her mom was locked away. She decided not to tell him yet, but she would. She had learned the hard way that one secret leads to another, and that part of her life was over.

Instead, to help her endure the long car ride, she chose to close her eyes and let her mind go to a place that calmed her. Her mom, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, holding Sophie's tiny hands. She could smell the polish as her mom painted her fingernails a purple glitter color, blowing each coat dry, until her polished nails looked just perfect.