With Love from the Inside (8 page)

“He's hurting my ears,” Sophie cried, her glittery
purple fingernails pressed hard against the sides of her head.
“Make him stop crying!” Her mom tried to console William,
jiggle him up and down, but nothing she did seemed
to work. Baby William's body didn't look squishy anymore. He
looked hard and unbending, like her Sabrina baby doll with
the blue shiny eyes that didn't move.

“Uncle Thomas, she's still saying funny things!” Vivianne yelled. The screech in the little girl's voice startled Sophie.

She opened her eyes but had no idea where she was. The dark room gave her few clues, although the sage-green chenille curtains looked familiar. She tried to lift her head and look around, but it felt heavy and sore.

Sophie blinked her eyes and tried to focus. She could see Vivianne sitting crossed-legged at the end of her bed, drawing chubby hearts up and down each of her tiny thighs with a strawberry-scented marker.

“Use your coloring book,” Thomas told her as he walked back into the bedroom.

Thanksgiving. The Logan family.
It was all coming back to her. Sophie sat up on the side of the bed and tried to stand, but the moving room caused her to almost tip over.

“Slow down.” Thomas grabbed her arm to steady her.

“What happened to me?”

“You fainted,” Thomas said, his wide clinical eyes examining hers. Sophie pictured him putting on his lab coat, stethoscope around his neck, and asking her how long she'd been experiencing these strange symptoms. She knew as soon as he cupped her face he was not looking at his wife but for symmetry in the pupils of a normally healthy twenty-nine-year-old female.

“Thought of a good sale made you that excited, huh?”

Sophie grimaced and removed his scrutinizing hand from her chin. She reached around and felt the large egg on the back of her head.

“Quite a bump.” He helped her lie back down. He tucked the comforter in all around her and sat down beside her. “How are you feeling?”

“Uncoordinated,” Sophie joked. Her attempt at humor made her head throb even more.

“You've been out for a while.” He brushed the hair away from her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. The concerned look in his eyes told her he was her husband once again. “I was getting worried.”

“I don't remember passing out.”

“Caroline said you told her you didn't feel well. Nauseated?”

Sophie started to remember. Her mom and dad, their last Thanksgiving together, William in his high chair. Carter. The newspaper.

The room and her stomach started to move again. She closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn't throw up.
Is my mom going to die?

“Are you okay, Aunt Sophie?” Vivi mimicked Thomas and used her scented marker to look into Sophie's eyes.

For a moment, right after the nausea passed, Sophie considered answering that question honestly, blurting out to the both of them she couldn't remember the last time she felt okay and her “excitement” had nothing to do with the after-Thanksgiving sales and that no matter how many navy suede pumps and Prada purses she owned, nothing would fill the empty cavern that had burrowed itself deep inside her the day
her mother was dragged away from her in handcuffs. That her fainting had everything to do with his brother's callous declaration of a man's execution as if everything in his perfect world of right and wrong, cut and dry, fit neatly into a little box without emotion or backstory—devoid of any requirement for empathy. And the mother who'd bobby-pinned her hair away from her face and singsonged, “100 percent failure rate if you don't try” might be next.

She thought about asking Vivianne to leave the room and then grabbing Thomas and shaking him until he understood why he needed to make her feel better. Anything to help her get rid of the sharp pain that filled her every time she allowed herself to remember something good about her mother. The mom who sat beside her in bed just like Thomas was doing now, promising nothing bad would ever happen to her. Did she promise that to William, too?

“Sophie, are you okay?”

Sophie opened her eyes and looked at Thomas, searching for safety, gauging if now was the time or place to tell him the truth.

“You were having a scary dream,” Vivianne declared before Sophie could speak. “Some baby wouldn't stop crying.” She dug out a black marker that smelled like licorice from her plastic tote underneath the bed.

“Who were you dreaming about? Do you remember?” Thomas rubbed Sophie's forearm. “Who is William?”

Sophie's face felt cold and hot at the same time.
What did I say?
She replayed her dream over in her head. Her brother, that awful night, one of the last times her family was together in her home.

“Max,” she said quickly, her competency at lying startling her. “I'm sure I said Max. It makes me sad when he has to spend the holidays alone.”

Thomas seemed to believe this latest lie just like he believed all the ones before. Sophie licked her dry lips with her even drier tongue. Each white lie, no matter how justifiable, seemed to rip something from her, from them. Pretty soon, she feared, she'd have nothing left to shred.

—

S
OPHIE FELT BETTER
when she woke up the next morning, although she wasn't sure she could make it through the rest of the weekend at the Logans'. The incessant questions—“How are you feeling, dear?” or “Are you sure I can't make you something else to eat?”—were driving her insane. She knew Thomas's family meant well, but her problems couldn't be fixed with vegetable soup and a Tylenol. Her problems probably couldn't be fixed at all.

Time alone was what she really wanted. Time to think, to figure out what she needed to do. After much persuasion, Sophie finally convinced her mother-in-law and sister-in-law to go shopping without her. “I'll be fine, I promise. I have two doctors plopped in the living room, watching football.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Margaret said. “Unless you come out dressed like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, they might forget you exist.”

Sophie laughed and then pretended she was shaking some pom-poms. The Logan men did like their football. “You girls go on. I will not stand in the way of a good sale.” She raised her right hand as if she was a Girl Scout taking an oath. Caroline and Margaret nodded in agreement. Vivianne, in her hot-pink sequined sunglasses, camped out by the front door. “Let's go, Mommy!” she squealed.

“I'm going to read and then take a nap. Don't worry about me. I've got a dance move or two up my sleeve if I need to get someone's attention.”

Thomas yelled from the other room, “Looking forward to seeing that later.”

After they finally left, Sophie told Thomas she was going to lie down. Instead, she locked herself in the bedroom, squatted down in the closet, and read the newspaper article Carter had been yelling about.

“Governor Makes Good on Promises—Refuses to Intervene with Court's Rulings” headlined page three of the
Charleston Daily News
. 
“Governor Whitaker pledged swift justice for victims' families and a speedy appeals process for those convicted,” the newspaper article stated. “‘We are failing to carry out the will of our justice system when we keep these inmates on death row and prolong the already lengthy appeals process. Let the courts do their job and let their death sentences be overturned or carried out.'”

Sophie scanned through the rest of the article. The last sentence said the same thing Carter had so eloquently blurted out: “A woman convicted of murdering her infant son is the next in line to face execution.”

Sophie wadded up the newspaper and checked her cell phone to see how many bars she had. She had to dial the number two times before she did it right, then her uncooperative hands barely held the phone steady enough for her to hear. When the call finally went through, a recorded message on the other end said: “You have reached the law offices of Benjamin Taylor and Associates. Our office is closed for the Thanksgiving holiday. Please leave a brief message and we will return your call as soon as possible.”

Sophie considered leaving a message but didn't know exactly how to sum up her inquiries in a few short seconds.
Is my mom next in line to be executed?
A legal secretary with a sticky note might find that message somewhat disturbing.

She ended the call and decided her message would best be delivered in person.

—

“I
HAVE TO MEET WITH
some prospective chefs for the fund-raiser,” she explained to Thomas after they returned home on Sunday. “I forgot my calendar and this completely slipped my mind. I should've told you earlier, but a group of them are participating in an exhibit close to Charlotte, so I can see most of my options in one place. It will save me a lot of time if I do it this way.”

“You want to leave tomorrow? Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Thomas frowned. “You slept the entire drive home, and the trip to Charlotte's an even longer drive. I don't know if this is a good idea.”

“I'm fine, really. I feel like myself today.”

He stopped filtering through the stack of mail Sophie had placed on the counter, reached over, and felt the back of her head. “You still have a pretty good bump.”

“Stop!” Sophie removed his arm. “I'm
fine
.” Her words came out harsher than she'd intended them to.

Thomas studied her face for a while, as if he were looking at someone he wasn't sure he really knew. “I love you, I'm worried about you. That's all.”

She stared down at her wedding ring, twisting it around on her finger. Anything not to look into his eyes.

“Go, if you think you need to, but be careful. Fainting isn't normal. Please promise me you'll at least make an appointment to see your doctor as soon as you get back.”

—

S
OPHIE
ROLLED IN AND OUT
of bed a half-dozen times, each time mumbling another excuse to Thomas as to why she couldn't sleep. “I have so much to do before I leave tomorrow” was what she said the final time her restlessness woke him up. He took his pillow and left to sleep on the sofa.

Every fib made her feel like she was digging a hole for herself that would someday bury her. She questioned her decision to leave at least twenty times.
Forget about that part of your life. It's over, keep your clean (jagged, at best) break, and stop all the second-guessing.

Maybe she was reading too much into the newspaper article. It hadn't given a name—certainly the prison had more than one person who'd killed a baby, a thought that disturbed her on many levels. And possibly
the letter meant something else. Papers she needed to sign? There must be many reasons for a lawyer to contact a client's family.

Sophie was halfway to Charlotte before she convinced herself Ben Taylor only wanted to be paid. The strong words in his letter were his way of getting her attention. Her mother had no money left after the legal fees from her trial. “I know I'm behind on the mortgage,” a thirteen-year-old Sophie overheard her dad whisper in the phone. “Please give me some more time.”

She started to call Ben Taylor's bluff, to turn her car around and go home, but the thought of making up another lie to Thomas stopped her. She couldn't turn back—not now, anyway.

I hope Sophie was distracted today. Maybe out buying some lipstick or sledding, wearing her red mittens somewhere. Anything that kept her occupied and away from a newspaper. I can't comfort her and I couldn't bear the thought of her—alone—hearing the news about someone being executed.

Officer Jones was right. This place was crazy. I tried not to look out my window, but the honking horns and chants drew me in. I was surprised, I guess, by the interest. The man being put to death hadn't had a visitor in years. I hope he had one today.

I couldn't stop myself from wondering:
Is he scared? Does he have an appetite? Has he thought about his last words?

I knew I was going to have to answer those questions, sooner than I'd like to, but to be quite honest I was having a hard time lumping myself in his category. That guy did some pretty bad stuff.

I attempted to keep busy. Tried to force myself to stop thinking about what was happening on the other side of the prison, but even the air felt different in here. Electric, but heavy at the same time.

We were on lockdown until further notice, which means we can't leave our cells for any reason. My radio works only part-time. The antenna is broken and has to be propped at just the right angle, and even then it can get only a few stations. I usually hear about every third word.

I cleaned when I needed to pass the time, determined to rid every
indentation in my crème-colored cinder-block walls of filth. No matter how many times I scrubbed, I still thought I saw residue from somebody else's excrement. After my arms wore out, I stopped and did some sit-ups. My abs, I have to say, looked pretty good.

Before I was in here, I never exercised. I'd make up a thousand different reasons as to why I couldn't walk on the treadmill or run in my neighborhood. “I'm exhausted,” or “Paul needs his church clothes washed.” Now, when physical activity was considered an earned privilege, I'd give up days of sleep just to do jumping jacks in a rainstorm.

“Tray coming through,” Officer Mackey shouted through the door. He had a thick accent, from someplace north of here, like New York or New Jersey. He's nice enough, but when he talked fast my mouth felt like sandpaper.

My dinner tray popped through the door and transported a cold, shriveled-up hot dog and watery applesauce. I was starving, so I was grateful the bun, at least, wasn't soggy.

“Stand for count,” he ordered, after I'd had my tray for fifteen minutes. I took a quick drink of my water.

I stood up and faced front. He stared at me for a second through the window and then wrote something in red ink on his paper.

“Stand for count,” he yelled into Roni's cell.

In a few seconds, he repeated himself again.
Stand for count, Roni.
I'd seen her have to be dragged out of her cell before, and that wasn't pleasant for anyone.

I didn't hear him say anything else, so I guessed this time she listened.

“Count all clear,” he said, presumably to Officer Jones. She'd said she was working this evening.

“The doors will open in ten minutes, ladies. You can go to the dayroom or stay in your cells. The choice is yours.”

I put my tray in the slot, thankful my cell door would finally be opened. The truth was, though, I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I
cared only about writing to Sophie. Jada and Carmen must feel the same way. I haven't heard a word from either one of them all night.

“You coming out?” Roni asked after our doors unlocked. Inmates weren't allowed to congregate in any area other than the dayroom. She kept moving down the hallway as she talked. “I was hoping we could write.” She waved a few letters at me in the air.

“Be there in a minute,” I answered. Something love-worthy will do us both good.

Roni received mail several times a week. When her first letter arrived, we were sitting together. I watched her stare at the envelope, taking in the front and then the back. She even put it up to her nose and smelled it.

“Who's your letter from?” I had asked her after several minutes of this strange behavior.

She'd looked up with her tight eyes fixed squarely on me. I wished I could take back my question.

“Sorry. None of my business.” I put my hands up in surrender and scooted my chair over.

She still didn't answer or look away.

I'd done it this time. I sprung up, praying she wouldn't follow me, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back down.

“I'm sorry, Roni.” My eyes stuck on her this time, begging her not to slam me against the concrete floor. “I won't ask again.”

She took her arm off me. “I don't know who it's from.” She threw the letter in my lap. “You look.”

I rubbed my arm for a few seconds before picking up the letter, which was now lying faceup on the floor.

Roni can't read,
I figured out, since the name was written plain and clear.

“It's from a Carl Cooper,” I told her, trying to gauge her reaction before I said any more. When she didn't respond, I said, “He lives in Alabama.”

She still didn't say a word. After a few long minutes, she snatched the envelope from my hand and tore it in half.

A few weeks later another letter came. She asked me to read it to her when we were eating lunch together in the dayroom. I wasn't sure why she'd changed her mind, but I removed the paper from the open slit in the top of the envelope.

“Dear Roni,”
it started,
“I didn't hear back from you. Did you get my last letter?”

She stared at her sweet tea, stirring it with her plastic spoon. I continued:
“I heard what happened to you. I'm so very sorry.”

She took her spoon out and put it beside her drink. Her head slumped over the table.

“I know I haven't been a part of your life”
—I glanced up from the page to see if I should go on reading—“
but I'd like to change that.”

Roni lifted her head up and stiffened her back against the chair. She pushed her half-eaten egg salad sandwich to the center of the table.

“I'd like to meet you.”

She cocked her rigid head and fixed her gaze, staring at something or someplace I couldn't see. Red lines formed in the corners of her eyes. She took the letter from me before I had a chance to finish.

I opened my mouth before I thought better. “Who's the letter from?”

She answered this time, but her voice sounded brittle. “My father. My biological father.”

She didn't say another word and I didn't, either. The letters continued to stack up until one day when Carmen was in the infirmary and Jada paced in her cell, Roni asked me if I would help her write him back.

So tonight, like many times before, she and I sat together as I helped her write a reply to his latest question. Some parts of her face, for the first time I'd seen, anyway, moved effortlessly. The pencil she held tightly in her hand copied the last sentence I'd written for her. “Yes, you can visit over Christmas.”

Roni's countenance had changed, and it was a milestone worth documenting, a photo a mother should have placed in her scrapbook. A picture I'd happily taken of Sophie.

If I had some hay, I'd place it in a manger, because this day was love-worthy. If I can't see my daughter this December, maybe I can help Carl Cooper see his.