With Love from the Inside (12 page)

Ben Taylor sat at the back booth in the corner of the 40th Street Café. He seemed to be involved in something significant, because his eyes didn't look up from his laptop even when the bells jingled as Sophie opened the front door.

“Welcome to the Fortieth Street,” said the waitress, juggling a turkey club platter in one hand and a coffeepot in another. “Sit down anywhere you'd like.”

The waitress didn't recognize the grown-up Bradshaw daughter, but Sophie couldn't forget her familiar face. Sophie's dad, too tired from work and too depressed to eat another meal at their once-full family table, often took her to the café for dinner. Their once-a-week treat turned into three to four times. She always ordered the grilled cheese on sourdough, her dad whatever special Lucy suggested.

“You need some meat on those bones, Paul,” Lucy said, with a wink at first, then a slight brush of her arm against his when she scooted by with menus and waters. Her long nails changed color every time they ate there: sometimes they were deep red, other times clear, with rhinestones outlining the top.

Sophie knew Lucy desired more from her dad than weight gain. Her father, oblivious to anyone's affection, would read the newspaper and ask Sophie the same questions day after day: “How was math today?” or “Everyone at school being nice?”

One day, between serving him his chicken-fried steak with fried okra and rhubarb pie, Lucy worked up the nerve to ask him on a date.

“Paul, you know I do a lot of the cooking around here and you do a whole lot of the eating,” she said, as her voice and gaping neckline lowered. “Why don't you let me come over and make you a home-cooked meal.”

Sophie stopped gulping her milk long enough to blurt out, “My mom is gone, not dead.”

Her dad, whose face now resembled the color of Twizzlers, gave Sophie “the look.” She didn't get that look often, but when she did, she knew he meant business.

“You are a great cook, Lucy, one of the best, but Sophie and I are doing just fine. I'll continue to enjoy your creamed corn from right here, if you don't mind.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” She touched his hand as she refilled his water. When he left a ten-dollar tip instead of his usual five, Sophie knew he'd felt bad about hurting her feelings.

Sophie stood at the end of Ben Taylor's booth, waiting for him to look up. “Hello,” she finally said, after he still hadn't noticed her.

“Hello. Glad you came.” He slid out of the booth and stood while she sat down. “Are you hungry?”

Sophie realized suddenly that she hadn't eaten since she entered Brookfield. “Yes, a little bit.”

Ben handed her a menu, but Sophie declined. When Lucy came to take their order, she wanted the usual—a grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough.

Sophie and Ben made small talk throughout lunch. He asked about her life, her husband, and if she worked. Her answers were polite but brief, since she didn't want her mother to know anything about her, especially since she was using her lawyer as a go-between. To deflect his questions, she asked questions back to him. Two grown children, one a lawyer
just like him, and the other a girls' volleyball coach at a small D-I college outside Chicago. Both boys.

“How long have you been married?” Sophie noticed Ben didn't mention his wife one time during their discussion.

“Twenty-three years,” Ben answered. “My wife passed away a year after we moved to Brookfield.” He pulled out his billfold to show her an old family photo.

“She was beautiful,” Sophie said as she took the photo out of the plastic covering. “How did she die, if you don't mind me asking?”

“A brain aneurysm. It was very sudden.” He took the photo back and looked at it for several seconds before he slipped it into his wallet. “I took the time I had with her for granted. My biggest regret.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

“And I'm sorry for yours.”

Both remained silent for a moment before Ben brought up the conversation they were here to discuss.

“As I told you earlier, I've been your mother's attorney for the last several years. The first case I took since moving here, actually. The public defender she had did a horrible job. She didn't interview witnesses she should have and put people on the stand who were not well prepared. They were eaten alive by the prosecutor.” He rolled a straw between his stiffened hands.

“My dad wasn't thrilled with them, either, but I saw the evidence. We didn't have a lot of money and they didn't have a lot to work with. The ethylene glycol in my brother's bottle, the windshield-wiper fluid hidden in our house . . . it didn't look good.” Her voice sounded cold as she spoke those old words.

“I know the evidence and their accusations quite well. The prosecutors drilled into the defense that your mother had Munchausen—”

“That my mom purposefully made my brother sick so she could take
him to the doctor.” Words she regurgitated out loud, but had said many times before to herself. “She craved attention.”

“Refill?” Lucy grabbed their water glasses before they could decline.

“Yes, that's what they said,” he repeated after Lucy left, agreeing with the definition but not the charge. “She doesn't fit the profile.”

“My brother is dead. He became sick only when he was around her. Profile or no profile, the evidence convinced me.”

“You and every appeals board,” Ben responded matter-of-factly. “Your mom's case keeps me awake at night. The pieces just don't fit.”

Sophie chewed the last bite of her grilled cheese.

“Why didn't your mom make you sick?” Ben asked. He spoke softly, because Lucy was wiping down the still-empty booth behind them for the third time.

Sophie swallowed twice, but the cheese from her sandwich didn't go down. She picked up her water and took a long sip. After swallowing again, she said, “Maybe she did.”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked, not disguising his surprise.

“I don't know what I mean. I'm second-guessing everything that happened in my childhood now. Every time I threw up, every stomachache—did she cause that, too?”

Ben took his napkin off his lap and put it on the table. “Do you think she would do that?”

“I really don't know.”
Why not me? Why William?

Ben didn't say anything for a few seconds. Sophie felt like he was giving her a chance to reconsider, to say something that would help him help her mother. When she didn't, he finally said, “I have done everything I could think of to get the courts to retry her case, but unfortunately your mother's last appeal has been denied.” He stopped, giving her time to absorb what was coming next, but before he could continue, Lucy rushed over with the coffeepot.

“Sophie Bradshaw, I should have known it was you when you ordered that grilled cheese. I haven't seen you in ages.” She plunked the coffeepot down on the table and moved in for a side hug. With her arm squeezing Sophie's, she said, “I hope this lawyer here can help your mom before she's executed.”

—

B
EN PAID THE BILL
, helped Sophie put on her jacket, and escorted her across the street to his office. Lucy's exaggerated greeting had stirred the café, and the subsequent stares of the people sitting along the counter were too much for Sophie to handle.

“I hate this place,” she said as she followed Ben into his office. “I couldn't wait to leave. I can't believe I'm here now.”

The old feelings of being the center of unwanted attention overwhelmed her. She didn't know whether to sit down or run.

“You didn't deserve this, but I don't believe your mom deserves this, either. I need you to understand me. Your mother's appeals are gone, and her execution date has been set. If the governor doesn't intervene, your mother will die by lethal injection on February fifteenth.”

—

S
OPHIE CRIED MOST OF THE
way home. What did Ben Taylor expect her to say? That all of a sudden she believed her mom was innocent? She didn't. But did she really want her to die?

Going back to Brookfield, dredging up mud she'd shaken off long ago, had been a huge mistake, she decided. “I'm going to seek clemency from the governor,” Ben had said, “but it's a long, if not impossible, shot. Please consider visiting your mother one last time, before it's too late.”

Sophie had left his office without committing either way. She did agree to give him her cell-phone number, and asked him to call only if
absolutely necessary. She didn't know in this situation what exactly constituted an emergency.

She took his number as well, promising to call if she decided to visit. “My husband and his family know nothing about my past, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

He'd nodded, but his downturned gaze said he didn't understand. “I believe in Grace,” he'd said, walking her to his office door. “Help me figure out what we are missing.”

At every red light, when Sophie had time to pause, she pictured her mom being strapped to a gurney. Long needles being pushed into her veins. Her voice quivering as she said her last words. Her mother dying all alone.

It was almost 7 p.m. when Sophie swiped her card and pulled into the parking lot outside Thomas's office, thinking he'd be working late again and not yet at home. She checked her cell phone as soon as she parked. It was surprising that Thomas hadn't called since the day before, but then again, she hadn't felt like calling him. No communication until she returned home felt better than making up more lies.

She riffled through her purse for her makeup bag. Eye concealer didn't do a thing to cover her dark circles. Lack of sleep and puffy eyes had clearly won this battle.

She ran her fingers through her hair and applied Thomas's favorite shade of lipstick. On this night she couldn't care less about sexy, but understanding and forgiveness she would take. She had to tell him the truth and she had to do it now, before she lost her nerve. Thomas had to understand why she lied to him and why she hadn't told him before now. She needed him to help her decide what to do.

Sophie walked to the back of the building and tried the outside door. It was locked, so she walked around to the other side and tried another entrance. Had everyone left for the day?

She scanned the lot. Thomas's car was parked in the usual spot, and
another car she didn't recognize was parked behind the dumpsters. A white van with the logo
VERY MERRY MAIDS
was parked by the side door.

Other than the cleaning crew, everyone seemed to be gone. Sophie tapped on the side door to get someone's attention. A vacuum hummed in the background, telling Sophie her pleas for entry might take a while.

She pulled her cell phone out and texted Thomas:
R u busy?
She sat down on the sidewalk curb to check her e-mail when he didn't answer right away.

Extremely,
Thomas replied a few minutes later. She could see little dots on her message screen indicating he was typing.
At hospital. Late surgery. Call u later.

She walked back to the parking lot to make sure it was his car she'd seen. A
WEST LAKE HOMEOWNER
sticker proved she wasn't crazy.
Did he ride from his office to the hospital with one of his partners?

Sophie braced herself on the hood of his car.

A lady carrying a vacuum and a bucket of water opened the side door.

“Hold the door,” Sophie yelled to her. “Everybody gone for the day?” she asked as she walked in.

“Everybody but the young doctor.” The maid winked. “Think he's back there with his pretty wife, by the sound of things.”

“Dr. Logan?” Sophie asked.

“I don't know. The cute one,” the cleaning lady said while picking up a piece of lint off the floor. “The one with the dark wavy hair.”

Sophie didn't know if she was going to throw up or pass out, but decided neither would help her find out what was going on with Thomas. Her lighted cell phone helped her find her way down the dark hallway.

The maid was mistaken,
Sophie reassured herself.
He's gotten rides to the hospital with his partners before, especially if they were in the OR together.
A few weeks ago, Thomas's partner had left his car in the office lot and Thomas had driven him home. A long call night could make a short car drive home seem like an eternity.

By the time Sophie reached the end of the hallway, she had convinced herself she was being foolish and the maid was being nosy. She rubbed her hand against the wall to find a light switch.

As soon as she flipped the switch, her worst fears were confirmed. On the chair outside Thomas's office lay Eva's Coach purse and her red sling-back high-heeled shoes.

Beep. Beep. Beep
. Something tight was squeezing my arm. I tried to take it off, but I couldn't reach it.

“Don't try and move. I'll be over there in a minute.”

I had no idea who was speaking to me or where I was, but the bright lights made my eyes sting. The side of my head felt wet and crusty at the same time. I tried to sit up, but I couldn't because my arms and legs were in restraints. I started to gag.

A heavyset lady with a bun and a blue cardigan turned my head to the side and shoved an emesis basin under my mouth. “Hold on. Let me get the head of your bed up.”

She pushed a button and the top of my mattress started to rise. Nothing came out of my stomach, despite my repeated attempts.

“Dry heaves,” she said. “Nothing left in there.” She removed the blood-pressure cuff from my arm. The loud Velcro rip pierced my ears and I shut my eyes again. “I can give you something for nausea now that you're awake.” She grabbed a syringe off a tray and injected something in the bottle hanging beside my bed. “Do you know where you are?”

Was it time for me to die?

“Infirmary. You fainted in the warden's office. Smacked your head on the corner of his desk. Been out of it since last night.”

February 15.
Now I remembered.
Then I thought of Sophie.

“May I have something to drink?” My tongue stuck to my lips.

“I'll get you some ice chips to start.” The soles of her shoes squished on the floor as she walked away.

“Up for a visitor?” I heard a soothing voice ask. I opened one eye to see Ms. Liz place a warm washcloth on my head. “I didn't know if you were ever going to wake up.”

I didn't know I had a choice.

The nurse returned and handed Ms. Liz my ice chips. She put some in a spoon and then up to my lips. Her fingers were bony and bent.

“What can I do to help you through this?” she asked after I'd had a few spoonfuls of ice. She rubbed the thick joints on her right hand.

“Turn back time,” I said. I tried to smile, but it wasn't a happy smile.

“Any luck finding your daughter?” I knew she knew the answer before she asked.

We used to talk about Sophie all the time during our sessions, but I didn't have any new stories to tell. So I'd stopped talking.
Tomorrow is Sophie's birthday,
I wanted to tell her.
She's turning thirty.

“My lawyer said he won't give up.” I tilted my head to the side because my eyes burned. “I'm not sure I want him to find her.”

“Oh, Grace,” Ms. Liz said. “You're not thinking clearly. Of course you want to see her before . . .” She stopped, but I could finish her sentence.

“She's moved forward.” It's not about what I want, I wanted to tell her. My life will soon be over and I want Sophie's to go on. I have caused her enough pain. What if Ben finds her—and we have to say good-bye? “I hope she has a new family that loves her now.”

“I will pray for that, too.” She bent her head down and rubbed the back of her neck. “I've been in this prison for a long time, and I've met people whose very presence made my soul take cover. Born wicked, I really believe. Then I've met killers who donated the money in their commissary account, all of it, to buy school supplies for another inmate's kid. Prison makes some people worse and it makes some people better, but
you . . .” She stopped. I had no idea where she was going with this. “You have stayed the same. You came in selfless and you're leaving selfless. You haven't changed a bit.”

I knew all of that wasn't true. I'd not become bitter, but I wasn't much to look at. I had a dream (or maybe a nightmare) about seeing Sophie face-to-face again, after all these years, and my sunken face was the one she didn't recognize.
I'm looking for my mom. Has anyone seen my mom?

“You have a daughter, right?” I asked Ms. Liz.

“Yes, I do. My oldest is married and has two kids. My middle daughter, Hildie, works for a lawn-and-garden store in San Diego. My baby, Olive, is still trying to figure herself out.”

“Can I ask you a question, then?”

“Sure.”

“What is one thing you'd make sure your daughters knew before you died?”

Dear Sophie,

I had an accident today, but the prison doc said I should feel fine in a couple days. Ordered me to stay off my feet for the next forty-eight hours. I could have stayed in the infirmary, but I begged them to let me go back to my cell. “What's the worst thing that could happen?” I heard the doctor say rhetorically to the nurse.

Twenty-three stitches now extend from my eyebrow to my ear on the right side of my head. I guess I can be thankful—I won't have to live with that scar for long.

One of the other inmates, Roni, has a scar. It's a thick curved gash starting at the nape of her neck and winding down, tapering right before the small in her back. I saw it when she lifted up her orange shirt to be strip-searched. “Roni,” I shouted, before I could stop myself. “What in the world happened to you?”

She thrust up her chin and with an icy smile said, “Wires from my bed frame. My stepdad's way of reminding me never to hide from him again.”

I love what my friend Kimberly had to say about scars. You remember her, right? The one who had breast cancer. She'd bring Tessa over to play with you on the Slip'N Slide when her blood counts allowed her to get out of the house. Really, she said it about bald heads, but the same applies here.

Kimberly made a whole list of things after her chemo stopped working titled “Things to Bury.” Sometimes she called it her “I don't have to be socially acceptable because I'm dying” list. A mantra, of sorts, for those who chose to do what they wanted to do in the first place.

I can't recall everything she had written down except for the one that impacted me the most. BURY MY INSECURITIES. She took her bandana off her head when I asked her to explain that one to me.

“I used to be afraid of the stares.”

“The stares?” I asked her, like I didn't already know what she meant. I fiddled with a navy-blue thread dangling from a button on my blouse.

“You can stare at my bald head.” Kimberly grabbed my hand to stop my fiddling and looked me square in the eyes. “I'm okay with it now.”

She did something twirly with her eyes, which made us both laugh.

“Losing my hair made me almost as scared as my diagnosis did.” She opened the patio door to make sure you and Tessa were still sliding before she continued. “Then one night Charlie was working, and I had to run to the grocery store. I saw another person who was wearing a bandana, and we connected.”

“You connected?”

“Well, our bald heads connected,” she said with a slight laugh. “My bald head helped me empathize with someone else's bald head. It was in that moment I realized bald heads need other bald heads to heal.”

Bald heads heal bald heads, and scars heal scars.

I'm making it the goal of my scar to help Roni heal hers.

I can't remember the rest of Kimberly's list, but this one you might find funny: BURY MY GIRDLE. (Do women still wear those awful things?) We burned eight pairs of constricting Lycra over a lighted grill in our backyard. “Your muffin top should never ever be mistreated,” she said to you and Tessa as she poked the black body shaper with a stick.

Dying makes some people smarter and much more comfortable in their own skin, don't you think?