With Love from the Inside (28 page)

Forgive me for not writing for a while. I ran out of paper. Finally, after I filled out another request form (eight days ago), Officer Kollins brought me a three-inch pencil and single piece of unlined paper. I'm writing small so I won't run out of space.

I knew this time would come and I think I have prepared myself well. I've promised myself not to waste another moment focusing on what may or may not happen; instead, I'll concentrate on all the good days that have come before.

Amid the crazy circumstances, I NEED you to know I'm okay. It's been an adjustment trying to acclimate to my new “room” and different schedule, or lack thereof, but second by second I'm doing just that. The hardest part is not being able to talk to you again.

I know I've missed out on a lifetime of moments with you that an “I'm sorry” won't go far to fix. I've had to forgive myself for not being with you when you needed me. I hope you can forgive me, too. After your dad died, you had to navigate through some pretty monumental life changes alone. No one was home to guide you when you filled out your college applications. No one cheered when you opened the thick letter that meant you got in. No one helped you pack your bedroom or stood on the front porch and waved when you drove away from your childhood home, praying you'd make it safe and stay protected.

I can't change any of that, but I'm choosing not to give another second to regret or “I wish I could have.” I do need you to know I am puffed up with pride. You are worthy of the tallest trophy, the fattest A+, the bluest blue ribbon, and the shiniest tiara.

All the landmarks, from moving yourself into an empty dorm room to picking out the perfect way to wear your hair on your wedding, have not gone unrecognized by me. In my imagination, your dorm room was decorated in wildflowers with curvy stems and funky-shaped leaves. Am I right? Your hair on your wedding day had soft, pulled-back curls, and, from the picture Thomas pressed against the glass, you wore a veil clipped in the back, accentuating the high cheekbones on your heart-shaped face.

No milestones recorded in the books of other mothers went undocumented in the heart of your mother. You were not forgotten. In case I don't get to tell you in person—I need you to know how amazed, impressed, and on-my-knees grateful I am to be your mom.

I realize there are millions of minutes I'm leaving out, significant events that deserved to be mentioned, like parents' weekend at your college (Did you stay in your room that weekend or did your roommate's family invite you to dinner?) and whether you had enough money to plan the wedding you wanted. I've already used most of the first side of the paper, though, so I guess enough will have to be enough.

On the back side, if you don't mind, Sophie, I need to write some reminders for me. I'm forcing myself to be positive, and I think this will help me.

I asked Paul one day, after witnessing a particular “scratchy” interaction he'd had with one of his parishioners, “How do you stay so kind to these people?” I pointed to the back of the nasty gentleman who'd just finished yelling at my husband. Paul had
accidentally left his name off of the donor plaque for the new pews in the sanctuary. “How could you do such a thing after all the money I gave to this congregation?” the man had spewed out his car window before speeding away.

“God doesn't always give us the people we want in our lives,” Paul said to me, as I held my tongue and fought the urge to sling some revenge. “He gives us the people we need. Each ugly encounter I view as a gift. A chance to make me kinder, or an opportunity for me to build more patience.”

I'm reflecting on your daddy's wise words, and I think I'll make me (us) a little visual aid.

Before I forget . . . Grandma Pearl's Chicken and Noodle Recipe.

Boil four or five chicken breasts with just enough water to cover. When the chicken is cooked, remove it from the broth and shred. Then throw a package of Frozen Egg Noodles (I hope you can find those, but if you can't, another short, dry, wide noodle will do) into the chicken broth. You can add some water or some canned chicken broth, if more liquid is needed. Boil until noodles are done. Here comes the good part . . . Drain most, but not all, of the broth from the noodles, then add one can EACH of cream-of-chicken soup, cream-of-mushroom soup, and cream-of-celery soup. Stir together, add some salt and pepper, and ENJOY! (My mouth and my eyes are watering—I'm smelling the creamed soups, and I can picture my mom whipping up this delicious dinner before me.) If it's too thick, add some milk or more chicken broth. You can't mess this one up.

Ben met Sophie and Thomas at the breakfast buffet in the hotel lobby. No one felt like eating, but Thomas insisted Sophie at least have a piece of fruit. Ben detailed today's plan while Thomas grabbed a banana off the counter.

“The governor has not said no,” he assured them after Thomas sat back down. “We just haven't gotten a response.”

“Is this normal?” Thomas asked while he peeled the skin off of the banana and handed it to Sophie.

“Like we talked about before, nothing's normal, so to speak, in these situations. We just have to wait and see what the governor will do.”

“We will be allowed to visit your mother for some period prior.” He didn't say prior to what, but they knew what he meant. “Then, if the governor doesn't grant clemency, your mom will be taken to the execution chamber, where they will begin the procedure.”

Thomas put his arms around Sophie's shoulders. A family with a young daughter hovered around their table while waiting in line for the wafflemaker.

Ben lowered his voice. “Have you decided if you would like to be present during the execution?”

Sophie couldn't answer.
Is this really going to happen?

“Sweetheart, your chocolate-chip waffles are ready.” The little girl jumped and her pigtails flew up and down.

Thomas tightened his arms around Sophie and squeezed. “We'll figure this out together once we get there.”

—

P
ROTESTERS HAD ALREADY FORMED
opposing camps outside the heavily barbed wire fence in front of the penitentiary when Ben turned his car toward the guarded gate. He'd suggested all three of them ride together because “the prison is a real madhouse on execution day.” The minute the words had come out of his mouth, he'd realized how callous they sounded.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That didn't come out the way I meant it to.”

“It's okay.” She flipped down the sun visor and checked her eyeliner for smudges. She guessed to most prison employees today was “execution day.” It was similar, she supposed, to a teacher who had “parent conference day” or a medic who had “CPR recertification day.” Something they didn't particularly care to do if given the choice, but since they weren't, they made the best of this bothersome and troubling job requirement. She knew Ben didn't deserve to be lumped into that category; he was just trying to be practical and efficient with their time. None of that mattered to Sophie, because today, until proven otherwise, was not an execution day, but the day the governor would finally set her mother free.

Clusters of death penalty opponents sat outside the pointy fence in lawn chairs, slipping candles into paper holders. A lady wearing a navy blue hoodie and had her brown hair pulled back in a scrunchie blew into her hands as Ben drove past. When she saw them, she picked up and waved a piece of torn cardboard. In red letters, she had written:
STOP KILLING TO STOP THE KILLING
.

A small church bus bearing the name Lake Terrace Lutheran Church sheltered the growing crowd of protesters from the cold February wind. Sophie waved to the lady kneeling in front of her chair as she passed by.

On the other side of the road, only a few protesters “for” the death penalty had started to congregate. “It's early,” Ben pointed out to Sophie
when she made mention of the large discrepancy in the number of protesters against and in favor of her mother's execution. “It's still early.”

“I need driver's licenses of all people in the vehicle,” the uniformed officer instructed Ben after he rolled down his window.

“What is the reason for today's visit?” the officer asked Ben after he handed him back his license.

“I'm the attorney for Grace Bradshaw.”

The officer nodded. “And you, Mrs. Logan?” He examined her license picture and then examined her face.

“I'm Grace Bradshaw's daughter.”

The officer studied her face again before handing her license back to Ben.

“And you?” he said to Thomas.

“I'm Grace's son-in-law.”

The officer opened the gate and then waved them through.

I'm writing down my time on death watch with the pretense that “not knowing” may be more torturous on you than the “knowing.” If that's not the case, please ask Thomas to read through first and filter.

This morning, Officer Kollins walked into my cell to collect my breakfast tray. “You're not going to eat any more than this?” she asked after noticing the unpeeled spotted brown banana and the clear plastic lid still on top of my gray cream-of-wheat bowl.

“Not much of an appetite today.” I knew she knew that, but small talk didn't come easily in this situation.

“How'd you sleep?”

“Not so good.” She must not have been watching me on video last night.

In fact, I wasn't sure I'd slept much at all. I kept vacillating between feeling up, then down; excited, then distraught. In hours, I knew I would see you—a face I hadn't seen in eleven years. I imagined smelling your hair and the sound of your beating heart so close to mine, but as quickly as the good came, the bad did, too. I saw you sobbing and pleading as the officers shackled me and took me away. “Say good-bye to your daughter,” I heard them say as soon as I started to doze off.

“I want to go over your schedule today so we don't have any confusion.” Officer Kollins pulled out a form and put it on the table beside me. “This morning, you will be visited by the nurse and prison psychologists. You can address any medical or psychological needs you have with them at that time.” She looked at me for confirmation I heard and understood before checking the box.

“After those visits are concluded, you may have visits from your legal and spiritual advisers. Do you understand?”

“I understand, but when can I see my daughter?”

“Visitation for family members will be between three and four this afternoon.”

A square digital clock outside my cell displayed the time as 8:37 a.m. I counted the time on my right hand. Eight hours and twenty three minutes.

“What time is . . . ?” I couldn't bring myself to say it, so Officer Kollins said it for me.

“If the governor doesn't intervene, your execution will be at six p.m. tonight.”

Ben punched numbers into his phone while Sophie and Thomas paced back and forth around the small private visiting area.

Ben said, “This is Ben Taylor again. Can you please tell me when the governor will issue his response?”

Someone knocked on the door right as Ben started to call his office to see if Louise had heard anything.

“May I come in?”

Sophie stood still as a small woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun entered the room. Her stiff legs and curved spine made her introductions slow.

“Hi, I'm Sophie.” She held her hand to greet the woman who was carrying in a stuffed tote bag embroidered with a name Sophie couldn't quite read.

“Sophie, I'm Ms. Liz.” Her bent handshake felt warm. “I'm your mother's spiritual adviser.”

“How's my mom? Have you seen her today?” Sophie didn't exhale as she waited for her to answer.

“I have not,” Ms. Liz answered slowly. She nodded a greeting in Ben and Thomas's direction.

Ben hung up the phone and Sophie could tell by his defeated expression that Louise didn't know any more than they did.

“Please sit down.” Ms. Liz motioned to them.

Ben pulled some folding chairs from out of the corner of the small room. Two out of the three metal folding chairs had wobbly, uneven legs, so Ben and Thomas stood, debating which of the other two women needed the most stability.

“Give Ms. Liz this one,” Sophie told him.

Ms. Liz sat down while Ben pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and put it under the leg of Sophie's chair.

“Do you know how she is?” Sophie asked.

“I'm sure she's being incredibly brave as usual,” Ms. Liz said. “I'm going to see her as soon as the nurse is finished with her.”

“Is she sick?” Sophie asked.

“No, this is all just normal protocol,” Ben interjected.

“I've been meeting with your mom for some time now,” Ms. Liz said. “We've become quite close.”

Sophie felt her eyes start to burn. “Then I guess you know?”

“Know what?” Ms. Liz asked her. The lines around her eyes tightened, but her face seemed safe and soft.

“That I've been a terrible daughter.” Sophie controlled her voice, but she couldn't keep her shoulders and hands from shaking. All of a sudden the room became cold.

Thomas took off his suit jacket and placed it around her. He kept his hands on her shoulders.

“I do know one thing,” Ms. Liz said as she pulled some tissues from her coat pocket. “Your mom's entire countenance changes when she talks about you. It's like these walls”—she swirled her arms in the air—“just don't exist.”

Ben's cell phone rang as Sophie was about to exhale. Both she and Ms. Liz chose not to move.

“Ben Taylor.” Pause. “Yes, yes, that's correct.” Pause. “Okay. Thank you.”

Ben held his phone close to his chest. “The governor has issued a response. His office is faxing it to mine by four p.m. His assistant said he's holding a press conference around the same time.”

“Is that good news or bad news?” Sophie stammered, her eyes begging Ben or Ms. Liz for some kind of reassurance.

Ben shook his head. “I have no idea what it means.”

Ms. Liz patted Sophie's hand. “We have to just wait and see.”

A tap on the door interrupted their discussion. “Ms. Liz?” An officer opened the door. “You can see Mrs. Bradshaw now.”

Sophie buried her head in her hands. She could feel her baby adjusting itself inside her.

“Sophie,” Ms. Liz said. She reached down to get something out of her tote bag. Sophie could see the name
Elizabeth
scrolled in deep purple cursive. “Your mom asked me to give you this.” She handed her a brown leather journal.

Sophie grasped it with wobbly hands. Tears started trickling down her face as she held the worn book close to her chest.

Ms. Liz rose from her chair and ran her bent fingers over the top of Sophie's hair.

“Ms. Liz,” Sophie cried. “I need you to do me a favor.”