With Love from the Inside (7 page)

“I'm looking forward to some cornbread stuffing and pecan pie,” Thomas said, pulling into the passing lane.

Sophie pulled out the earbuds she'd put on an hour into the four-hour drive to Charleston, where Thomas's parents lived. The last few lines of Miranda Lambert's “Over You” trailed off faintly in her lap.

“Me, too.” But after thinking about pencil-thin Eva, she decided she'd eat only turkey and a deviled egg.

They hadn't talked at all about her quick day-before exit or anything else of magnitude since Thomas had come home late last night. They'd both been tired and still had to pack. And weren't some secrets better off left unsaid?

“You okay, baby?” Thomas asked after they had been in the car more than an hour. His eyes met hers, and his question seemed sincere. “You're not saying much.”

“I'm fine.” She looked away, not giving him the chance to explore her silence any further. She couldn't remember the last time “fine” described her.

The mature part of Sophie knew she should in turn ask him how he was doing, how he felt since his patient died. Had he figured anything out? However, in this moment, the hold-a-grudge fraction of her took over and she remained silent. She put the earbuds in her ears and scrolled through her playlists.

Maybe she was being paranoid about Eva? She considered the possibility, then considered her state of mind. Her pink Prada purse, tucked between her feet, still hid the letter from her mother's lawyer.

She hadn't exactly been thinking clearly when Eva stepped out of Thomas's office. Drug reps visit doctors. That's what they do. And Eva, no matter how much Sophie despised her, was a drug rep. All five-foot-ten thin inches of her.

Sophie closed her eyes and attempted to “rise above” and “kill her with kindness,” all the things her dad tried to instill in her after he became her moral compass. But even the thought of Eva irritated her.

“I'm still a little crazy about what happened at the hospital. You know, the little girl. I've never lost a patient before.”

Sophie could hear him, but she wasn't sure he knew that. She chose to think about Max, praying his fever had broke.

Thomas stared straight ahead with both hands gripped tightly around the bottom of the steering wheel.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked, letting go of her punishment and, for the moment, her grudge.

“I'm not sure.” He took one hand off the wheel and ran it through his hair. “I'm not. The hospital is going to review the case pending her autopsy. I brought my notes and whatever hospital records I could copy without looking suspicious. I thought maybe Dad and Carter could give me some advice.”

Sophie nodded. Thomas's dad was a prominent cardiac surgeon who flew across the country and gave lectures to physicians on when to use a synthetic heart valve. Something he invented. Sophie wasn't sure exactly what it was, but Thomas said it paid a whole lot better than nose jobs. Carter, Thomas's older brother, worked as a prosecutor in the district attorney's office.

“Are you sure you want to talk to your dad?” A valid question, since Thomas always seemed to be on the defensive when he was around him.

“I don't want to talk to anybody,” he said, “but I don't have a choice.”

Sophie took her earbuds out, wrapped them in a ball, and tossed the coconspirator of her passive-aggressiveness in the glove compartment.

“She was being bullied.” Thomas tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his neck held stiff. “She wanted her burn scars to go away because she was being teased at school.”

“That's awful.”

“I
feel
awful. You know I don't like to treat kids, but something about this little girl tugged at me.”

“Why, do you think?”

“Scary,” Thomas lamented, and his neck and shoulders softened downward. “The kids at school ran from her because they said she looked scary.”

Sophie could completely relate to that poor little girl.

Sophie studied her husband's defenseless face. She didn't witness his vulnerability very often, but when she did, it made her ask the question:
Would he empathize with me?

“Sweetheart,” Sophie said, her words slow and forced, “I have something I want to tell you.” She pulled her purse from between her feet and set it on her lap.

Thomas turned to look at her—very briefly, though, because traffic had started to back up. The stop-and-go of holiday travel made this moment less than ideal.

“What is it, baby?” he asked her, while beeping his horn at a teenage driver texting in the next lane.

Sophie unlatched her purse and pulled out the letter.

“Pay attention to the road,” Thomas pointed and mouthed as he passed the texting teenager.

Sophie halted her disclosure when the girl honked back and threw up her middle finger.

“Nice,” Thomas yelled through Sophie's cracked window. “Classy.”

“You finished?” Sophie asked, before pushing the button to close her window.

“I'm done,” Thomas replied. He cracked his knuckles against the steering wheel. “What were we talking about?”

“I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry.” She slipped the letter back into her purse and then tugged on his sleeve. “I'm sorry you lost your patient.”

—

M
RS
. L
OGAN
(C
ALL ME
M
ARGARET, DEAR
) had done everything to open her arms to Sophie, including phoning her every year at the beginning of November to ask if she “wanted anything special on the menu,” a gesture Sophie knew went far beyond adding pumpkin pie and sweet-potato casserole. It was his mom's way of making her feel as if she belonged.

There were questions at first after Thomas called his mother and repeated the exact lie Sophie had told him. “No, Mom, she doesn't have a family.” His voice lowered when he realized Sophie was in the next room. “I don't know all the details.” He paused. “I've asked, but she doesn't like to talk about it.”

She could tell his mother was pressing for more, trying to understand the precedent of the poor orphan girl who would soon become her daughter-in-law. Sophie still remembered the sympathy in their eyes the first time they met her and the recognition she felt in their tight hugs. Their constant tone of sympathy was sometimes hard to take, but Sophie worried that if they knew the truth, that sympathy would be replaced by disgust, which she feared much more.

“Was your mother a good cook?” Margaret asked her their first holiday together. The abrupt question startled Sophie and caused her to nick her thumb with the potato peeler. She composed her answers while Margaret left to get a Band-Aid.

“My mom loved to cook,” Sophie said as Margaret squeezed Betadine
over Sophie's bleeding finger. She knew Thomas's mom didn't really care about the taste of her mom's fried chicken, but it was a small way to bust through Sophie's barricade and bond with her.

“She made wedding cakes for people.” Both statements were true, and somehow the sprinkling of honesty made the “already dead” part of her deceit seem like a smaller infraction.

All of their efforts did make her feel at home, and Sophie genuinely enjoyed her holidays spent with the Logan family. Everything from the blue Willow–patterned china to the bacon-wrapped scallop appetizers served promptly at 5:30 p.m., and the dinner that followed at 6 p.m. on the button.

This Thanksgiving, like all holidays, Dr. Logan sat at the head of the long dark-stained table. Margaret still made place cards even though everyone sat at the same spot every time they gathered for a meal: Carter and his family on one side, Thomas and Sophie on the other. Margaret took the end closest to the kitchen. All the chairs had high carved backs and didn't scoot very well. It took at least three moves before you could escape—that was what Sophie had been thinking the first time she joined them for a formal meal.

After Dr. Logan blessed the food, he scooped up a big helping of mashed potatoes. As he passed the bowl to Thomas, he said, “You have a birthday coming up. Turning thirty, I hear.” He didn't make much small talk, but when he did, Sophie listened. His deep, commanding voice intimidated her.

“Unfortunately, you heard correct,” she replied as Thomas passed her the seven-layer salad. She took a small spoonful and handed the salad to her mother-in-law.

Dr. Logan poured some gravy on his mashed potatoes and directed his next question to Thomas. “Don't you think it's time for you two to give this old man some grandbabies?” The word
babies
sounded much louder.

Sophie swallowed three times to get down a bacon bit while waiting for Thomas to answer a question that felt more like an order.

He handed her a glass of water and said, “We've been practicing, but not quite ready for the big leagues.”

His father laughed loudly, seeming satisfied. She and Thomas did want to have kids, but with the demands of his job, Thomas decided it'd be best to put it off a little longer. Sophie didn't argue, especially with her gene pool. Motherhood was best kept in the distant future.

Margaret changed the subject and asked Vivianne, Carter and Caroline's only child, if she wanted some cranberry sauce.

“No, thank you, Grandma Margaret,” the five-year-old said with impeccable manners. “Aunt Sophie, will you color with me later?”

After the last couple days, Sophie couldn't wait to pick up a crayon. “There's nothing in the world I would rather do.”

—

A
FTER DINNER
, the men retired to the TV room while Caroline, Margaret, and Sophie cleared the table and talked about the after-Thanksgiving sales. Vivianne sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting patiently for them to finish.

Sophie tried to pay attention to Caroline's ponderings about how all the “top designers” were cheapening their names by bringing their lines into discount department stores such as Kohl's and Target, and threw in an occasional comment like, “I love Vera's Lavender Label flats,” but something about her was off. She felt susceptible and out of place.

“Aunt Sophie, are you almost done?” The excitement in Vivi's voice reminded her of Max. Max, all alone, eating his creamed peas and processed turkey slices.

“Almost done, Vivianne.”

Maybe it was the letter looming in her purse with words warning her
of a past that hasn't gone away. And a mother who, no matter what she had done, still sat alone on Thanksgiving in a place no one would choose to be.

“You feel okay, Sophie? You look kind of pale,” Caroline asked.

“A little queasy,” Sophie replied as she excused herself and headed to the restroom. She closed the door and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Relax, snap out of this funk, forget about the letter—
but nothing she told herself helped. She closed her eyes and shook her head, but old memories crept in and refused to go away. Pushing themselves into her presence, not allowing her to fight back.

Thanksgiving Day when she was ten years old popped into her mind. Sophie in her twin bed, in her pink room, under her purple polka–dotted comforter. Protected and safe. Her puppy asleep beside her. She could hear her mom in the kitchen, opening and shutting the oven door, the smell of homemade sweet bread all around her. The mixer made a rhythmic clank as it hit the sides of a pan while she whipped the potatoes and added “just a smidgen” of cream cheese.

Sophie heard a marching band on TV right before her dad yelled, “Wake up, sleeping beauty, the parade is about to start.” She could hear his footsteps moving closer to her door. He stopped long enough to taste the baked macaroni and cheese. “Creamy enough?” her mom asked.

She saw them all sitting around their small, oval breakfast table eating on disposable plates decorated with giant brown turkeys (less cleanup, more time together, her mother told her), holding hands while her father said grace. “Thank you, Lord, for all we have. Our chairs are full and our hearts are grateful.” William slapped the tray of his high chair while their mom fed him small bites of applesauce. This was one of the rare days when he giggled like a normal baby, one that didn't throw up all his food and spend his days being shuttled between medical appointments. Sophie wished she had more memories like that.

Sophie took some deep breaths and tried to count to ten. How long had it been since she allowed herself to revisit these moments she could never get back?

—

“L
ET
'
S GRAB THE PAPER
from your husband,” Margaret said to Caroline as Sophie walked back into the kitchen. “I want to see if Macy's is putting their Coach bags on sale.”

As they followed her into the living room, Carter saw them and put down the first section. “He deserves to fry,” Carter said, referring to the headline on the front page. Sophie read the bold print over his shoulder: “Walter Mayberry to Be Executed at Lakeland Penitentiary.”

That's the prison my mom is in.

Something lodged in her chest.

“Eye for an eye,” Carter continued, as though he was giving closing arguments in front of a jury. “The man killed young girls as a recreational activity. Murdered in his spare time. The world is better off without this scumbag.” Margaret covered Vivianne's ears.

“Calm down, Johnnie Cochran, this is your day off,” teased Caroline as she tried to grab the sales flyers from him.

“Wrong side of the courtroom,” Carter served back. “I don't defend people, sweet pea. I lock them up and throw away the key.” He tossed a pretend key over his shoulder and swiped his hands together, his imaginary victory won.

“Baby-killer next on the chopping block,” Sophie heard him say just before her world turned black and her head hit the floor.

My cell door unlocked right on time. All the doors on the cell block did except Roni's. I'm not sure what she did this time to lose privileges, but it must have been something. I could hear Jada counting her steps in her cell. “One, two, three, four, turn. One, two, three, four, turn.”

“You coming?” I said to her as I walked past.

She ignored me, so I took a seat at the metal picnic table and started shuffling through the stack of magazines. Ms. Liz collected old publications from her women's group at church and brought them to us once a month. All different kinds, from crossword puzzles to
Consumer Reports
, had one thing in common—the one-by-three-inch rectangle cut out of the bottom right corner of each front cover.

Ms. Liz was my spiritual adviser, and we usually met at least once a week, but it had been a while. I wasn't sure why she hadn't been there, but I missed her and I needed advising now more than ever.

“Ms. Liz coming today?” I asked Officer Jones, who was dialing the telephone from her desk in the dayroom. “Haven't seen her,” she replied without looking up.

“This is Jones”—her voice serious. She paused and then said, “So it's a go?”

I glanced up. So did she, and then she lowered her voice. “First one in several years; this place is going to be a circus.”

The voice on the other end must have agreed with her. Lakeland State Penitentiary was the largest maximum-security prison in the state and had both a men's and a women's death row. The new governor had promised he would be tough on crime and even tougher on criminals. “Too much of your hard-earned money is going to support those who have broken the law. Those who have been sentenced to death are sitting year after year in our prisons while their appeals draw out and cost you, the taxpayer, more money.” He'd shouted the words as if he was promising a refund. “I promise to expedite this lengthy process and let their punishments be carried out.” The crowd cheered through the newscast.

Officer Jones finished her call in private. Or I tuned her out; I'm not sure which. It was obvious someone in this place would be going before me. I didn't know whom.

Carmen came out of her cell about twenty minutes after I did. Even on death row, she made her appearances fashionably late.

Forgoing a greeting, she picked up last month's
Travel + Leisure
and said, “I bet the person who donated this has never traveled out of the state.” Her long nails clicked on the metal table. “Her husband's probably a cheap-ass.”

She continued to flip through the pages, not appearing to care if I agreed or not.

“I bet they travel all the time,” I said after a few minutes. I didn't want to start a fight with Carmen, but I was trying to be love-worthy, after all, and this subscriber had been kind enough to donate the magazine. “She probably pays for her kids to get their hair weaved every time they go to the beach.”

Carmen grunted and continued flipping the pages. She had been here the longest and was the toughest one for me to figure out. Roni I can understand. Burn marks from a hot iron framed her world. I'm not sure she ever felt the excitement of riding a bike for the first time without the
training wheels, or experienced the joy that bubbles in your chest when someone said “I like your smile” or “You look pretty in that dress.”

The same can't be said for Carmen. She grew up in a house with a cook and a driver and had a story about every vacation destination mentioned in each donated issue. The way she cocked her head when she examined her slice of thin bologna or the green Jell-O served in a plastic cup told all of us this place was beneath her. Her shiny black hair, twisted tight in a French knot, framed sharp, high cheekbones and thin lips.

“She looks like a praying mantis,” Jada had said once, when she thought Carmen was sleeping. “Damn, a gray hair or wrinkle is even too scared to live on that bitch.”

“I'll show you a praying mantis,” Carmen had screamed, rushing full-speed out of her cell, with her hand raised in the air. An officer intervened before Carmen had a chance to attack. She spent three days in isolation after that.

Carmen tossed the magazine onto the pile and started browsing through
National Geographic.
“Venice is way overrated,” she said. “Stan wants to go, but I'd rather go someplace else.” Her eyes stared off and she didn't continue.

Stan was her fourth husband. They'd married seven years ago, after Carmen had been on the row for almost a decade. Ms. Liz conducted the simple ceremony; Carmen and Stan said their vows separated by glass. “Probably the safest husband she's ever had,” one of the officers joked.

Carmen was known to many as the Candy Bar Killer for adding various toxic concoctions to the baked goods of husbands one through three. We'd never talked about her convictions or her motivations, but one time while flipping through
Taste of Home
, Carmen said, “I made this crunchy layered caramel cake once for my second husband.”

I looked for the November issue of
Woman's Day
. I saved the calendars out of the back of each issue from the section called Month of Menus.
Some housewives, I supposed, used this section and its handy shopping guide to plan meals for their families. I could picture them whipping up the Brown Sugar Meatloaf and mashed potatoes while their children fought over who licked the mixing spoons.

I had a much simpler use for the Month of Menus. I used it to mark off my remaining days.