by Angela Pisel
GRACE
This week has been hard. I’m not going to pretend to be strong—I don’t think I have the energy. There were times I felt like my last breaths couldn’t get here fast enough. I realize that sounds morbid, especially coming from me, but these past few days have been almost unbearable. Walter’s execution made everything around here feel heavy. My spine even fought me when I tried to stand up straight. I hate to be negative, especially in my journal to you, but I have to be honest.
Even in prison, holidays are days of note, but not this Thanksgiving. My last Thanksgiving, and I contemplated staying in bed all day. Sleeping through like it never happened. The thing that stopped me was this strange sense of obligation I felt to Jada and Roni, like I needed to make sure they didn’t feel alone this holiday season. Everyone deserves a nice holiday, don’t you think?
Carmen’s husband came to visit, so she spent the morning teasing her hair, trying to get some “height” at her crown so her face didn’t look so long. I tried to be polite when she asked me for the third time if her face looked younger if she parted her hair on the right or on the left side. “Your husband will like it either way,” I finally said, in the most encouraging voice I could muster.
Around 11:47 a.m., the food trays came out. Late, but at least the processed turkey slices weren’t cold. Roni, Jada, and I joined one another at the metal round table in the dayroom. No one said “Happy Thanksgiving” on this otherwise ordinary day, but we made a point to sit together. An unspoken survival tip to help us manage the mundane.
“Serena should be getting her driver’s license this week,” Jada boasted, swirling the congealed brown gravy into her mashed potatoes. “Daryl said his daughter wouldn’t be driving a piece-of-crap car to school like he had to. He’d get her something nice to drive.”
The only time Jada spoke with such animation was when she was talking about her family. I suspect she’d say the same thing about me.
“Daryl didn’t want his kids to do without. He bought Robbie one of those camouflaged Jeep trucks on his fourth birthday. Paid three hundred and some dollars for it. He rode that thing up and down the driveway until the wheels fell off.”
She laughed, and I did, too. Roni grunted. She had her head tilted to the side and her thumbnail was busy picking dried macaroni off the corner of her tray. I tried to ignore this disgusting evidence appearing on our sanitized food trays more often than not. It was hard enough to eat the food in here the first time around.
“They’re probably going to eat at his mom’s around one. They do every year.”
“That sounds nice,” I said to Jada. She reminded me of the Mrs. Beasley doll I had as a child. When you pulled her string, she repeated the same few phrases over and over.
I’d heard the prison doctor had tried to bring her back to reality. “Your family is gone.” His words had met only an empty stare. “Your husband and two kids died in a house fire, remember?”
I’m not sure Jada has ever acknowledged that fact. She still talks about them in the present tense, even though she’s been sitting here without them for the past nine times we’ve been served pumpkin pie.
The judge called her a pathological liar with no maternal instincts when he sentenced her for three counts of premeditated murder. Empty gasoline cans and three sixteen-day-old life-insurance policies were found in Jada’s car the night of the blaze. She was the only one who made it out alive.
I made it my mission not to judge Jada, or the other ladies who now shared my holidays. I chose instead to love the people I knew they were meant to become if they had made different choices or had been given different skill sets. As terrible as their crimes were, I made it a point not to define them by their worst mistakes made so many years ago.
Were you alone today?
We had twelve Thanksgivings together before I left you. Another five with you sitting across the glass from me, sneaking glances at your watch, forcing yourself to fake happy so I’d believe everything was all right. I didn’t know the seventeenth Thursday we spent celebrating would be our last.
Who are you with?
Did you think about me?
Did you tell them about our cinnamon rolls, how late we stayed up rolling the dough and sticking our fingers in the powdered-sugar icing, laughing, and licking it off until we made ourselves sick?
I cherish those memories, but when I think about it, I don’t care if you told them about our homemade desserts, or about my philosophy on setting a simple table—I hope you just said, “It was my home, and I loved being there.”
I’ve spent a lot of time in my life not knowing. Not knowing if it will rain when I’ve planned our after-church picnic, or not remembering the friend of a friend’s name I’ve met several times. These things don’t bother me too much because I know there are solutions out there somewhere. Like factual responses, answered by watching the Weather Channel or apologetically asking your friend’s friend his name once again.
The big unknowns are what keep me from my peace. Taunting me, like a snotty girl at recess: “Where’s your daughter?” “What really happened to your son?”
I replay, without will, the months before William’s death. The endless hours trying to get him to eat, the helplessness when he continued to lose weight and the horrifying moments when his body would inexplicably stiffen. And then, finally, the time it never ended and I realized once I left him at the hospital that he was gone forever.
Our day before was perfect. You walked Teddy through the park while I pushed William in his new stroller. Do you remember the one that had the paisley canopy so he wouldn’t get too much sun? Every so often we’d stop and Paul would sing to William.
“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.” William had just learned to clap his hands.
After we walked home, I fixed William a bottle while you tried to teach Teddy how to shake for a treat. “Shake,” you’d say to him over and over while you held a Milk-Bone above his head.
Paul prepared his sermon in the study while I fed William. At first he acted hungry, sucking so hard formula drooled out of his mouth, pooling in the folds underneath his chin.
“Need another bib,” I yelled to you from the living room.
“Hungry, hungry hippo.” You poked his belly as you handed me a burp rag.
I’ll never forget what I saw next. What you saw next.
William was no longer William. His pudgy face became hard and the thick formula leaking out of his mouth started to bubble.
“Get Daddy,” I shouted. “Get Daddy fast.”
By the time Paul ran into the living room, William’s blue eyes had stopped moving, but his eyelids hadn’t. They blinked—over, and over, and over again—until they didn’t anymore.
When the paramedics took William away, I never imagined he wouldn’t be returning.
That I wouldn’t be returning.
My last perfect day, and the final day in our home I’d spend with you.
xoxoxo
After the meal, and after I had put in my self-imposed social time, I returned to my cell. I didn’t want to watch my last bowl game on TV, or glance at the sales in the newspaper advertising Christmas presents I’d never buy. I just wanted to pull that gray, scratchy blanket over my head and go to sleep.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I had only a few more months to write to Sophie. For that reason and for that reason alone, I needed to keep breathing. I keep remembering things I need to teach her.
SOPHIE
Ben Taylor, in Sophie’s mind, had slicked-back, jet-black hair; his face would be ruddy and intense, his voice fast and boisterous. Instead, when his secretary escorted Sophie into his office, she found him to be quite the opposite, a fatherly type. Strong, capable, good-natured, keeping his children from taking that first puff on a cigarette because they would just know it was wrong.
“Sophie, I’m so glad to finally meet you.” His hand extended as he met her at the door to his office, his welcome warm and his tone disarming. His hair had just enough silver to look distinguished and his face enough lines to seem wise.
“Mr. Taylor, I’m sorry I’ve not been in contact with you earlier. I hope you can understand I’ve tried to move on, put this part of my life behind me.” Her words rushed to keep up with her defenses. “So if you wouldn’t mind, please tell me how much my mother owes you and I’ll pay the balance. I have a long drive back home.”
“Have a seat, please.” He motioned to a charcoal leather tufted sofa against the office wall. Sophie abided and took a seat as he walked over to his desk and grabbed some papers, presumably containing her mother’s account information. She could only imagine what the invoices would read: Consultation with Grace Bradshaw—still on death row—$1,500.00. Another consultation with Grace Bradshaw—conviction stands, still on death row—$1,500.00.
Her cynicism was on full speed today. Underneath it all, she was trying to figure out how to hide this bill from Thomas.
Ben sat down on the couch beside her. “I apologize if I’ve given you the impression the letter was my attempt to get paid. Your father’s church provided him with quite a substantial life-insurance policy. It paid your mother’s legal fees, and with your mother’s instructions, I’ve used the surplus to keep up the house. The balance is dwindling, but there’s some money you’re entitled to, if you’d like.”
“I don’t need the money, Mr. Taylor.” Sophie’s two-carat emerald-cut diamond ring showed him that. “And I’m sure my mother could still use your services.”
“You were a hard one to track down,” he said, smiling and seemingly pleased he’d found her. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the last five years. Your mother for longer than that. She misses you.”
Sophie didn’t smile back. “Mr. Taylor, as I said to you when I walked in, I have put this part of my life behind me. I wasted my middle and high school years loving someone who was supposed to love me back, love my brother back.” She dug through her purse for her car keys and started to stand. “I was so stupid. Stupid to believe her, all while the whole town knew she was guilty.”
“I can’t imagine the pain you’ve endured.” He put his hand on her shoulder with just enough pressure to prompt her to sit back down.
“You have no idea.” She bit her lower lip. “I lost my brother and my father, all because of her. My entire life has been altered because of my mother. Pain doesn’t begin to describe what I have endured.”
It had been eleven years since Sophie had had a real conversation about her mother, one that acknowledged her existence and conveyed her hurt. Part of her liked the release; the other part of her felt like she was perched at the top of a large roller coaster, then plummeting down fast without the bar secured.
Ben paused, giving her a minute to regroup. “Sophie,” he said, “I’m not trying to stir up old wounds.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
“I wanted . . . well, your mother wanted to contact you and let you know what is going on with her case.”
Sophie put her hand on the arm of the sofa. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want him to confirm what Carter had said at Thanksgiving. She wanted to believe her mom and her past were both still locked securely behind iron bars, where they belonged.
“I took your mother’s case about five years ago. It seemed her state-appointed attorneys weren’t doing much and had basically stopped pursuing anything of relevance to the case after her conviction. Before your father died, he made two provisions: one was for you and your education, and the other was for your mom to secure a different legal team if she so desired.” He watched for her to acknowledge this.
“Okay,” she said. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I took on your mother’s case after I received her letter. I drove to Lakeland and visited with her. She’s not at all what I expected.” He shook his head and smiled.
“No,” she said, “you wouldn’t think someone with Betty Crocker hands and a Martha Stewart smile could do such a thing.”
Ben’s smile disappeared. “The thing is, Sophie, I don’t believe she did.”
A tap on the door. “The clerk at the courthouse called. Judge wants you in his office ASAP,” said Louise, who today was wearing a black belted pantsuit. She sneezed, then wiped her nose with a lavender handkerchief.
“I was afraid that would happen,” Ben said, glancing at his watch, then at Sophie. “How long are you in town?”
“As soon as I leave here and check out of my room, I’m on my way.”
“My meeting with the judge shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half or so. Meet me at the café, say around one-thirty, and I’ll buy you lunch. You need to hear what I have to say.”
“I’ll think about it.” Sophie pushed a piece of string lying on the shiny hardwood floor around with her tennis shoe.
“Louise,” Ben yelled—unnecessarily, since she was still listening at the door. “Wash your hands and then give Sophie that envelope—you know, the one from her mother.”
—
SOPHIE LEFT THE ATTORNEY’S OFFICE still in her jogging suit. Her plan was to go to the B-and-B, shower, check out, and then be on her way. She had bantered back and forth in her mind all the reasons she wasn’t obligated to stay. After all, her father had paid the bill, and she certainly didn’t owe her mother anything. She’d made her clean break years ago, and even if her mom was going to be executed, what could she do about it? Her mother—the mother she’d known—had died a long time ago, along with the rest of the Bradshaws.
Ben Taylor could go on believing her mother was innocent all he wanted to; after all, that was his job. My responsibilities are to Thomas, myself, and the family we may (but probably shouldn’t) someday create. She thought about Max sitting alone in his hospital bed, his mother out living her life without a care in the world. Abandoning him just like her mother had abandoned her. If she left now and moved forward, that at least would be justice, not only for her, but for William and Max. She congratulated herself for a decision well made.
When she got back to the B-and-B, her room had already been cleaned, her bed had been made, and new towels had been placed in a wicker basket by the sink in the bathroom. The curtains covering the sliding glass window had been pulled open and spider plants were in full view. Sophie tossed her keys and her purse on the bed. The manila envelope Louise had handed her was still sealed. The contents, Sophie suspected, were things the prison needed to get rid of. Probably her mom’s wedding ring, driver’s license, things of that sort. Items usually given to a next of kin.
She decided to shower first, and then pack her clothes. She’d wait until later to open the envelope—much later, after she did the only other thing she needed to do before she left the tiny town of Brookfield.
—
THE CEMETERY LAY ON THE eastern part of Brookfield and bordered the only highway leading into town. A twenty-five-acre piece of land covered with towering oak trees and untold stories of lives cut too short.
On Saturday mornings during high school, Sophie would dump out her composition notebooks from her backpack and fill the front pocket with items her mom needed, like underwear and cotton socks. In the other pocket she’d put items she needed for the stop she made on the way home. Little Golden Books to read to her brother when she visited him at the cemetery.
After she left for college and stopped visiting her mother, the trips to see William and her father at the cemetery subsided. She placated her conscience with every-other-week floral deliveries she placed using her one and only pre-Thomas credit card.
The last floral arrangement stopped after she married Thomas and he questioned the bill. “Who are you sending flowers to?” he had asked one day, after getting the mail before she did.<
br />
“My parents’ grave site,” she’d answered, without thinking her response through. “I can’t bear the thought of it looking lonely since I can’t visit.”
“That’s sweet,” Thomas said, kissing her on the cheek before moving on to the next piece of mail.
The subject never came up again. Thomas didn’t object and money certainly wasn’t an issue, but Sophie decided moving on meant letting go, releasing the burden she had placed on herself to look after her dad and brother. It wasn’t as though flower arrangements could change their destinies or make their final resting place more comfortable.
She parked her car near the front of the cemetery. If she remembered correctly, her dad was buried ten rows back from the first row of stones and seventeen markers over.
Sophie began to count out loud just like she had as a kid: “One, two . . .” If she kept her head down and concentrated, she wouldn’t have to think about the fact she was the only one present aboveground.
“Ten. Now sixteen over. One, two, three . . .”
Number seventeen, exactly as Sophie remembered.
WITH LOVE WE REMEMBER
PAUL WILLIAM BRADSHAW
The inscription wasn’t very creative, but Sophie hadn’t known what else to write at age eighteen. The wings of an angel adorned the top of the stone.
Right beside him lay William, his marker much smaller.
WILLIAM JOSEPH BRADSHAW
GOD’S GREATEST GIFT RETURNED TO HIM.
ABSENT FROM OUR LIVES BUT FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS.
Sophie bent down and traced William’s name with her finger.
“Hey, baby boy,” she said. The cold grass around his headstone crunched as she sat down. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here in a while to see you. I’ve missed you.”
Weeds had grown in around the sides, making the date of his birthday disappear.