by Angela Pisel
Everything else? Sophie started to ask, when the nurse wheeled in the ultrasound.
A few minutes later, Sophie found herself staring at a TV monitor.
“Here is the yolk sac,” the technician said, making little cross marks over the screen. She alternated moving the wand and typing. “Yes, this is exactly what we want to see.” She stopped probing and pointed to a small flicker in the middle of the screen. “That is your baby’s beating heart.”
Sophie concentrated on the movement as the tech moved the wand and continued to mark.
“Looks good. Strong heartbeat.” She murmured some other things about fluid and sac width, but to Sophie it all ran together. One more thing in her life fluttering out of her control.
—
“FILL OUT THESE FORMS,” Jack’s nurse said to Sophie after she dressed. Sophie’s eyes glazed over. The nurse handed her the paperwork and put her hand over the top of Sophie’s. “This is a lot to take in. Was this baby a surprise?”
“A big one,” Sophie replied, trying to muster some response that didn’t make her sound like a terrible mother right from the start. Baby photos plastered the walls of the hallway where she stood. Huge, round, judgmental eyes stared at her.
“I mean, it’s not like we don’t want to have a family; the timing, I guess, is just a little off.”
“I’ve had four babies. All grown now, but I can tell you I felt the same way with every pregnancy. Overwhelmed and underprepared.” The nurse pointed to the waiting room outside the lab and escorted Sophie there. “You should talk to your mom. I bet she felt the same way.”
“My mom and I don’t talk,” Sophie blurted out before she could filter her story.
“Oh, I am so sorry. I always open my big mouth, assuming everybody’s families are like mine. I talk to my girls several times a day.”
“It’s okay,” Sophie said when the nurse kept rattling on about a disagreement she had with her middle daughter over Thanksgiving: “We didn’t speak for days. Over sweet-potato casserole. Something that silly.” The nurse rolled her eyes.
“Our problems are a little bigger.” A fight over a Thanksgiving Day side dish sounded like heaven. Sophie wanted so desperately to have petty adult fights with her mother instead of not speaking or never seeing her alive again.
When she didn’t say anything, the nurse did. “I hope this baby will somehow bring you two back together. I’ll let you get to this paperwork.”
Sophie knew she’d said enough, too much, so she chose not to respond. How could she tell someone her mother would never meet this baby, her first grandchild? She would be dead and buried by then.
She sat down in the chair most isolated from the other “excited” expectant mothers. Three pages of medical forms plagued her. How could she possibly care full-time for a baby? She suspected she hadn’t fully thought through adopting Max if filling in her name, Social Security number, and insurance information created this much panic.
Concentrate, she tried to tell herself. Take the emotions out of this and focus. She didn’t have any health problems. An occasional migraine around her period. No allergies, diabetes, high blood pressure, or kidney failure. First page flew by quickly.
Age of first menstruation? She couldn’t remember if it was twelve or thirteen, but she did recall what grade she was in and who she’d had to tell. She’d started during December of her eighth-grade year. That month she was cast as Suzy Shopper in the school’s holiday play. A role requiring her to stand onstage through most of the two-hour performance and either sing in the chorus or dance around, pretending her purse was stuffed and too heavy to carry.
Her cramps prevented her from doing her spins during the dress rehearsal, so the chorus teacher had her sit out when the other kids were twisting and jumping. Before the evening performance, Sophie ran to the bathroom and discovered her red-and-green plaid skirt was soaked with blood. Her mom had been incarcerated long before she’d had a chance to discuss puberty with Sophie, and her dad’s idea of discussing pubic hair and breast buds was sliding a book titled So You’re Becoming a Woman under her door on her twelfth birthday.
The chorus teacher happened to be in the bathroom spraying on deodorant and heard Sophie sniffling. “Sweetie, are you okay? We’re about to perform.”
Sophie opened the stall door and showed her the stains on her skirt. One look into Sophie’s terrified eyes and the teacher must have known this was her first period.
“We’ll get you fixed right up.” She pulled a quarter out of her bag and slid it into the white rectangular box on the wall. A brown box labeled Kotex slid out, and she handed it to Sophie. “You wait right here and I’ll be back with some fresh underwear and a new skirt.”
The chorus teacher must’ve made a call to Sophie’s dad, because after she walked home a big blue box of Always with wings was sitting on her bed. Sophie wanted so much to call her mom and ask questions like “Why do I need wings?” and “Should I use a pad or a tampon?” but her mom’s telephone privileges once again had been denied. When she and her dad drove to visit her the next month, Sophie couldn’t whisper the questions without her dad hearing. After the visit, she snuck into her bedroom and pulled out the book from under her bed. She read chapter three: “The Ups and Downs of Your Menstrual Cycle.”
Sophie skimmed the rest of the questions. Family history of depression? She’d heard her parents whispering something when they thought Sophie was asleep in the back of the car. “If you need to get back on medicine, please tell me, Grace.” Sophie filled in that blank with a question mark.
Are any of your siblings deceased? If so, state age at death and cause: William, eight months. She could not bring herself to write the word murdered next to his name. Why would that matter, anyway? She left the second part of the question blank and prayed Thomas would never see this.
“Mrs. Logan, ready to get your blood drawn?” a young man in a white lab coat asked. Sophie signed her name at the bottom of the page and then walked into the lab.
After several attempts and three filled vials, he put a Band-Aid on her arm and escorted her to a chair in Jack’s private office. A picture of Jack and Kate with sun visors on while holding fishing poles decorated his desk.
“The sonogram looks good. The baby looks healthy,” he said to her as soon as she sat down.
“How far along am I?” Sophie asked, realizing this was the first time she had acknowledged the baby out loud. It was becoming real.
“The baby is measuring at about eleven weeks, which means your due date is somewhere around”—he consulted the chart—“June twenty-fifth.” Thomas had been born in June. She could already hear Margaret on the phone with the party planner: “We’ll need two cakes: a three-tiered vanilla-frosted one for my son Thomas, and a smaller chocolate one with lots of sprinkles for my grandbaby. You have to get your hands and face messy on your first birthday—it’s a Logan family tradition.”
“The blood work should be back later this afternoon. I had them run yours stat, since you’ve been feeling faint. I want you to start on these prenatal vitamins, and I’m presuming you’re anemic due to your symptoms, so I’m starting you on these iron pills.” He handed her both bottles. “If you’re not, we can discontinue those, but keep them because chances are you’ll need them at some point during your pregnancy.”
Jack asked her for the forms. “Okay, so no red flags with your medical history. Your dad died of heart disease, and your mom, is she still living?”
“Yes.” Sophie hesitated, but she couldn’t lie. Now her baby was involved.
“Healthy?” he asked.
“As far as I know.” Jack looked up but didn’t ask anything further.
“You had one sibling, I see here. Died in infancy?” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “Do you know your brother’s cause of death?”
For years Sophie had mastered the art of avoid
ing this conversation, but not anymore. She knew technically Jack wasn’t allowed to tell Kate, but she wasn’t naïve enough to think that didn’t mean he might. Didn’t Thomas deserve to hear this first?
She couldn’t worry about that now. She could worry only about her baby and taking care of the baby’s needs. For the first time, she felt like a mother.
“William was sick most of his infancy. My mom, um, had trouble feeding him. Took him to the doctor all the time. He never wanted to take a bottle, and when he did, he threw up.” She paused to look at Jack to see if it was safe to go on. He was taking notes, not looking at her, so she continued. “He seemed drowsy and didn’t like to hold his head up. The day he died, he had a seizure.”
Jack paused his writing just as Sophie was about to tell him the whole story. Before she could, he asked, “Did your brother have a metabolic disorder?”
GRACE
The will to do, The soul to dare.
—SIR WALTER SCOTT
Sophie, I did something I thought I’d never do. I can twist, turn, and justify it a million different ways, but in the end, I am responsible because I chose not to be brave. Instead, I opted for the easier choice. I made the choice to do nothing.
Earlier this evening, Carmen stood with her back to all of us, whispering into the phone—the same ritual practiced every week when she made her collect call home. She knew the phone calls were being recorded, but that didn’t stop her from engaging in some pretty lewd conversations with husband number four. Some days she spoke in a soft, sultry voice; other days she moaned and groaned so loud the officer cut her off midsentence.
She twirled her hair and swayed back and forth like a girl getting asked to the prom. I tried not to stare, but Roni, who was next in line, kept looking at the clock and then glaring at Carmen. Three minutes left, according to my timekeeping, and I thought Roni might explode.
The last letter Roni wrote to her father (I wrote—she dictated) said she’d call him on December 23.
Please be waiting by the phone, she had me write, because one try is all I get and I want to hear what your voice sounds like. I added the please.
“Hurry up, Carmen,” she growled, while pacing back and forth.
Carmen ignored her, but belted out a few seismic sounds in her direction.
Roni’s dad worked the night shift at the gas station he owned. The call would not happen if she didn’t reach him soon.
“One minute left,” the officer shouted unnecessarily—done or not, the line automatically cuts off when your time is up.
Roni pulled a small piece of paper out of the top of her pants and unfolded it. She studied the numbers while slowing her steps.
“Until next time,” Carmen said in the lowest pitch possible. She clinked the phone down loudly and then spun around to see who was watching.
“About damn time,” Roni said, her face inches from Carmen’s. She brushed her unintentionally with her right shoulder as she reached to dial.
“Ouch!” Carmen screamed. The officer stood up from behind his desk and ran over. “She hit me.”
Before Roni had a chance to protest, the officer pushed her up against the wall.
“You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
Carmen put her hand over her left shoulder and cried, “I think it’s dislocated.”
Roni looked over her shoulder to find me. When her gaze met mine, I looked away. I LOOKED AWAY.
The officer pushed her face back against the wall and cuffed her hands. As he escorted her back to the cell, she pleaded, “Tell him, Grace. You saw what happened. Tell him.”
I started to open my mouth, but the words refused to come out. They’re stuck inside me, reminding me of the last time I snitched. I needed to call Ben, and I knew no good deed was without consequence in prison. Three inmates had taught me the “code” with the melted end of a toothbrush after I witnessed a new lifer being harassed in her first few weeks at Lakeland. The officers stood by and did nothing. Don’t be nosy and never rat on another inmate. Three months of not being able to sit down when you urinate is enough of a reminder that in prison one’s moral compass doesn’t always point you in the right direction.
The officer pushed Roni back into her cell. “How many write-ups does this make for you?”
She didn’t answer, but I could have. None, in the last few months, anyway. Since her dad wrote her, Roni had done everything by the book, even asking Jada to turn down her music because Officer Jones rubbed her head like she had a headache.
None of that mattered. Roni would be on restriction. No hearing her dad say “I’m glad I found you” on the phone or examining his features to see if they looked like hers when he tried to visit on Christmas Day.
“Bradshaw, do you want your call or not?” the officer said after he locked Roni’s cell.
My chin started to quiver as I made my way over to the phone.
I didn’t know if I could hate myself any more. Or any more than I hated Carmen.
“Ben Taylor’s office.” I thought it was Louise, his secretary, who answered the phone after the fifth ring, but I couldn’t quite tell.
“Collect call from Lakeland State Penitentiary. Will you accept charges?”
“Prisoner’s name?” She cleared her throat and coughed. Louise.
“State your name,” the operator said.
“It’s me, Louise. Grace Bradshaw.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Louise replied. “Of course I will.”
The phone line clicked and then an automated voice said, “Four minutes remaining.”
How was that possible? I started to argue but realized it was a moot point, so I spoke fast. “Can I talk to Mr. Taylor?”
“Grace, I’m so glad you called.” Louise stopped to cough. “He needs to talk to you.”
“Is he there?” I said, even faster.
Louise coughed again. “Damn frog caught in my throat.”
“The warden gave me papers and I’m scared to sign them without talking to Ben first.” Three minutes left.
“Don’t do it. You can’t trust that weaselly warden.” She put something in her mouth. I heard her sucking. “Ben’s in court today, but he’s dying to talk to you.” She paused for a second, and then her voice climbed higher. “Oh my, that came out wrong. Please forgive me.”
“No need,” I said. “About my case or about Sophie?”
Louise cleared her throat and coughed again. “I’m not sure I should be the one who tells you.”
I started to beg, but I heard her other line ring.
“Hold on. Ben’s on the other line.”
She placed me on hold. “Jolene” by Dolly Parton belted in my ear and my stomach started to churn. Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joooolene. Please, God, let him tell me he’s found Sophie.
“Grace, this is Ben.”
“Hi, Ben. Please tell me you have good news.”
And that was the last thing I said before the line went dead.
SOPHIE
Sophie didn’t know whom to talk to first. But when she returned to her car and took out her phone, it was Ben Taylor’s cell number she dialed. “Please pick up. Please pick up.” After the fourth ring, his voicemail came on: “This is Ben Taylor and I am unable to take your call at this time . . .” Sophie tapped her foot on the floorboard and waited for his greeting to end.
“Ben, this is Sophie Logan. Please call me right away. It’s urgent I talk to you.”
This whole day had been a blur. So much information swelled in her mind, she couldn’t decide what to think about first. Could it be true? Could her baby brother have been ill like Jack suggested? Sophie hadn’t told him about her mother’s conviction. She didn’t have to. He’d assumed from the symptoms William had died of a metabolic disorder.
When Sophie hadn’t argued the point, Jack continued. He told he
r these diseases often went undiagnosed, since they were rare, inherited disorders. Seventeen years ago, doctors weren’t even aware some metabolic conditions existed.
It made sense to him. William had had a poor appetite and then became sick after he ate, since the babies with this disorder lack the enzyme that breaks down protein. The pieces fell into place while he was talking. “Why can’t the doctors figure out what is wrong with him?” she’d heard her mother say on one of her many visits to the pediatrician. Later, her pleas consisted of “I promise I didn’t hurt your brother. You have to believe me.”
But Sophie hadn’t believed her. No one had, except her father.
Every symptom William had had sounded like the disease Jack had described—what he said was possibly a metabolic acidemia or something along those lines. Sophie had had Jack spell it while she typed it into her phone.
The confusion was that it also reiterated the prosecutor’s closing argument because all of those symptoms could have come from poisoning. Sophie tried to keep her emotions in check. Her feelings vacillated from exhilaration to guilt to pure fear. Her mother had been on death row for seventeen years. Not only did the system think she was a baby killer, her own daughter had, too.
Sophie’s phone lit up. LOW BATTERY.
Where was her car charger? A frantic search through her glove compartment yielded nothing. In the console between the seats, a black-coiled car charger appeared along with the unopened envelope Ben Taylor had given her from her mother.
She tore open the envelope and pulled out a photo: Sophie, snuggled asleep in her bed with her princess tiara on. Teddy curled up right beside her. Her fingernails were painted with purple glitter nail polish. On the back her mom had written one word: GRATEFUL.
Sophie plugged in her car charger and redialed Ben’s number. This time her message said “Ben, I hope you’re home, because I’m on my way to see you.”
—