With Love from the Inside

by Angela Pisel

  “Stand for count,” an officer yells at me through the door. I stand facing the door as I do every hour on the hour when I’m confined to my room. Not that I could be anywhere else, but those in command need to write down a number and make sure each inmate is still breathing.

  “Shower day. Be ready in ten,” he orders. I know he means it. Hygiene is a privilege and can be taken away. I found that out the first week when I was too slow to follow an officer’s orders and I wasn’t allowed to shower for two weeks.

  I pull my dark-brown-and-gray “highlighted” hair into a loose bun, which is a style I’ve grown accustomed to since coming to prison. Calling the gray “highlights” makes it seem like a choice instead of a reminder that the pages of my calendar are turning even though I am standing still. I wish the prison commissary sold Clairol.

  Grandma Pearl—I wish you could’ve met her—was the one who taught me how to cut, color, and curl hair at an early age. Lack of money made trips to a salon few and far between, and it’s come in handy here, too. She also, as you well know, taught me how to sew. She made all my clothes when I was young, just like I made all of yours. You weren’t so happy with the situation, as I remember, and made no effort to conceal your discontent. I tried to reason with you, explaining that Paul was the pastor of a small church with an even tinier budget, and I didn’t get paid for cleaning our toilets and carting you back and forth to school, but you didn’t get it. I’m not sure you really ever understood, but I eventually stopped arguing and stopped sewing. Our small savings bought you clothes we couldn’t afford, but I think it made you happy. We wanted you to be happy. Are you happy?

  “Shower time,” the officer says to me. I gather my soap and shampoo and wait for my door to open. I can’t change my situation, and I have come to terms with that fact, but I’m not going to stop hoping. I’m not going to stop praying. The rest of my days will be spent saving the only thing I care about saving—my relationship with Sophie.

  SOPHIE

  Normal people cringe when the phone rings in the middle of the night. Maybe Sophie startled at unexpected calls when she was younger—she couldn’t remember—but after being married to a doctor for almost five years, she didn’t jump when the phone rang or when the annoying sound of Thomas’s pager turned her dreams into a random game show in which she was constantly running toward a beeping sound she could never quite reach.

  Thomas, usually exhausted from a hectic day of surgeries, slept without acknowledging the first round of beep . . . beep . . . beep. After two minutes—and yes, Sophie had timed this—if Thomas hadn’t responded, a closer, longer, higher-pitched beeep . . . beeep . . . beeep . . . had him searching the nightstand for his pager.

  If he was totally knocked out—or in a surgery-induced coma, as Sophie liked to call it—the pager would sequence through to its final passive-aggressive demand and launch into a solid ear-piercing beeeeeeep. Similar, Sophie guessed, to the sound family members heard when a heart stopped beating and the hospital monitor flatlined.

  So early that morning when the pager went off, she assumed the usual—the hospital, calling for Thomas. Another consult, an infected suture, or a new nurse scared to make an independent decision. Whatever the case, he would listen, give orders, then roll over and they’d both go back to sleep. Thomas was good about keeping work matters at work.

  But this time was different. Neither of them had slept well. Thomas had tossed around so much since returning from the hospital after midnight, the silk sheets had pulled off the mattress corners on his side of the bed.

  He hadn’t discussed the case with Sophie in detail, mumbling only generic things like “allergic reaction” or “possible infection,” but she knew that he was bothered by this little girl’s death, and not only on a professional level.

  She hadn’t seen him this way before. When his pager beeped at 4:51 a.m., she wasn’t sure he’d ever fallen fully asleep. Something about last night had also triggered feelings and memories for her that she tried desperately to push from her mind. William’s contagious giggle played in her mind like an old breakup song on the radio. She saw his face, too. His head full of white-blond twisted hair. The twinkle in his sea-blue eyes and how his neck disappeared when he belly-laughed. The smell of his miniature toes sprinkled with baby powder and the acceptance of his tiny fingers around hers. Fragments of her life Sophie had tried hard to forget.

  “Geez, Sophie, I feel like I’m in a damn straitjacket,” he snapped, as he grabbed the beeper and called the hospital back. “This is Dr. Logan. Somebody paged me,” he said curtly to the voice on the other end.

  Sophie flopped her head back against her pillow, then sat up. She hated it when Thomas became angry. He didn’t get mad often, and rarely at her, but when he did she took the blame and tried to fix the problem. She motioned for Thomas to stand so she could tuck in the bottom layer of sheets around the whole bed.

  “Wound care,” Thomas repeated, still on the phone, “third-degree burns.” He scribbled the patient’s name on his hospital list lying beside the bed. “Okay, thanks. Can you put his nurse on the phone, please?”

  —

  “YOU DOING OKAY?” SHE ASKED as they both returned to bed.

  “Well, I need a haircut before we leave for my parents’ house,” he said with a slight grin, avoiding her question as he ran his fingers through his thick hair. Sophie loved his wavy, ink-black hair, and the more of it the better. She hated it when he cut his hair, and Thomas knew it. When it was long, slightly touching the neckline of his T-shirt, it accentuated the sharp angles of his jawbone.

  “Stop torturing me,” she teased. Her pleas were interrupted by another page.

  “This is going to be a long day,” Thomas said, and groaned. He looked at his pager and picked up his cell phone.

  —

  AFTER THOMAS LEFT, SOPHIE WENT on her usual morning run. She started down her brick-paved driveway and through the columned flagstone posts that announced their residence. She’d been slightly overwhelmed when she first moved into a house with such large columns: they made her think of big exclamation points that shouted, “Hey, these people live in a gigantic house!”

  West Lake subdivision was considered, by anyone’s standards, elite. It consisted of older homes that all had a European Old World elegance to them. Many of the homes were occupied by older couples, retired, who rode in golf carts and sipped sangria at the clubhouse. Some privileged couples were younger, some with kids, some not. All lawns were perfectly landscaped and most had circular driveways that highlighted a tiered fountain or sculpted trees that looked as though they were posing.

  Growing up in her small town of Brookfield, Sophie knew no one who’d had a house half as nice as the ones that now surrounded her. Her parents’ two-bedroom, one-bath house could have easily fit into the garage of most of these.

  Her mom, to her credit, had made the most of what they had. Sophie imagined if the cards had been dealt differently, her mom could have had a show on HGTV demonstrating how to make curtains out of a pair of old blue jeans, or a hundred different ways to decorate with wildflowers and canning jars. Sophie’s childhood was not luxurious, but there was a time when it had been beautiful.

  Her only true childhood friend was named Jillian, and she hadn’t talked to her since they both graduated from high school. Jillian, a part of the pre-Thomas era, knew all about Sophie’s family and loved her anyway. Sophie thought about calling her but dismissed the idea. Too much time had passed, too many conversations missed. And a wedding invitation that never got mailed.

  Sophie hadn’t known whether she could trust Jillian to keep her secrets. To keep the lie that popped out of her mouth the first time Thomas asked Sophie about her family.

  “Gone. I have no one.”

  “No one?” She saw sadness in his eyes. He touched her hand, and for the first time she put her hand in his.

  “No.” This part wa
s true. “My dad died of a heart attack right before I graduated high school.

  “My mom,” her first lie to Thomas began, “died of cancer when I was twelve. No siblings.”

  She wanted to tell him the truth, but it was too soon. Too early in a relationship to delve into her story of murder and abandonment. She would accept his sadness instead of his pity, take his compassion to avoid humiliation. She planned to tell him; if this relationship progressed anywhere, she would tell him. But for right then, she’d told herself, she needed to move on. She had to forget.

  One kiss turned into dozens, and before she could find a way to tell Thomas the truth, he had told his parents. About her, about everything. They showered her with gifts when Thomas took her to meet them over Christmas break.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, Sophie’s mom used to tell her. She loved to quote famous people. Sir Walter Scott was her go-to guy for honesty. Your word is everything, her mother emphasized. Sophie wondered if her mom had choked on that adage.

  She checked her watch to decide how far she could run this morning. She had time to run her usual three miles, three full laps around the outer streets of West Lake if she cut over through the country club and ran around the pond. Her legs felt heavy after she made her first lap—worn out from lack of sleep. She mustered the will not to give up and turn around so early in the workout. Two more miles, and then tackle my marathon to-do list. The sooner she finished, the more she could accomplish on the fund-raiser. She picked up her pace, sprinting faster than she ever had around the pond and up the steep hill that bordered the golf course at the club.

  The chocolate-brown Lab who sat watch in the courtyard at the front of Mindy’s house barked as she approached the top of the hill. She knew she should check on Mindy, but her mounting to-do list overshadowed her nagging sense of right and wrong.

  Her mom’s old lesson rang in her head: “Friends need each other.”

  “Hey, Murphy.” Sophie panted as she slowed down and petted the top of the dog’s head. He was the sole beneficiary of the bacon treat she had tucked in her Dri-FIT Nike running jacket. The bank teller handed out either lollipops or dog treats. Since Sophie didn’t have a two-year-old, she took the bacon treat.

  Murphy always waited for Sophie. As soon as he saw her coming up the hill, he assumed the give-me-a-treat position. Upper-class dog etiquette, Sophie had thought when he first demonstrated his new trick. His head pointed straight up in proper form while his tail remembered the pound he’d come from. His quick wiggle made Sophie smile. Best part of my run, she thought as she tossed the treat over her shoulder and started to move again.

  “Sophie.” She turned around and saw Mindy in a butter-colored bathrobe standing on her front steps. Her eyes were swollen. “Can you talk?”

  “Sure. Long time no see,” Sophie said in a lighter-than-appropriate tone. “You okay?”

  “I hope to be.” Mindy wiped her nose with a crumpled Kleenex. “He left me. Stephen left me. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  —

  AN HOUR AND A HALF later, Sophie returned home to an empty house and her bulging list of things to get done. She wished she’d known the magic words to help Mindy feel better, to stop crying, or at least to help her make sense of the situation. Phrases like “I’m sure this will work out” or “He’ll cool down and realize what he’s throwing away” hadn’t seemed to comfort her. Stephen was probably gone for good, Mindy’s life would be altered forever, and nothing Sophie did or didn’t say would change that.

  She took a quick shower and towel-dried her hair. If she let her hair air-dry, she could make a few calls before heading to Thomas’s office. She hoped she could eat lunch with him before heading to solicit donors at the hospital. She pulled out her white button-down shirt and navy blazer, and sifted through the bottom hanging rack of her closet before pulling out her dark skinny jeans.

  Okay, where to start? She glanced at the top of Thomas’s organized desk sitting angled in the corner of the study. Medical journals, fountain pens, and paper clips all had their place and stayed in perfect order. Her stack of unopened mail, the latest issue of InStyle magazine, and the Secret Chef fund-raiser notes did not; all were perched on the red-and-white paisley chair, hungry and vying for her attention.

  She decided to blow-dry in lieu of phone calls so she could simultaneously sort through the mail. She pulled a trash can close while she turned the dryer on at the warmest setting. Flyer about tire sale, throw away. Water bill, keep. Pest control, keep. Heart Ball invitation—definitely throw away. Second thought, keep. Thomas said we needed to go this year.

  The last piece of mail came from an address Sophie didn’t recognize, from a name she had never heard. Her hands started to tremble as she examined the hand-addressed envelope with the name Mrs. Sophie Logan written across the front. Someone from her hometown was trying to get in touch with her and apparently now they knew where she lived.

  GRACE

  “Bend over, Bradshaw,” ordered the badge conducting the strip search. “Spread ’em and cough.”

  I had never been completely naked in front of anyone before coming to prison. My husband, of course, but even then I asked Paul to turn off the lights. Besides my doctor, he’d been the only one to touch me, to see my most intimate places. In here, every crevice was open to the elements and on display for officers, male or female, to examine anytime I left my cell. During those moments, shame replaced modesty and my self-worth took a beating.

  My first strip search after coming to Lakeland was the worst. My identity no longer existed. The former Grace Bradshaw became prisoner #44607 and the second woman on South Carolina’s death row. My peer group had one thing in common: we had all murdered someone, or at least been falsely convicted of doing so.

  During that first search, I stood naked in front of two correctional officers while they documented every square inch of my body as though they were inspecting livestock at the county fair.

  “Raise your left arm,” said the female intake officer. She scrutinized my armpit, and I remembered I hadn’t shaved.

  “Now your right arm.” She scribbled something with her red pen.

  “Bend over, spread your cheeks, and cough,” ordered the male officer helping with the search. “Cough again.”

  “Lift your breasts.” He put on his latex gloves. “One at a time.”

  Was this happening to me? I started to feel hot and off-balance, like the floor was tilting and about to give away.

  The male officer made a quick, deliberate swipe under each of my breasts.

  “Turn around. Lean over,” he said. My eyes focused on his unreadable, black-chipped name tag. “Put your head down and shake your hair.” His fingers raked through my tangled, sweaty hair.

  The other officer shook white powder over my head. “Lice shampoo.” I tried not to inhale.

  I no longer belonged to myself.

  “Straighten up, spread your legs,” he ordered. “Okay, now squat three times.”

  “Cough . . . cough again,” commanded the female officer as she looked between my crouched legs, checking to see whether anything fell out.

  “Any birthmarks?” asked the male officer.

  I pointed him to the two-inch pear-shaped pale red spot that has occupied the space between my shoulder blades since birth. A favorite spot of my husband’s. In here, another thing to document. Paul used to outline “the stork bite,” as he called it, with his index finger just before he kissed me there.

  The female officer moved from my backside to my front lower half, documenting the two-inch-thick raised scar below my left knee. She must have been describing it in great detail, judging by the amount she was writing. No one asked, but for the record, it happened in the sixth grade when I fell out of my tire swing. A birthday present from my dad after I proclaimed my old metal swing set too embarrassing for a
twelve-year-old. Hold still, Gracie girl. He examined my injury while my mom dripped stinging droplets of Mercurochrome on my bleeding shin. Why didn’t that square knot hold?

  On both sides of my belly button were stretch marks that started and stopped like faded zebra stripes. Ugly to most, I supposed, but to me they were trophies. Reminders of Sophie and William and how they’d grown inside me. I’m not sure whether the officers wrote those down or not.

  “No tattoos?”

  I almost laughed. I hadn’t even gotten my ears pierced until age twenty-five. I shook my head.

  At the time, I didn’t think I would ever get used to this humiliation. Was I used to it? Thousands of strip searches later, I simply complied. I had to. I had to adapt. Even when it went against my own best interests.

  When the latest search was over, I pulled up my oversize gray pants and adjusted my underwear the best I could with my hands in cuffs. The prison uniform, all gray for the general population, came in only two sizes—too big or too small. Today, I was wearing the former, and the bottoms hung a good four inches past the length of my legs. The top half, which swallowed me, was orange and signaled to the rest of the prison population that I was a death row inmate.

  “Get moving. The clock is ticking.” The officer pointed to his watch.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, avoiding eye contact, anything to put this behind me.

  “Your turn,” the officer commanded, turning his attention to Roni, the next in line, who’d been perched on the other side of the four-by-four inspection cubicle, her bleached, stringy hair draped so it covered her eyes. “Don’t give me that look. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  Don’t make this harder on yourself, Roni. I counted the tiles while I walked to the guards who would escort me to my job. My pants bunched beneath my black rubber slippers. As hard as strip searches were on me, I knew they were worse on Roni. I could tell by the way she recoiled when the officers put on their latex gloves and searched her for contraband. Her body had been rummaged through before and without her permission. We were adaptable, but sometimes Roni just had to fight back.