by Angela Pisel
“HEY, BABY, I WAS WAITING FOR YOU.” Thomas was sitting at the kitchen table holding a newspaper when Sophie walked in to grab a change of clothes for her trip. The color of his face matched his white oxford shirt. “Come sit beside me.”
He was never home in the middle of the afternoon. Sophie’s thoughts hurled through an escalating list of worst-case scenarios. He does love Eva? He found out about my mom? Jack told him about the baby?
“You feeling okay?” Thomas should’ve been the first person she called after she left the obstetrician’s office, not her mom’s death row attorney. What was wrong with her?
“We need to talk. Can you sit down?” By the look in his eyes, she knew what he was about to say was important. Did he mean what he said this morning? Was it his deception or hers? Did it really matter? She put her hand over her stomach.
“Thomas,” she said, pulling out the chair next to his. “I am so . . .” Her words fought their way through the thickness forming in her throat. She collapsed into the chair.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said. He put his hands on her legs. “I haven’t handled this whole thing the right way.”
Eva’s alluring painted red lips burst into her mind. “I knew it. You cheated on me with Eva?” She took his hands off her knees and started to stand.
Thomas pulled her back down. “No, not Eva!” His tight face lightened a bit. “I haven’t been completely honest, but I have been faithful.”
Faithful. Sophie braced herself, not sure if his next revelation would be better or worse.
He held up a section of the News & Observer. “Doctor Implicated in Death of Girl,” headlined page four. “Do you want to read it or should I paraphrase?” Thomas placed the neatly folded article on the table and slid it over to her.
“Paraphrase.”
“A reporter interviewed the parents,” Thomas stammered. “They said I didn’t even know their daughter’s name. They said I didn’t care.”
“How could they say that? You didn’t sleep well for days.” She grabbed the paper from the table, undoing Thomas’s precise folds. “Who wrote this piece-of-trash story, anyway?”
Thomas rubbed his stubbled cheeks while Sophie scoured every word. “It doesn’t matter who wrote it. That’s how the parents feel.”
“This article makes you sound guilty. It’s says you failed to give appropriate post-op care, you didn’t take an accurate medical history.”
“I know what it says.” Thomas gripped the side of the table. “I, along with most of the community, know what it says.” His chair legs scratched their hardwood floor when he abruptly stood up.
“This baby’s a good thing,” Jack said. “It’ll take Thomas’s mind off everything else.”
Thomas pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator while she mulled over when she should tell him about the baby.
Judging by the way he slammed his water bottle on the table when he sat down, today wasn’t the best day.
“I’ve been talking to my dad and my brother, asking for advice on what to do.”
“What do you mean ‘what to do’?” Her question added weight to his already slouching shoulders. “If you aren’t guilty, you should fight it.”
“I’m not guilty. Everything I did was standard of care.” He leaned in toward her and put his hands on her knee. “Don’t you believe me?”
Sophie rubbed his hands. “Of course I believe you.”
“My dad and Carter, they’re both telling me to make this go away. I should’ve already settled out of court.” Thomas rolled his bloodshot eyes. “For them, it was all about keeping this out of the papers.”
Sophie understood their concern. The stench of stale cigar breath assaulted her just thinking about the editor from the Brookfield Journal camped out on her porch steps, a bulky camera slung around his neck and a microphone perched in his hand.
“I’ve thought about listening to them. I have. I want to make this go away.” Thomas took his hand from beneath hers and recreased the folded article with his thumbnail. “I could fight this. I could have my attorneys call in expert witnesses. Have them explain to the jury what this little girl died of was a rare adverse reaction to her anesthesia, and that would be totally true. Malignant hyperthermia is rare. Even if I’d been right by her side, given her a different medication—I don’t think I could have saved her.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Why was it so easy to believe he was innocent and not her mom?
“I did all I could think of to do.” Thomas scratched the back of his head. “But I can’t get her face out of my mind.”
The image of her handcuffed mother popped into her head.
She reached over and massaged the back of his neck for him. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do what I should have done from the beginning.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to talk to the parents.”
GRACE
The TV is blaring a promo for the Christmas special about to air next. “An angel helps a compassionate but frustrated George Bailey by showing him what life would have been like if he never existed.” I’m writing to you from the dayroom, and I’m pretending the protective arms of my dad are wrapped around me.
As I’ve told you before, Granddad Joe lived for December. Before the turkey turned cold on Thanksgiving eve, he had my mom and me pulling out all things snow-related and planning our early-morning trek up the winding mountain roads deep into the forest so we could chop down the perfect Christmas tree.
He inspected each Douglas fir for symmetry and branch strength, preferring the fat and short tree to the long and skinny one.
“I like that one, Daddy,” I said every year, pointing to the tallest one I could find.
When I became old enough to understand the ritual, my mom and I would bait him just to hear his response: “Trees always look much bigger when you get them home, sweetheart.”
She’d wink at me as we watched him pull out his black-and-yellow tape measure and say, “Put your foot on the bottom of this, Gracie.”
He’d stretch the tape measure as far as it would go, then guestimate. “About eight inches too tall for our living room.” He’d look to see if we were disappointed. “You want to have room to put that star on, don’t you, Gracie girl?”
We decorated the tree as soon as we pushed and pulled it through our front door. My dad, still drenched with sweat, turned the screws in the tree stand. “That look straight to you, sweetheart?”
He held me on his shoulders while I threaded the electric star through the top of the tree. My mom made chicken and noodles (I’m going to write that recipe down for you—four stars!) in the kitchen while Dad and I gazed at our lighted glory. We ate our meal in front of the television and watched A Christmas Carol.
Earlier today, Roni’s disciplinary hearing officer stood outside her cell and read the consequences of her altercation with Carmen.
“You are sentenced to disciplinary segregation for a period of forty-five days for the class-one offense of causing physical injury to another inmate.”
Roni said nothing.
The hearing officer continued: “You have given up your right to testify on your own behalf or to call witnesses.”
These disciplinary hearings always happened out of our housing unit and in front of a panel, but Roni had refused to leave her cell.
“I’d like to do this without having to extract the inmate from her cell,” I’d heard Officer Jones say to someone on the phone.
Me, too. Extraction meant gas. I’d prayed whoever she was talking to would bend the rules, but I made sure I had a clean wet towel to put over my face just in case. My eyes burned for three days the last time Roni refused an order.
The hearing officer had agreed, on the condition that Roni pleaded guilty and forwent her right to testify. “I don’t have anyone I can trust to te
ll the truth,” she’d hissed at Officer Jones.
I could see Roni’s face plastered up against her window now as the hearing officer read from his paper. “You will be remanded to your cell for twenty-three hours per day. You will lose all accrued good-behavior credits.”
I bit the corner of my lip. No recreational time, no phone calls, and no visitors. She could receive mail, but I wouldn’t be allowed to read it to her.
The hearing officer pushed a piece of paper through the slit in her door. “Sign your name stating you have heard and understand the penalties for committing a class-one violation.”
“Screw you, cowboy. Screw all of you,” she screamed. She spit on the paper and tore it up before shoving the individual pieces back through to him. She slammed herself against the door and sobbed. “I hate you,” she shouted to whoever would listen. It was the first time I’d heard her cry since she’d been in here.
Carmen hadn’t poked her head out of her cell all day. I hoped she was down on her knees asking God to forgive her like I’d done every other minute today. God might wipe this sin away, but I doubted Roni would ever trust me again.
Jada joined me in the dayroom just as the movie was about to begin. She handed me an opened envelope. I took out a silver card. A white dove with open wings spanned the front. Written inside the card in gold scroll was a standard greeting: Merry Christmas from Our Home to Yours.
Underneath, written in red ink, were three simple words: I forgive you.
“It’s from my mother-in-law,” Jada whispered. She curled her legs up to her chest and started to rock. Her wet, dull eyes opened and shut while we watched the TV.
I returned to my cell and opened my Woman’s Day menu planner. December 23—Crispy Honey Mustard Chicken Thighs and Spinach Salad with Pears, Walnuts, and Goat Cheese. I drew a big red X and then counted. Fifty-four days until I die.
SOPHIE
“What about your dad? Your brother? What about chief of surgery?” Sophie questioned Thomas while he looked up the number for the girl’s parents.
“I don’t care about being chief of surgery. I’m happy right where I am, and as far as my family goes . . .” Thomas stroked absently at the sides of his arms. “I don’t care what they say or think anymore. A little girl is dead, my fault or not—I have to let the Campors know I did care, and I’m sorry.”
Sophie watched him walk slowly but deliberately into the study. “Mr. Campor,” she heard him say before quietly shutting the study door.
“There are some things I have to make right, too,” she said out loud. Starting just as soon as Thomas got off the phone.
—
A CONVERSATION LIKE THIS REQUIRED a more comfortable chair and a cup of warm coffee to improve Thomas’s mood, so Sophie asked him to sit down in the living room. She put water in the Keurig while he called in to his office. “Can you let my first few afternoon patients know I’m running a little late?”
Sophie heard her cell phone buzz as she put the K-Cup into the machine. Two missed calls from Ben Taylor. She didn’t take time to listen to his voicemail, but hit redial instead. Before she could check to see if Thomas was still on his phone, Ben answered.
“Ben Taylor.” His voice sounded quick and hurried.
She saw that Thomas had hung up from his call and appeared to be checking his e-mail on his phone. She slipped into the garage.
“Ben, this is Sophie.”
“I’m glad to hear from you. Your message sounded urgent.”
“I need to see you. Are you in town?”
“In court until tomorrow evening. Leaving on Christmas Eve to go out of town for a few days. Can it wait until I get back?”
“I think my mom may be innocent.” She spoke the foreign words softly so Thomas wouldn’t hear. “I think my brother may have been sick.”
“I’ll change my plans. How soon can you get here?”
—
THOMAS SIPPED HIS COFFEE, his long muscular legs crossed and his back relaxed up against the sofa cushions. A little bit of his smile returned when Sophie joined him in the living room.
“That wasn’t an easy phone call to make, but I’m glad I finally did it.”
“How’d it go?” Sophie asked, almost scared to hear his answer.
“I explained what I think happened and then I apologized. I sincerely apologized.” Thomas moved a magazine from a basket and set it and then his coffee cup on the side table. “I could hear him choking up as I talked.”
“Are they still going to sue?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. His daughter died and I needed to make sure he knew how sorry I really was.”
She put her hand on the side of his face one last time before she confessed her shortcomings and gambled away the life they shared together. The baby growing inside her had a father full of courage. She pulled his face into hers and kissed him. “You know you mean everything to me.”
“You mean everything to me,” he answered, wiping a smudge of lip gloss off the corner of her mouth. “My life made sense the second I met you.”
“You rescued me and you didn’t even know it.”
Thomas’s pager beeped before she could continue.
He looked at Sophie and then put his pager back down. “It can wait.”
“I need to tell you something now.” She stopped and tried to summon the strength to say the next words that were sure to risk everything. “It’s about my—”
Thomas’s cell phone rang before she finished. If the phone rang right after the pager went off, it was undoubtedly urgent. He grabbed her hand before he answered it.
“Dr. Logan,” he said gruffly. He squeezed Sophie’s hand in apology. “I’m in the middle of something.”
Sophie watched him as he listened, grateful for this interrupted moment that might be their last. After a series of uh-huhs, Thomas relented, “Call the OR and get me a room. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He apologized several times as he made his way out the door. “Dinner tonight? That quiet place with the candles on Third Avenue. We can talk for as long as you want.”
Sophie wrapped her arms around him like he was being deployed overseas. “I love you,” she told him when she finally let him go. “Never forget that.”
He walked out and she watched through the wrought-iron door frame as he jogged to his car. If only I could have done this better, she thought. Thomas and a whole lot of other things.
She packed a bag with more clothes than she needed for a quick trip. She had no idea when she’d be back or how things would be with Thomas once she was. She e-mailed Thomas a note she guessed he would open about the time she’d be headed to Brookfield.
I need to leave for a few days and make a few things right myself. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.
Love, Sophie
She pictured his face when he read the e-mail. Running his fingers through his dark hair, questioning what she could possibly be up to and what he’d done to deserve her running out on him. If only he was ever free for her to explain. For now, she had to get on the road and find out the truth, but before she did, she had to make one more stop.
—
SOPHIE TUGGED A LARGE BLACK TRASH BAG over her shoulder and down the hall of the pediatric ward. Max’s Christmas needed to be special, even if they had to celebrate it a couple of days early.
“Where’s my little man?” she said cheerily as she opened the door to his room.
“Sosie,” Max hollered back. He held his hands out for her to pick him up. A frail woman wearing camouflage pants and a gray hoodie held him on her lap in the mauve recliner. He squirmed to get down.
“Hi, I’m Sophie.” She extended her hand to the woman, who appeared much older than she probably was. Open sores scattered across her forehead and at the corners of her mouth.
“Ruby.” Her hand didn’t reach ou
t, but she tightened her grip around Max’s waist. “I’m Max’s mom.” Her dipped-in cheeks made her mouth crooked.
“Oh.” Sophie set the plastic bag full of toys down in the corner of his room. “I’m glad to meet you.”
“Sosie, hold me.” Max tried to push away his mother’s hands.
“Mommy’s holding you.” She bounced him up and down on her knee, but he became even more frustrated.
“This used to work.” She tried to stand with Max on her hip, but she lost her balance and fell back into the chair.
“What’s wrong?” Sophie said to Max. His lip puckered and he started to cry.
“You can take him,” his mom said without making eye contact.
Max leaped off her lap and into Sophie’s arms. His oxygen tubes became twisted and his monitors started to go off.
“I need to go smoke,” she said, before Sophie had a chance to untangle him or ask questions. She bolted out the door just as Mindy entered.
“I see you met Max’s mom,” she said to Sophie once Ruby was out of hearing distance.
“Yes, I did.” She tried to make Max feel like that was a good thing. “Your mommy came to visit. Yayyyy!”
Mindy took off his oxygen for a second while Sophie spun him around. Belly giggles came out of him like she’d never heard before.
“You my mommy,” he said when the spinning stopped.
“I’m your Sosie.” She poked his belly.
She looked at Mindy for advice on how to handle this one. Mindy, with her pen hanging out of her mouth, shrugged. “She wants to take him home.”
“Can she do that?”
“Court papers say she can. Our hospital attorneys are reviewing the documents as we speak.”
“What about his health, all his medical needs?” Sophie pointed to the oxygen tanks and monitors. “Does she realize the amount of care he needs?”
“She says she does,” Mindy said while pushing buttons.
Sophie put Max back in the bed while Mindy positioned the nasal cannula over his nose. He was already panting.
Max pointed over to the plastic bag. “Puzwles?” he asked. His blue lips framed his wide toothy grin.
