With Love from the Inside (16 page)

Was it Thomas's fault? Sophie couldn't help but speculate. Mindy, although she hadn't come right out and said so, didn't go out of her way to imply otherwise. Thomas may have partially been responsible, and this mess had changed someone else's family forever.

“Mrs. Logan,” a stout nurse dressed in scrubs called from the waiting-room door. “Come on back.”

Sophie stood and followed her to the nurses' station.

“One-ten over sixty-four, that's good. Temp normal. Let's weigh you and get you into a room.”

Sophie stepped on the scale. The nurse moved the weighted measure over to the hundred-pound mark and then slid the small weight over to the right. “Looks like you've lost weight since your last visit. Eight pounds.” She scrolled through the electronic chart. “Better eat over the holidays or you're going to blow away.”

“I've not had much of an appetite,” Sophie said, looking down at her hands and twirling her wedding ring around on her finger.

The nurse escorted Sophie into another room, handed her a paper gown, and sat down on a stool across from the exam table. “Is weight loss what brings you here today?”

Sophie sat down on the exam table and crossed her legs. “My husband is what made me come today.” The paper gown still in her hands. She
didn't know if she was supposed to put it on now or wait. “He apparently thinks a person fainting on Thanksgiving is an abnormal occurrence.”

The nurse typed something into the chart. “I'd have to agree with your husband on that one.”

Just then, Dr. Chemales opened the door.

“Good morning, Sophie, good to see you again.” Dr. Chemales held his hand out to shake hers. “It has been a while.”

“It has.” Sophie couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him. Maybe only once or twice since she and Thomas moved here. Dr. Chemales had lost some hair since then, but he still had the same genuine bedside manner. “There's really no need to see me today, but Thomas insisted.”

“I know how those doctors can be with their wives,” he said with a grin. “Why don't you tell me what's going on? Thomas mentioned something about you fainting.”

“I did faint, but only once. I'm feeling better now.”

Dr. Chemales sat down on the stool and put his chart on the table. He pointed and clicked, and then asked, “Both parents deceased?”

“Yes,” Sophie said, having forgotten for a minute that she had even lied on her medical records.

“Dad died of heart disease?” he said while still looking at the chart. “Age fifty-two?”

“Yes.” Did a shattered heart fall into the disease category?

“That's young.” Dr. Chemales looked up at Sophie.

“Very,” Sophie replied.

“And your mom?” His eyes returned to the chart for information. “What medical issues did your mom have?”

Her fabricated stories were getting more and more difficult to tell and harder to cover up. Coming clean seemed too overwhelming. “She died of breast cancer when I was twelve.”

“I'm sorry.” His medical questions were more empathetic than clinical.

“Are you seeing your gynecologist for mammograms? Breast cancer is hereditary, you know.”

“I do and I am,” she replied quickly, hoping this visit would be over soon.

Dr. Chemales prodded and poked, then finally said, “Well, everything looks fine to me. You probably were a little dehydrated. Let's get some blood work and a urine sample to make sure nothing else is going on.”

“I told Thomas I was fine,” Sophie said, glad to be right about something.

“You are fine, but fainting is certainly something you should get checked out. Thomas was right to have you come in.”

“Better safe than sorry, I know,” Sophie said, repeating the phrase her dad always told her when he asked her to do anything from wear a bike helmet long before the law required it to turning on the outside lights before she walked down the stairs.

“The nurse will take you to the lab. I'll call you if there's anything to cause you concern.”

—

J
UST AS
S
OPHIE PULLED
HER CAR
into an open parking space in front of Barnes & Noble, her phone rang.

“Mrs. Logan?”

“This is she.”

“This is the nurse from Dr. Chemales's office. He wanted me to call and tell you we don't have to wait to get the results of the rest of your tests to find out why you fainted.”

“What?” Sophie asked. “He said I was dehydrated.”

“Wait one moment, Mrs. Logan.”

“Sophie, this is Dr. Chemales. Congratulations. You and Thomas are going to have a baby.”

I rushed out of my cell as soon as the doors clanked open. Ms. Liz should have left the December
Woman's Day
, and I wanted to grab the calendar before someone else did. Officer Jones smiled when she saw me. She waved the magazine in the air to let me know she had my back—in this area, anyway.

“Thank you,” I mouthed to her.

“Got another one,” Roni said from behind me. She shoved a letter in front of me before I could make my way over to claim my calendar.

“Your dad must write a letter a day!”

“Read it to me,” she said.

“Sit down.” I directed her over to the table. “We'll read it together.”

She tore open the envelope, careful not to rip through the red hearts drawn all over the backside. Carl had written
DAD
on one heart with an arrow going straight over to the other hearts.
Missing you
was written over top of that.

Ten days,
the first line started. I asked Roni to sound it out. “Ta-ta-ten.” I nudged her.

After a few tries, she grew frustrated. “Is he coming or not?” she yelled, sweat beads mounting on her forehead as she started to stand up.

“Ten days until I see you face-to-face,”
I responded back fast. “I'm just trying to help you learn.”

Her foot started tapping, quickly at first, then she stopped. Her nostrils
flared out as she inhaled. “I'm tired of feeling stupid. Will you please just tell me what he wants?”

I scanned through the rest of the letter. “He says the only thing he wants for Christmas is to meet you.”

Roni took the letter from me. She grunted something I didn't quite make out before she jolted up and walked back to her cell.

Carmen and Jada were sitting with the prison's recreational therapist. She was allowed to visit us in a group twice a month if we had no write-ups. We usually saw her four or five times a year.

Jada didn't look up when I sat down. “My kids are going to like this ornament,” she said as she sprinkled red glitter all over the glue-soaked pinecone.

Carmen rolled her eyes at me and then rolled me a pinecone. “Take your mind off your troubles.” We hadn't talked about my upcoming date—or discussed the fact she was probably next.

I picked up the Elmer's glue and started to squirt. This would be the seventeenth Christmas ornament I'd made on the inside. My tree, if they allowed us to have one, would be decorated with a variety of Christmas cheer fabricated with Popsicle sticks and white paper snowflakes. On the back in red Sharpie I always wrote
To Sophie, Love Mom.

I turned the pinecone around and looked at all sides, not sure where I'd write that this year.

Carmen read my mind and slid over a tag made out of gingerbread-embossed scrapbook paper. “Here,” she said. “Write to your daughter on this.”

I give her a faint smile. Carmen wasn't usually insightful or compassionate. Her records, according to her, diagnosed her with narcissistic personality disorder. I looked it up one time when the rolling book cart had a medical dictionary. The fat royal-blue book said she was incapable of recognizing feelings in others and pursued mainly selfish goals.

I couldn't help but see what the fat blue book had to say about me.
I flipped the pages in the
Diagnostic and Statistical
Manual of Mental Disorders
.

Munchausen by proxy: a psychiatric disorder in which someone inflicts harm to someone in their care to garner sympathy and attention.

“Here, use the white glitter,” Carmen offered. “It'll remind Sophie of snow.”

I picked up the tag Carmen had slid my way, thankful that just for today her diagnosis (and mine) was more than a little off.

Sophie found herself sitting on the exam table, cold and shivering, waiting for the obstetrician to walk into the room. One of the perks of being a doctor's wife is knowing other doctors' wives. A quick phone call to Kate, and Sophie became the first patient on Jack's packed December 23 morning schedule.

Of course, Sophie didn't tell Kate the real reason she needed to see her husband. And it wasn't any of Kate's business she'd fainted, so she made up another plausible excuse, “feeling tired, probably anemic” and needed “energy quick” to finish the preparations for the Secret Chef fund-raiser. A weird phone call at best, asking Kate to pull some strings so her husband could examine her hidden parts. Low iron seemed believable and important and didn't require Kate to picture Sophie undressed from the waist down with her legs spread wide open and resting in stirrups.

Normally, she saw Dr. Johnson, a female partner in the practice, but she was lecturing at the medical school and couldn't fit Sophie in until the week after Christmas. She couldn't wait, and no matter how weird it was being examined by a neighbor, she needed additional confirmation that the three sticks she peed on last night were telling the truth as soon as possible. Dr. Chemales was an internist, not an obstetrician. Couldn't he be mistaken?

Sophie didn't tell Thomas about her visit beforehand. Not that he would have heard her anyway. As soon as he walked through the door,
he kissed her on the top of her head, went for a run, and made a phone call to his dad. He closed the study door, but Sophie could hear him say things like “I think I need to settle this” and “I don't know what the ramifications will be.”

The last thing she wanted to tell Thomas was that she was pregnant. She didn't believe it herself. She wasn't ready for a baby. She wanted Max.

Sophie picked up her iPhone and started to search “conditions causing a false pregnancy test,” when the doctor tapped on the door.

“Well, I guess congratulations are in order.” He held his hand out to hers after she dropped her phone into her purse.

Sophie forced her mouth to turn upward, a gratitude of sorts for him working her into his schedule and for liking her enough to be excited for what he presumed to be good news.

“Are you sure?” she asked, giving him one more chance to change his story. “I haven't missed a period.”

“Positive. Your hCG levels are quite high.” He checked her chart again before he spoke. “I take it this was unplanned?”

Unplanned. Unprepared for. Take your pick.

“Having any symptoms? Morning sickness, tenderness in your breasts, overly tired?”

“My stomach has been a little queasy, but I've always had a weird stomach. I fainted, but just one time. Incredibly light-headed.”

“Your blood sugar may have gotten a little low or you may be anemic.”

Sophie welcomed the anemia. At least her white lie to Kate would be partially true.

“I'll check your iron when we draw your blood. I know you see Dr. Johnson, but I feel like we should do an initial prenatal workup today, if your schedule allows.”

“Uh . . .” Sophie stammered, and reached for her phone to check the time. When she didn't give him an answer, Jack asked again.

“I can't have my neighbor leaving here and passing out. Kate would
never forgive me. Can we at least do some blood work and an ultrasound, find out how far along you are?”

Sophie nodded, still trying to believe she had a tiny human growing inside of her. She put her hands over her stomach and tried to make herself feel like she'd imagined a good mother would. Ecstatic? Frantically texting all her contacts:
I've waited my whole life for this.

Jack opened the door and called for his nurse. “I'm going to let Dr. Johnson do Mrs. Logan's cervical and breast exam on her next visit. Get her started on the paperwork, and tell Betsy to bring the ultrasound machine in here so we can find out when this baby is due.”

“This baby's a good thing,” Jack said before he left the exam room. “It'll take Thomas's mind off everything else.”

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.

—

“F
ILL 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 avoiding 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?”