With Love from the Inside by Angela Pisel Page A

tonight, like many times before, she and I sat together as I helped her write a reply to his latest question. Some parts of her face, for the first time I’d seen, anyway, moved effortlessly. The pencil she held tightly in her hand copied the last sentence I’d written for her. “Yes, you can visit over Christmas.”
    Roni’s countenance had changed, and it was a milestone worth documenting, a photo a mother should have placed in her scrapbook. A picture I’d happily taken of Sophie.
    If I had some hay, I’d place it in a manger, because this day was love-worthy. If I can’t see my daughter this December, maybe I can help Carl Cooper see his.

SOPHIE
    The drive to Brookfield took longer than Sophie anticipated. So long, in fact, she prayed she would make it to the attorney’s office before they closed for the evening. Sophie checked the time on the dashboard of her car. Four-forty-five.
Please, Mr. Taylor, be in your office.
She couldn’t stand spending any more time than necessary in her hometown.
    Her car rounded the last long, winding curve before entering Brookfield—population 1,451. The green
Welcome to Brookfield
sign hadn’t changed since she left eleven years ago.
Hasn’t anyone had a baby in this town
or died of old age?
She knew of at least four people who no longer could be counted as residents in the census. Didn’t the Bradshaw family account for anything?
    She drove past the sign and bitterly entered her past.
I will not let this place get to me, I will not let this place get to me.
She chanted her tune of immunity as she tried to remember where his office was located. Downtown (or maybe uptown in a place this small) by the courthouse and across from the 40th Street Café. Another five minutes, one flashing stoplight, and two right turns, and she should be there.
    About the time Sophie started to exhale, she heard sirens. She checked her rearview mirror, supposing it would be too much to ask if the black-and-white police car riding her bumper was after someone else.
Great, a town with one police officer and he happens to clock me.
    She flicked on her right turn signal and pulled her SUV over into the gravel parking lot in front of the IGA grocery store. The faded gray-and-white vertical-striped siding still looked exactly the same as it had a decade ago. The lightbulb in the oversize red
A
still flickered, still not fully illuminated—begging for someone, for anyone, to recognize it needed attention.
    The policeman followed close behind her, keeping his sirens on even after both cars came to a complete stop.
All right, already,
Sophie thought to herself.
Can’t believe the speed limit is still twenty-five miles per hour through this part of town. Zero traffic and you still have to drive slow as hell.
    A cop in his early sixties emerged from the police car. His thick black belt, armed with a holster, handcuffs, and a billy club, underlined his draping belly. “Ma’am, good evening. Are you in a hurry to get someplace?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Sophie said, deciding to play ignorant, hoping her speedometer was as dishonest as she was. “Was I going too fast?”
    â€œI have you clocked at forty-nine miles per hour. By my calculations, that is twenty-four miles over the speed limit.” His overenunciated words took the southern draw to a new level.
    â€œOh no!” Sophie said, trying to decide if ignorance or an apology would get her on her way faster. “I’m so sorry,” she decided. “I’m not feeling well. I guess I’m a little distracted.”
    â€œCan I see your license and registration, please?” His voice sounded vaguely familiar. Sophie pulled her license out of the slot in her billfold and then reached over and retrieved her registration from the console between her front seats. She handed them both to the officer.
    â€œWell, Mrs. Logan,” the officer said, looking at her