Something About Sophie

by Mary Kay McComas

  “Sophie!” She jumped a foot and scowled at Billy for scaring her. Again. She put her finger to her lips so he whispered loudly. “Where are you going?”

  “Shhh.”

  “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be up. You’re a mess. You can hardly walk. Shit! Fine. Wait a second. Wait. I’ll go with you.” He rattled the rail on his stretcher—it sounded like a train passing through.

  “Shhh.” She waved him off and left him sputtering.

  “Sophie!”

  On the other side of a metal double-door was a corridor with all the customary signs and directions so often taken for granted in hospitals. She ruminated in a rummy daze: ← X-ray. Physical Therapy. Rest Rooms. Cafeteria.

  Chapel. Gift Shop. ATM. Phones →

  Brilliantly, someone made all the exit signs bigger and bright red. They were → too, so she peered around the corner before walking softly down the next hall to: EXIT. Elevator. Stairs. No mental effort required there.

  She pushed ^ for the elevator.

  Sophie hated hospitals: the smells, the colors, the chairs, the peculiar silence under the noise by day . . . and the empty inactivity the darkness inevitably brought that, to her, always meant that nothing was being done to cure her mother. Tonight, however, the stillness was a stroke of luck.

  She was leaning heavily on the wall of the elevator when the doors opened. Her feet were swollen, like walking in soaking wet house slippers. Squishy. The queasy hollow in her belly was a reminder that she hadn’t eaten in a while—a long while. Had it been only yesterday? Yesterday seemed like years ago.

  From the elevator to the wall directly opposite, she stood for several minutes—eyes closed, catching her breath—before leaning forward to check out the terrain between her and the far end of the nurse’s desk and the patient room mere steps away.

  All clear—even the chair outside the door was empty.

  Frankly, the closer her drunken gait took her to her destination, the narrower her tunnel vision became and the more she surrendered herself to autopilot. The closer she got, the less she saw, and the less she cared about being seen. The closer she got, the stronger the connection pulled at her and the more deep-down certain she felt.

  The TV was still on—a war in black and white—and a low glow from a panel above the head of the bed shone down on the old man’s white hair, casting his gray beard into shadow. The head of his bed was barely elevated, giving him room to stretch out; his eyes were closed.

  It was most likely the pounding of her heart that woke him—and he didn’t seem surprised to see her . . . only the condition she was in.

  “Dear God, girl,” he said, rolling sideways to get out of bed. “What’s happened now?”

  Somehow she was there, at his side, with a powerless hand on his shoulder. Still, even that light touch had the strength to stop him, calm him and lay him back against the bed. He looked up at her, concerned and confused until his gaze caught on hers. Slowly, without a sound, he came to recognize the truths now in her possession.

  Her small smile was big work so the light in her eyes did most of the talking. “Can I call you Grandpa?”

  “You bet.”

  With a satisfied nod, she lowered herself onto the bed with her back to him, put a leg up and rolled his way. The steady sound of his heart in her ear and the comfort of his arm across her shoulder felt like home.

  “Ah. Wakin’ up, are you?” Lonny sat in the chair next to her bed. Not in his usual blue overalls, he wore a soft-looking flannel shirt tucked into baggy khaki pants; his hair, slicked back over the stitched wound on the crown of his head and his beard was combed as if he were trying to make a good impression. “Hey there.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted and she acknowledged him. “Hey, Grandpa.”

  He chuckled. “I like it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “How you feelin’?”

  She didn’t know. She looked down at the fresh IV in her bruised and scratched-up—but wonderfully clean—arm. Reaching for the sting on her forehead, she found it loosely dressed. She’d been bathed and her hair freed of dirt and debris. Still, she wasn’t feeling much of anything.

  “Young Doc McCarren came lookin’ for you. Got you patched up and then the nurses got you all presentable before they let me in to see ya again. You look better anyway.”

  “How is he? And his family?”

  “If the rest of them look as blindsided as him, they ain’t doin’ so well. Hurt and grievin’, he is. Bad time for the lot, I suspect.”

  “Is Billy all right?”

  “Seems so. Doc said they finally had a reason to be grateful for his hardheadedness. He told me yours was likewise as hard, and it concerned him some.”

  Drowsy as she was, she recognized Drew’s bedside manner. Anything he could think of to relieve an old man’s concerns and infuse him with hope—even when his own world was falling apart.

  “Your Daddy’s gonna want to know about this. I’d be happy to give him a call.”

  She tried to picture her father’s reaction to what happened to her and frowned. She had a mental flash of the woods, of the mud on the palms of her hands, and the grave urgency she’d felt to talk to him one last time—begging, her spirit broken. How could she explain that to him? He needed to be notified—he’d be angry and hurt if he wasn’t—but how much did she have to tell him? How much did he need to know?

  Did she have to decide now? Maybe she’d rest a little and sort it out a little later—when her mind was clearer . . . when her emotions weren’t rippling a hair’s breadth below the surface of her skin.

  “Thank you, but I think I should call him. He’ll want to hear from me that I’m all right.”

  She assumed Lonny had been told. The who, what, when, and where. But did he also know the why?

  She turned her head to look at him. One glance into her eyes had him shaking his head and humming a negative noise. “No point to goin’ back there, my girl. Over and done a long time ago. And if those responsible ain’t been livin’ in hell all these many years, they’ll surely have it in the hereafter.” He looked away briefly. “I been bitter and full of hate so long. . . . When you first come to town, I didn’t want nothin’ to do with you. You weren’t my sweet girl and you weren’t her dear mama. You were someone else’s child; you had been all your life. Nothin’ to do with me. Till you walked into the office that day and I saw for myself that you had their smile . . . that wild red hair.”

  “A sailor’s delight.”

  His features softened. “Always.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought about it. Hard. And then I wanted to. I thought maybe you needed to understand that when you were born, I was trying to protect my girl—like I shoulda been doin’ all along instead of assumin’ she was safe here.” He hesitated. “Plus, to be honest, I didn’t want any part of the person who did that to her around. When Reverend Cubeck and Elizabeth McCarren came to help me, I thought God sent ’em. We decided to keep the birth a secret. It was best.

  “But then that day? Seeing you in the office? Well, I called Elizabeth and told her how I was feelin’. I asked her, did she think it would hurt you any to know me? Would it help you any to know why I did what I did? She said to keep quiet.” He hesitated. “Then she came ’round to my place the other night to remind me, case I was getting weak about it. Caught me off guard.”

  “Were you? Getting weak?” He nodded. She did, too. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I’d be puttin’ you in harm’s way, she said, at risk from whoever killed Palmeroy. She wanted me to see that if I told you, you’d either hate me or want to stay a get to know me. And the longer you stayed, the more danger you were in. I was afraid of both them things.” He glanced away briefly. “She told me she was watchin’ out for you, protecting ya. If I’d known—”

  “She did. She saved me. I don’t think she ever wanted to hurt me.” She turned her hand palm up on the bed and he filled it w
ith his big paw. “I’m sorry it’s all been dredged up again. I know it’s stirred painful memories.”

  He gave a short nod, frowning. “Can’t deny it. But those are mine. Not yours. You got some healin’ of your own to do. Just don’t let this turn your good heart to stone. Don’t let it touch you at all if you can manage it. Ain’t none of it your fault. Ain’t none of it yours to bear. Learn from your ol’ grandpa now. Learn to forgive, you hear?”

  A nod and a gentle smile assured him that she’d try. “For the record? I wouldn’t have hated you. I’ve always . . . understood. I’ve wondered why sometimes, but I always knew it was more about the situation than her or me.” She closed her eyes, to rest them, for only one second. “I never blamed her. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.” She got the impression she was floating and hoped she added, “I’m grateful” out loud.

  Sheriff Murphy stopped by briefly for what seemed to her more of a personal than professional visit—his questions few, his assurances sincere. And it didn’t keep her awake when no apology for suspecting her of murder was offered. He was a good man doing the best he could at a hard job—who would apologize for that?

  “Mike said that his friend Junior told him that there were several burn marks on the body and the inside of the car smelled like the hot dogs at the ballpark and burnt rubber, which is sort of interesting, I guess, but I’m still glad it wasn’t Mike or Luke who found him.”

  “Who?” She pulled her eyes open and turned her head in the direction of Jesse’s voice.

  “Oh. There you are. How are you feeling? I heard once that unconscious people can still hear, so it’s good to talk to them.”

  “I’m fine. And I was sleeping, not unconscious.”

  “Trust me, anyone who can sleep through me talking for forty-five minutes is definitely unconscious.”

  “You’ve been sitting there talking to yourself for forty-five minutes?”

  “No. Drew was here for a while.”

  “I missed him?” Disappointment gripped inside her chest.

  “He said he pops in and out and you’re usually sleeping. I told him he should wake you up, that you’d want to talk to him, but he says sleep is what you need now, to recover.”

  The explanation didn’t help. She missed him. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Most of the last sixteen or seventeen hours—all day. Drew said it wasn’t uncommon. He said the sudden drop in the adrenaline you used to survive can really wipe you out. And that it isn’t only your body healing; your mind is recouping as well. Shut down for repairs, he said.” She grinned. “Mike said rebooting.”

  “Mike’s here?”

  “Was. He went down to see if the cafeteria’s still open.” She shook her head. “He didn’t miss dinner—of course—and he ate two bologna sandwiches walking me up here, and he’s still hungry. I figure when he graduates from high school, I’ll just be swapping my grocery bill for his college tuition.”

  Sophie puffed out a soft laugh. She adored Jesse and happily placed her name close to the top of the list of her twelve most favorite people. Yet, she had to resist the urge to roll over and go back to sleep.

  “I was thinking,” Jesse said. “Did anyone call your father to let him know you’re okay? Would you like me to?”

  He’d come, Sophie knew. He’d need to see her. Was she ready to see the fear in his eyes? Was she up to watching him go pale with worry and the frantic concern he’d try to hide as he took in her condition? Was she willing to put him through that right now? He’d want to know.

  Maybe after a little nap. . . . “Thanks, but he’ll worry less if he can hear it from me. I’ll call in a little bit.”

  Still and all, it would be lovely to sit on his lap and cry, to feel him stroking her hair and to hear his soothing offer of ice cream to make her all better. She could pretend to be very brave and let him put pink Band-Aids on all her boo-boos. She missed his smile and the deep tender love that softens his expression whenever he looked at her. She missed him.

  She squeezed her eyes tight to ebb her tears and spoke quickly. “Have you heard anything about Elizabeth’s funeral?”

  “Monday morning.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “Absolutely. But are you—”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sure. It was all for me, Jesse. She saved my life.” She felt awkward and self-centered when it occurred to her: “Unless they don’t want me there.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s blaming you, honey.” She studied Sophie’s face. “And you shouldn’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know,” she said. And she did know it—but even the most innocent catalyst was a part of the explosion. She moaned. “I suppose everyone knows everything about everything by now.”

  “I’m afraid so.” They shared a moment of sad regret.

  “Which reminds me . . .” Jesse’s warm heart would not stay down for long, at least not in front of Sophie. She dove deep into her bag and pulled out a set of clean clothes that Sophie recognized and a set of pajamas she didn’t. “I thought you might need these and feel better in these. And I wasn’t sure what you’d need, so I brought what I’d want.” She set a large ziplock bag of toiletries on the nightstand. She chuckled. “I figured since Fred and his deputies had already been through your stuff, you wouldn’t mind me doin’ the same.

  “And I found this.” Jesse faltered. “I tried to call you to tell you about it. I thought it might be important. So when you didn’t answer, I called Drew. He and Fred and half the county were already combing the countryside for you.”

  “Why didn’t they use the GPS to locate my phone?”

  “I think they tried. But it was either off or dead.”

  “But I’d just used it. Minutes before— How’d they know where to find us?”

  “Billy called. I think if they’d known he was with you, they would have tracked his phone. But they didn’t know.”

  She closed her eyes and turned her face straight up, whispering, “Billy.”

  It occurred to her: “Drew must have known we were in trouble sooner than I thought, when both his mother and I weren’t at the café when he got there. Elizabeth didn’t know that I’d told him we were meeting there.”

  “When Mike and I joined the search, he was sick with worry. In all his life I’ve never seen him so upset. You . . . and his mother.”

  Sophie didn’t have to travel far to remember the fear of losing a mother . . . or the misery when it happened.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should bring this,” Jesse said tentatively. She reached back into her bag slowly. “I found it . . . but I can take it home if you don’t want to look at it, but I thought you might be interested because once I saw it and remembered and realized what I’d been seeing . . . you know, in you, that seemed so familiar to me, like I’d seen you before . . . remember I said that the other day? You said in another life maybe, and then with the murder and Maury and all, I didn’t think about it again—and you probably didn’t either—until Fred mentioned that the only thing that seemed to be missing from Maury’s garage was—”

  Sophie smiled at her friend. “Jesse. Is it a picture of Lonora?”

  She nodded. “She was a freshman when I was a junior.”

  “I’d love to see it.” She reached for the thin volume Jesse held against her chest.

  Jesse opened the old school album to the place she’d marked. “Here. That one. That’s her.”

  She took the book in both hands and strained her gritty eyes to focus on the black-and-white photos lined up across the page. Even if it hadn’t been the same photo used in the newspaper, she didn’t need Jesse’s finger to point Lonora out.

  Smiling thoughtfully, Sophie touched the image in wonder. She’d never seen, nor could she ever imitate, the utter euphoria in the girl’s expression—the eager delight of a contented child. It made her pretty face exquisite—without reserve or concern or the knowledge of evil.

  “Elizabeth said she to
ok her own life,” she said softly.

  “I didn’t know.” Jesse matched her tone. “When it happened, people were shocked and angry that anyone would do such a thing to her—most of us assumed that it had to be a stranger. No one who knew her would hurt her. She was . . . I want to say special but I don’t mean just special ed. She was truly special. Kind. Sweet. Happy. She thought everyone was her friend and no one I knew would want to disappoint her or make her think different.”

  She paused to recall. “I remember my mother telling me that she’d been attacked in Harvey Park and beaten badly; that it was more important than ever to avoid strangers. Later we heard that she’d died in her sleep. That’s all. But thinking back on it now, I think people were still trying to protect her. I bet plenty of people knew plenty of details about what happened to her that night, but they were never discussed that I know of—no gossip or speculation. And dying innocently in her sleep was a kinder ending for her, even if people knew the truth about—” She pulled up short and looked at Sophie, suddenly shamefaced. “Maybe we were just protecting ourselves from the truth. Maybe we just didn’t want to think about . . . that sort of evil being so close to us.”

  Maybe both of those statements were true—who could blame them? Sophie wondered. She gave her friend a drowsy smile. “I think you were right the first time.”

  It was clear that Jesse wasn’t as sure, but she didn’t push it—Sophie looked exhausted and needed to get her strength back.

  “Can I get you anything before I go?” She stood up, and Sophie returned the yearbook. She made a quick decision, reopened the book, and ripped out a page. “I’d give you the whole thing but they’re in it, too, and they’re best forgotten.”

  “Thank you, Jesse.” She reached up and took her hand. “For everything. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you sure you don’t want me to call your dad?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What. The party’s over?” Mike stood in the doorway, arms out in astonishment. “I missed it?”