Something About Sophie

by Mary Kay McComas

  Drew gave a short nod and said, “You’re welcome. I—”

  “You. You called him?” Yes. Yes, of course, he would—without asking, without uncertainty—because he knew her, knew her heart.

  He darted a glance in her direction, noted the emotional quiver in her chin, and shot back to Tom Shepard. “I figured she’d want you here and you’d want to know so . . . it was nothing.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and immediately pulled them out again. “Ah. Well. I’m happy to hear you’re on the mend. I guess I should get going.” In a swift automatic motion, he snapped two keys on his computer and pulled the cover down, explaining, “Patients to see. Good to meet you, Mr. Shepard.”

  “Doctor.” He shook Drew’s hand again. “I’m in your debt.”

  He was wagging his head when his gaze slipped into Sophie’s eyes. He squinted as if deliberately hardening his eyes—but he couldn’t hide his deep remorse. He swallowed, then swallowed again. “Take care, Sophie.”

  “Drew. Don’t.”

  His smile was small and resigned. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  When he turned, snatched up his computer and started to walk away, Sophie cringed at the noise in her head, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Or, come to think of it, maybe on flint. She was not some poor, helpless thing caught in the headlights of a train. She was flint . . . damn it!

  A fleeting look at her father and he graciously started melting into the woodwork.

  “Drew.” He stopped, shoulders drooping—his escape foiled. She strode forward and spoke in a soft, private voice at his back. “I know you’re hurting. I know what it’s like to lose your mother. There’s no other pain like it. I know. But, please, don’t shut me out. We can talk. I can help you, if you let me.” She waited. She watched his back expand and contract with short, tight breaths. “So. You’re just going to walk away? Feeling the way we feel happens so often in your life that you can afford to throw it away without even talking to me?” She heard him sigh; watched him bow his head. “Talk to me. Please. Turn around and tell me why you’re doing this.”

  He set the computer back on the counter as a nurse rounded the corner into the nurse station. One look at the two of them and she suddenly recalled something she’d forgotten to do elsewhere.

  “Come on, Sophie,” he said, swinging from formal to frosty. “Too much has happened. Everything is different; it’s changed. What did you expect? That life would simply go on as if Thursday night never happened?”

  “No. But I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

  “How’d you expect me to be?”

  There was a clear line between what a person hoped for and what they were reasonably allowed to expect. She knew that. She’d hoped he’d hold her in his arms every second of the day and night till she was ready to let go. She’d hoped that nothing would change between them. Realistically, though, at the very least, she’d expected they’d work their way through it together and . . . yeah . . . eventually get back to where they left off.

  “I expected you to be heartbroken. I expected you to trust me with your feelings. I expected you to know that I love you and I want to be here for you. And I expected that you of all people would know that it wasn’t your life that ended.” She paused, knowing that last one might sting a little, but he said nothing. “I guess I expected too much.”

  “Maybe I’m just more of your bad luck with men.” And there it was . . . he looked at her sympathetically. Her fingers itched to slap him.

  “Maybe you are,” she said gently, slow to reconcile. “But it isn’t because of what happened the other night. I’m sorry about your mother, Drew. More than I can tell you. But nothing about that night is my fault.” He opened his mouth to speak but he’d had his chance; she cut him off. “Nothing about that night is your fault. And nothing that happened that night twenty-eight years ago is our fault. We weren’t involved, never have been. None of it ever had anything to do with us. So mourn your mother, you should. But don’t kid yourself. If you are more of my bad luck with men, it’s not because of what happened—it’s because you want to be.”

  Her tone dared him to contradict her. When he didn’t, she sidestepped him and limped back to her room—head high and heartsick.

  Tom Shepard stood when his daughter broke into the room, swinging the door closed behind her as she hurried straight into his open arms.

  It didn’t seem fair that Elizabeth McCarren’s funeral was less populated than Arthur’s. True, she was not the leader of a congregation of Unitarians, but she was a member of the local Presbyterian Church—and she sat on every charitable committee in town. And while there were plenty of people there to stare and whisper when Sophie walked in with her father, Jesse, and Mike, she had braced herself for far more.

  On the other hand, which was far more generous, perhaps so many of the good citizens of Clearfield stayed away to spare Elizabeth’s husband and children any excess emotions that didn’t directly pertain to their loss—like having to deal with curious, prying eyes, awkward comments, and unconscious but judgmental body language.

  That’s the explanation Sophie chose to believe anyway. That muggy, overcast morning she deliberately chose to think only good thoughts, dwell only on pleasant memories, and hope the McCarrens—and Elizabeth’s soul—found the peace they so needed.

  And that was all she was going to think about—though Drew was ever-present in her heart.

  Sitting in the back of the church to cause as little disruption as possible made it easy for Lonny to find them—and his arrival disrupted those gathered . . . a lot. So much so that the family turned their heads to look back. Lonny stood like a noble snow-capped mountain and gave a respectful nod to them and their sorrow—and in return received their silent, humble welcome. He took a seat in the pew beside Mike, but not before he locked eyes with Sophie, who beamed at him with great pride and love.

  After a moment, Sophie looked to her left to catch her dad’s reaction—he winked and beamed at her with great pride and love.

  Perhaps it was because a happy, contented life was all she’d ever known that she found it . . . well, not exactly easy but also not grueling or complicated to find closure to the past two weeks. Maybe Mike was right; maybe she was simply rebooting to her original default mode because her qualms at having her past and her present meet for the first time were mild and few. Her romantic relationships were clearly an on-going, head-banging nightmare of epic proportions, but that might be due to the fact that her bar was set extraordinarily high by the men who’d already proven their love and trustworthiness to her.

  And so it was that when Lonny came to see her at Jesse’s after her release from the hospital, and she introduced him to her father, the initially awkward meeting was as short lived as she’d expected it to be, turning quickly into acceptance and appreciation for the sacrifices they’d both made and the gifts each had given. These men knew love was a rare and unconditional miracle, meant to be cherished and foolish to ignore.

  Her dad, not as reserved as Lonny, was the first to launch into the “I remember this one time” stories of Sophie’s childhood that her grandfather seemed to guzzle down like homemade cider. After a while Jesse and Mike stepped out on the porch to join the gaiety and a cool summer breeze, which had Sophie unwinding in a heightened but unfinished satisfaction.

  One more person would have made it a perfect afternoon.

  And so it was at the funeral the next day that the two men—father and grandfather—nodded and smiled in friendship as their lives were now forever intertwined.

  They hadn’t planned on attending the interment—assuming the McCarrens would appreciate the privacy—nor were those congregated invited from the pulpit. But when Billy found them after escorting his mother’s casket safely to the hearse and requested they come, they couldn’t refuse him.

  In sorrow and profound regret, Elizabeth’s dearest friends and relatives gathered at her grave. Her immediate family grouped close together, t
he women comforting one another and weeping behind their dark glasses; the men standing stoically in theirs. Sophie’s group stood across from them but behind the other mourners.

  The minister’s final words were not vague or ambiguous. He spoke of Elizabeth’s great devotion to her family and to her community; her empathy toward those less fortunate and to those who found the obstacles on the paths they’d chosen too great to overcome. He briefly addressed her humanness and invited only those without sin to throw stones at the memory of the woman whose sole purpose in life was to love her family and to give friendship and comfort to her neighbors.

  Knowing that her reluctance to approach the family before leaving was mostly selfish, Sophie sought out Billy first.

  No words were necessary. They simply embraced. And where he had once appeared from the darkness, held her and imparted his courage and strength to her, she now passed an equal portion of hers to him.

  He felt it and squeezed her tight before releasing her. “I hear you’re leaving today.”

  “Yeah. This afternoon. Daddy wants to drive over to the university and look around a bit. Show me the ol’ alma mater. We’ll leave for home sometime tomorrow.”

  “You’re leaving?” This came from Ava, who was accepting Tom Shepard’s condolences a few feet away. “So soon? Now? But we’ve hardly talked and I want to. Not, you know, about . . . all this but . . . like before.”

  Sophie grinned and grabbed her up. “Like friends. Yes.” She held her a few more seconds, then pulled away to look at her—dark glasses notwithstanding. “I have a grandfather here, you know. I plan to see a lot of him, so I’ll be back. Soon. I’ll call.”

  They were hugging again, in empathy and farewell, when the last three McCarrens approached, having already spoken to everyone else. Drew, hanging back, made the introductions to his father, Joseph, and his sister, Pam.

  Pam was stiff and formal due to the stress of the moment, her natural manner, or a prejudice toward Sophie—it was a mystery. She thanked her for coming and wished her a quick recovery and a safe trip home before excusing herself to follow her younger siblings back to the car.

  Dr. Joseph McCarren had removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket before holding his hand out to Sophie. When she took it, he covered it with his other one and with an expression so forlorn that it pulled at her heart, he said, “I cannot tell you how I regret what has happened.”

  She was acutely aware of his many losses—his friend, partner, and wife, the sanctity of his marriage, his faith in what he believed to be true and real in his life.

  Her nod was more agreement than acceptance. “I regret it as well. Please accept my deepest condolences.”

  He seemed to sense her understanding. His expression softened and he said simply, “Thank you.”

  After a polite inquiry about her health he, too, wished her a safe trip back to Ohio.

  And there she was, alone with Drew.

  The air was humid, cloying, sticking to her. It was clogging her nose and throat—she was suffocating and she couldn’t tell if Drew could see she was dying because she couldn’t make herself look at him.

  “Sophie—”

  “My condolences,” she blurted. “I deeply regret my part in your mother’s death, but you have to know it was unintentional and that I never wanted to cause her, you, or the rest of your family any pain.” Her brief glance at his face was his only chance to see the truth in her eyes. It was time to walk away. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Sophie.”

  She stopped and turned back slowly, tamping down her scattered emotions. She hadn’t practiced saying anything else and wasn’t sure she could trust herself.

  “What?” He waited so long to speak, she looked at him and spoke again, sharply. “What?”

  “I just wanted to say, again, how sorry I am.”

  It was in her to scream. She wanted to shake him so hard his head would rattle, kick him in the shins and then hold him so gently, so tenderly and for so long that he’d eventually come to realize that she was a part of him and that they shared a love that was special and true and not to be ignored. But she hadn’t practiced that either.

  “Me too, Drew.” She stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Bye.”

  Seeing that Mike and her father were in Jesse’s car, she chose to climb into Lonny’s truck and closed the door. She felt low as a worm in a gopher’s basement.

  Lonny studied her. “I’m old. Chock-full-o-wisdom and sage advice, you know.”

  Her lips bowed but couldn’t hold a smile. “I know.”

  “Never had anyone to use it on till now,” he said casually. “They say all the very best of them guru types don’t go round spoutin’ off their clever, deep-thought answers to just anyone—they play it close to the vest and wait to be asked.”

  The silence inside the truck grew so loud, it started to pop and crack before it came to her that he was waiting to be asked. She slipped him a sidelong glance, chuckled involuntarily, and then let her frustration fly, growling, deep and angry, in her throat. “Oh! He makes me so mad.”

  Lonny’s nod was somber and scholarly as he started up the truck. “I can see that.”

  “All he can say is ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’,” she said, lowering her voice to illustrate how dull Drew sounded. “He won’t talk to me. He won’t tell me what he’s feeling. And it’s right there on his face. I can see how he’s feeling but he won’t . . . talk to me. Not that I want him to actually talk about it—like speak—I know lots of people can’t. But he could at least let me be there with him, for him. He’s in so much pain, Grandpa. I want to help but . . . well, he’s sorry!” She crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. “He won’t tell me if he thinks what happened to his mother is my fault or if he feels like he has to take responsibility for his mother’s actions. No explanations. Nothing. He just says there’s too much between us—and that he’s sorry.

  “Well, I’ll make him sorry. I’ll make him rue the day he met me because if he thinks I’m walking away to make this easy on him, he is quite mistaken. I may be just a kindergarten teacher, but I know stuff. And one thing I know for sure is that you don’t give up on love.”

  His gaze left the road briefly to meet hers. He nodded his veteran insightfulness on the subject like one of the magi and she continued.

  “I’ll go home. For now. I’ll give him a little space and a little time to think . . . and to grieve . . . but I’m not just going to disappear. I’m not going to let him forget. I’ll come back—to visit you and Jesse and Billy and Ava.” She spread her arms at the obvious. “I’m going to be here. A lot. And if he thinks he’s sorry now—ha!—he doesn’t know sorry yet. I’ll make him sorry. I’m flint. And I’ll make sure—”

  “You’re what now?”

  “Never mind.” Her cheeks heated and she lost most of the wind in her sails. “I’m just . . . really frustrated. And really sad.”

  “Course you are. I’m disappointed myself. I always figured that one to be a real smart fella, being a doctor and all.”

  “Well, he is smart. Just not about this.” She sighed, feeling better, calmer for having let off some steam. “He’ll figure it out. On his own, the hard way, but he’ll figure it out.” She paused and then cringed. “Ah, jeez. I said rue, didn’t I? Can you believe he made me say rue?”

  Lonny looked at her, pressed his lips together, and shook his head gravely. “No, indeed, I cannot.”

  Day 18. That was her thought between the outer fringe of her REM sleep and the vague awareness of the shuffling in the hall outside her bedroom door. She identified it as Dad with her eyes still closed and groggily reminded herself that while she’d given up her own apartment when her mother became ill, and stayed for a handful of reasons after she died, it was time to move out again. He was a noisyearlyriser—and she dreamt next of dinosaurs.

  The clanking and the clipping and the inconsistent bird noises swelling into her room through the open window b
eside her bed had her scowling before her eyelids parted on the too-bright sunlight lasering in on the rug, dragging with it the too-sweet reek of fresh-cut grass, diesel oil, and corn chips that had, not so long ago, been the very essence of a long, lazy, lovely summertime to her. Lately, not so much. Lately, not much pleased her at all—and being a poopyhead was not her natural state of being. It felt heavy and hollow at once. She’d been trying to be her usual happy self, but privately, she was feeling pretty poopy.

  After a brief muddle through her mind during which she concluded that it was still Day 18 since she’d left Clearfield, she turned her back to the window, beat her pillow with her fist, and went back to sleep.

  Tried.

  He’s talking to someone, she groaned mentally. It was like having a fly in the room. Buzzing and stopping, then buzzing again. She flopped onto her back and stared at the ancient four-sided patch-crack in the ceiling—a parallelogram that looked like a square from one side of the room and a rhombus from the other. If her dad was talking to someone down in the kitchen, he hadn’t gone to work—which meant it was the third weekend she’d had to endure since she last saw Drew. Every week seemed like a year.

  Her uncle Fred often dropped in early Saturday morning for coffee—before his errands in town, to get his motor started, he’d say. Her dad made really strong coffee so Fred always said either that it grew hair on his chest or it got his motor—

  Except yesterday was Thursday. Day 17. Is it a holiday weekend? No. Something’s wrong.

  She was out of bed—her frizzy topknot in serious bed-headed disarray—and her wonderfully worn Buckeye T-shirt and shorty sport shorts were still bed-warm by the time she reached the top step and stopped short.

  She knew the voice. It made everything inside her go liquid, like melting ice, as she listened.

  “ . . . I thought if we ever found her, we’d find her dead.” Drew went silent for several seconds. “That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. Sounds even worse than it does in my head—and thinking it was . . .” She lowered her head and took two or three steps down to hear better. “We’d barely spotted the light in the woods when we heard the shot. I thought it then. By the time we got there, Billy was crying over a body and I thought it then, too.” His voice lowered with emotion. “When I realized it was my mother and that she was dead, I was—well, shocked doesn’t exactly cover it. I was horrified . . . and confused and . . . and for just a second I was . . . no, it was more than a second . . .”