“I’m coming.”
“What? No, it’s okay really, just stay there.”
“No, I’m coming,” she said firmly.
“Okay.” How could I say no when my heart wanted her near? I hesitated. “This isn’t going to be the best time to meet my family for the first time.”
“I know. That’s okay. I want to be there for you. I want to be there to comfort you and hold you.”
“I love you, Sophie.”
“I know you do, because I love you, too.”
49
Everyone was already busy getting the funeral arrangements in order and the invitations sent. Grandma had already made all the necessary arrangements months ago; all we had to do was make the final calls, mail out the pre-posted invites, and wait. The date was set for this Saturday so I wouldn’t have to miss my first week of Spring Quarter. I felt guilty somehow, like I was a burden.
My aunts were slightly annoyed by Sophie coming when we would be in the middle of all the chaos, but they were only worried about their mom, who, by all means seemed thrilled. If she was concerned, she didn’t show it.
In a way it helped her displace her grief. And I think she was more worried about my feelings than hers. She saw me at my lowest point and she would have given anything to make sure I never felt that much pain again. I promised myself that I would never get that low again, and having Sophie with me, I knew I would be able to keep that promise.
According to my watch, Sophie would be stepping out of the building any minute now. Anxiously I waited, jumping anytime man, woman, or child exited the doors. Finally, Sophie stepped out into view. A surge of emotions flew through me. She was the love of my life, and I just wanted to get down on one knee right there and ask her to join me for as long as we both shall live.
She smiled her enchanting smile when she caught my eyes, and she ran over to meet me in a long embrace. We kissed, warm and light, but with enough feeling to make the people around us uncomfortable. When we finally parted, I grabbed her carry-on and then her hand.
“How are you?” she asked. Worry lined her soothing eyes.
“I’m okay, I guess…it’s hard.”
She nodded, “Yes, I know.”
“I’m glad you’re here though.”
“Me too. I missed you.”
“I think I’m spoiled from all the time we spent together. The more I spend time with you the more I miss you when we’re apart.”
“I know, I feel the same way.”
I looked at the house, and then back at her, “Are you ready?”
“Yes…I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be, they’re all excited to meet you.” I almost convinced myself.
“Okay.”
Grandma must have noticed the car, because she was already standing by the door, regal as ever.
“Grandma, this is my girlfriend, Sophie. Sophie, this is my grandmother.”
“Hello,” Sophie’s shy small voice came out in a whisper.
“Hi, Sophie. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”
After embracing Sophie with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek, she scooted us inside to the comfort of the hearth-warmed house.
Sophie greeted everyone as the day went on, as people were coming in and out, going every which way, hurriedly planning for the funeral. I wished they would just sit and rest for a bit and get to know Sophie, but I guess that would have to wait for a more opportune time.
“Um, Mrs. Baker?”
“Yes my darling?” Grandma glanced up from scrubbing the tiled kitchen countertop, which she diligently did after preparing a meal.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss,” Sophie said quietly as she handed her a sealed pink envelope.
“Thank you, my dear,” Grandma tucked the envelope into her apron pocket, “I’ll read this later.”
“Okay.”
Grandma left swiftly, avoiding the tears that seemed to sneak up on her by Sophie’s kind gesture.
Grandma later showed me the card that was sealed in the pink envelope, and the note that was written inside:
Dearest Mrs. Baker, a.k.a. Liam’s Beloved Grandmother,
I offer you all my sympathy and love. Although I have not had the pleasure of meeting your husband, I have been blessed with meeting his grandson and the stories he has shared with me of the two of you.
Stories and spirit live on when the body, itself, passes…and the look in Liam’s eyes, when he recounts the memories of his grandfather and grandmother, says it all.
Michael Baker was a great man, loved by many, and respected by all. He knew how to live life and how to love his family. He cherished everything that mattered most in life and looked after and cared for his most valuable and precious treasure…his loving wife.
He shall be truly missed but he shall always be remembered and loved. Although I will never personally have the pleasure of knowing what a great man your husband was, I am glad that I will still have the pleasure of meeting you. From everything that Liam has mentioned, I already knew that you are also one of a kind…an amazing woman and a wonderful grandmother.
You love unconditionally, supportively, and are a perfectionist, just like Liam J.
Liam is very lucky to have such wonderful grandparents.
With love and sympathy,
Sophie Park
50
The funeral was lovely and heartfelt. Flowers lined the inner walls and available openings. The scent was so overpowering that it became sickly sweet rather than pleasant. The constant flow of air from the air conditioner felt eerie against my raised skin, as if spirits were floating past, my grandfather among them.
Silence, the most overpowering factor, created a unified discomfort; at times, I almost burst out in a fit of laughter. It hurt so much I didn’t know what else to do. Unconscious release of hysteria is normal during situations of uncomfortable distress or hardship, only to others it usually sounds like momentary shrills of sadness. But luckily, I was too anxious for that.
The room was filled with many friends, family, ex-co-workers, and my Sophie. She held my hand through it all, sat by me, clung to my side as I wept, from the time Ave Maria belted from the speakers to the closing of Amazing Grace.
It must have been awkward but she didn’t show any hesitation or discomfort by the situation and setting. Even when I walked her up to the stage where Grandpa rested, introducing her for the first and last time to him, face-to-face, she smiled softly and gripped my hand.
The eerie sense I received from looking down upon the open casket unnerved me. His face and hands seemed flattened and leathery. The makeup created a façade that simulated life, but the body remained lifeless and distant. This wasn’t my grandfather. He was gone.
I realized then that my family was also gone.
The ceremony and reception was lovely and the mood, although somber, was calm and not filled with the normal quiet tension that leaves me drained and disheartened. Not to say that I wasn’t glad to be on a plane with Sophie, headed home.
While we were an hour or so into our flight, I jokingly asked, “Do you like yellow gold or white gold?”
Sophie tilted her head, slightly confused for a moment before playing along, “I like white gold better, but it depends.”
“Mmm,” I said jokingly, tapping a finger against my chin. I turned back into my lumpy chair, adjusting my watch.
When I didn’t expand on the subject, she nudged, “Why?”
“Oh,” leaning back against the headrest with my eyes closed, “I was just thinking about getting you a gaudy 18-karat gold necklace…actually, like six of them and a pair of nugget earrings to match.” Taking a sideways glance, my lips were itching to crack.
“Ewww,” she squealed in hideous delight, “that sounds awful.”
I chortled, “Are you trying to imagine it?”
She seemed lost in thought, fidgeting with the seat belt.
“Yea,” she grinned, “I was also thinking about getting you a matching se
t.”
“That’s cool,” I said nonchalantly, “I’ll love anything you got me. But, a man like me needs at least twelve chains.”
With that, we started to crack up. I could feel disgruntled eyes poke me from all directions, but for the first time it didn’t bother me. It felt good, revitalizing the spirit. With Sophie’s hand entwined in mine, it was easy to succumb to a state of relaxation.
I drifted off to sleep, thinking about the gold band that was safely stored in my suitcase, as we were thousands of feet up in the air.
51
After a few hours of walking in (and summarily out) of door after door of some of the finest jewelers in the city, looking at, what seemed like hundreds of sparkling gems, hassling with men in snazzy suits of varying quality and fit, and then speaking relentlessly to their managers, I was angry and fed-up.
The diamonds they brought out—I won’t name any names, but the big-name stores that you generally hear ads for on the drive over to work—were crap. The cut was standard or subpar, the color was off—unless it was under the special lighting they conveniently and strategically placed around the store—and the clarity was dull. It wasn’t until I stepped into the small diamond boutique in Old Town—I remembered noticing it on our date there, since it was conveniently located across from Café Cristobal—that I felt understood and confident.
The area was small but inviting; their display was impressive and slightly understated. The assistant was hassle-free and helpful. The woman who helped me was probably in her late 30s, business-like with her hair slicked back into a secure bun, a rich navy blue suit with gray lapel, and gray heels to match. She was well put together and eyed me eagerly, not ready to pounce, but hopeful and prepared.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I’m in search of the perfect diamond for this gold band,” I pulled out the tiny box to show the band.
“That’s lovely, is it an heirloom?”
“Yes, my great-grandmother’s.” Good, she seemed intelligent enough.
“I’m sure we can find you something.”
“Thanks, and just so you are aware,” the lady halted before continuing her stride toward the back room, “I just came from a few different jewelers and am a bit peeved and frustrated, so I’m sorry in advance if I’m a little irritated and impatient.”
Her smile was slow and wide, a bit smug, when she replied, “I understand completely. Don’t worry, you came to the right place.”
And apparently I did, because the five diamonds she selected had a higher degree of clarity and superior color over any of the other ones I saw. I took my time scrutinizing each one. Going back and forth, looking for any flaws that I could see with the naked eye. She even let me view my final selection outside, in the natural light, so I could confirm its clarity and fire.
I finally picked the third one—it sparkled even in the dark, the color was so clear and white—it was perfect. It mesmerized me. Just like my Sophie does.
52
Although the ring, which carved out three-quarters of my credit card limit, was securely stowed in my fireproof safe, I felt uneasy. I contemplated opening up a safe deposit box at the bank but even that was unnerving. The only solution was to get the ring on Sophie’s finger as soon as possible. But first things first.
I paced back and forth across the wooden floorboards, thinking, planning, hyperventilating, and trying desperately to acquire enough courage to pick up the dang phone.
Last night, when I got home from the jewelers, Dad was cooking dinner. I waited until after Dad plated the crispy corn shells stuffed with fried fish and coleslaw to show him the ring. Eying the ring and then me and then looking back at the ring, he panicked. Before speaking, he rose from his chair, opened the fridge, removed a can of beer, and came back to the table. After chugging a good amount, he started to shake his head (not the reaction I had hoped for).
“Dad, I love Sophie, you know that.”
“I know,” he sighed, “but isn’t it too soon? You haven’t even experienced your first fight yet.”
Obviously, the sting from his own experience was clouding his judgment. He picked up the cooled taco and was about to take a bite, paused, and then set it back onto the plate, opting for another swig of beer instead. This conversation hindered his appetite.
“Not everyone fights.” Dad glanced at me skeptically. “Sophie and I are different. We talk through things. We don’t hold anything back.”
Dad sighed and headed back to the kitchen to throw away the uneaten fish taco. Washing the dirty dishes, he was avoiding continuing the conversation. He was avoiding me.
He wasn’t giving in. His experience was still too vivid, too painful. He loved Sophie, but his inability to trust women was hindering him from providing me with the support I needed. I knew he had issues with women in the past, but he needed to understand that Sophie was the only one for me; it didn’t matter how long we waited; it was forever with her. So what was the point of delaying the inevitable?
Without thinking it through, I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers scrawled on a torn page of O-Chem notes. After two rings, a man picked up, his voice—once familiar—seemed threatening somehow, and I froze.
“Hello? Liam? Is that you?”
Damn caller ID. I cleared my voice a couple times before I could speak, “Yes, sir. Hello Mr. Park, this is Liam.”
“Hi Liam,” there was a pause, “is something wrong?” his voice thick with concern.
“No, no, nothing’s wrong.” In the distance I heard a sigh of relief. “I—I just have something important that I would like to discuss with you and your wife…and I was wondering if you both were free sometime soon to meet me for breakfast or lunch. I could drive up to see you both whenever and wherever is most convenient.”
I let out a deep breath.
“Liam, is there something you just want to tell us over the phone?”
“No, I would much rather talk about it in person. It’s important.”
“Okay. Then we’ll come down to see you…say Tuesday?”
“Are you sure, I don’t mind driving up.”
“No, you have school to worry about. Just email me the time and place and we’ll be there.”
Before I had a chance to thank him he added, “You know, it would just save us both a lot of time if we just talked about it over the phone.”
“No, please, Mr. Park. This is important to me.”
He chuckled, “Okay.”
~ Sophie ~
53
Spring quarter was a bit of a blur. Spending every available moment with Liam—studying, walking to our spot at Lake Murray, sleeping in, cuddling, discussing life and our future—we became inseparable, especially now that we lived together. Tiff still occupied the master bedroom upstairs, which was fine since she spent most of her time over at Ethan's while trying to land various modeling gigs that caught her fancy.
When Liam moved, I moved. When I was quiet, he offered his undivided attention so that he could mend my woes and discomfort. When he held my hand, I held his. If my hand wasn't held, my body was.
Friends and family all looked to us in awe, as well as annoyance. If they asked for one, they received both. Our relationship came easy—no hardships or unpleasant discourse, no petty fights or jealous outbreaks—it just worked. It was simple and it was beautiful, like a sunrise that glows above the clear horizon, overlooking a calm and crystal lake, rising slow and steady without fail each and every morning.
Some people climb mountains—walk over rough terrain, cross a choppy river, trudge through dense brush and over unsteady boulders—just to catch a glimpse of this natural and daily occurrence. But for us, we saw it each and every day in the comfort of our own home, entwined in each other, restful, and happy.
It was no wonder that on this glorious day, when the sun rose steady and sure, the question arose.
After a long and delightful night, we awoke in bed. Smiles planted on our faces, groggy from sleep. A
thin layer of sweat gluing us together, crammed in the center of the bed as if we had to share amongst a family of six. We were rested and happy.
Liam turned to his side so he could kiss me. I kissed him back five, six, ten times. I couldn’t get enough of his sweet kisses.
“How many do you think that is?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled, “How many kisses?”
“Yeah, do you think we made it to a million yet?”
I grinned, replying, “It must be a million.” I collapsed onto him, continuing to shower him with a few more kisses, just to make sure.
If breakfast at Seaport Village was offered past ten o’clock, and their Hawaiian French toast was on par with that of Denny’s, we would’ve slept until the sun began to set. Scrambling to get dressed, we arrived at a quarter to ten, barely making it for the French toast—Hawaiian bread covered in gooey batter and grilled to perfection, layered with toasted coconut, bananas, powdered sugar and doused with a heavy spoonful of mango papaya syrup—and a steaming cup of their house Kona coffee.
The setting was perfect: sail boats lining the docks, light glimmering onto the never-ending blue water, and birds singing overhead. We sipped our coffee, ate in bliss, and were enrapt in each other's presence.
It seemed like any other glorious Sunday morning. Liam making sure I was fed and happy. Me, stealing sweet kisses every chance I got. The two of us deep in thought, relaxed in bliss, and enjoying today, enjoying now.
Leaving now, to where I assumed would be the comforts of our place—specifically the privacy of the bathroom (the coffee was kicking in for its morning ritual)—I leaned back to enjoy the drive. To my surprise, we weren't heading toward the apartment but Liam turned his Volvo toward the lake instead.
Sophie's Smile: A Novel Page 19
