Chapter 32
thirty-two
SOPHIE
Mike’s hand presses warm against my lower back, steady and grounding, as we head through the automatic doors. And, once inside, that particular hospital blend of industrial cleaning solution and human fear makes my nursing brain snap awake even as my daughter brain spirals into useless what-ifs.
If I’d gone running with her this morning.
If I’d noticed the infection brewing.
If I’d pushed harder about the flu shot.
“Sophie.” Dad’s voice slices through my mental flagellation.
He’s folded into one of those plastic chairs designed by someone who clearly hates the human spine. His Pine Barren hockey polo has a coffee stain spreading across the collar in a dark bloom, which Mom would normally attack with a Tide pen before he made it to the car.
“How is she?” My voice emerges steady, a small miracle courtesy of Mike’s silent presence.
“Stable. They’re running tests.” He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it in exhausted spikes. “Her legs just… quit.”
My stomach drops. Classic relapse presentation. Not pseudo-exacerbation from heat or stress but genuine inflammation, genuine damage, genuine disease marching forward.
I snap into machine-gun question mode. “When did symptoms start? Any warning signs? Fever? Numbness? Visual disturbances?”
Dad’s eyes widen at my rapid-fire interrogation. “Sophie?—”
“I need the timeline. If we can pinpoint onset, assess progression patterns, determine if this correlates with her last MRI findings?—”
His coach voice kicks in, gentle but immovable. “The doctor has it covered, Sophie.”
Right. Because other people’s hands are so much more capable than mine. Other people he hasn’t ordered to ‘back off’ when they got too invested. Other people who weren’t tangled up in Mike’s sheets while their mother collapsed.
“Her chart,” I say. “I should review the labs, make sure they’re checking JCV antibodies before any new immunosuppressants, and?—”
“Sophie.” Mike’s breath warms my ear. “Let’s sit for a minute.”
“I don’t need to sit.” I pull away, already moving toward the nurses’ station where answers live. “I need to see the doctor, because last time the steroid was?—”
“Sophie?”
I whirl to find Dr. Breene herself, silver hair twisted into her signature bun, radiating that particular calm that comes from decades of delivering devastating news with professional detachment. Though her expression suggests today’s news might not be completely catastrophic.
I’m in her space before my brain catches up with my feet. “How is she? Full panel? CSF analysis? MRI with gadolinium?”
“Your mother is stable and comfortable.” Each word measured, professional. “We believe a respiratory infection triggered this relapse. We’re starting high-dose corticosteroids— five-day course, then taper—and we think that’ll get her where she needs to go.”
My brain races through treatment algorithms. “What about plasma exchange? Recent studies show PLEX can be beneficial for?—”
“Let’s see how she responds to steroids first.” Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “Your mother has always been steroid-responsive.”
“But what if this time?—”
“Sophie.” Dad’s using his make-grown-men-cry voice now. “Dr. Breene knows her job.”
Heat floods my face but I can’t stop. “I’m considering all options, because the latest research from Johns Hopkins suggests early intervention with?—”
“Your concern is natural.” Dr. Breene’s smooth interruption saves me from myself. “But your mother needs rest. Ten minutes, then you can see her.”
She glides away before I can launch into my memorized citations, leaving me standing there with my fists clenched and my chest so tight I might crack, feeling utterly fucking useless.
“Come on.” Mike captures my hand, and I realize then that I’m so agitated I’m shaking. “Coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee.” I yank away. “I want her chart. I want neuro protocols. I want?—”
“Control over something you can’t control.” The gentleness in his voice makes the truth sting worse. “Come on, Sophie…”
“That’s not—” The lie dies because that’s exactly what I want. To rewind. To fix. To matter. “I should have been there.”
We had plans. Morning run. I could’ve monitored her exertion, caught early symptoms?—
His hands find my shoulders, forcing eye contact. “MS doesn’t give a shit about your schedule.”
Movement behind him catches my eye, a mop of familiar blonde curls bouncing through the waiting room doors, gap-toothed grin intact despite everything.
“Hazel.” Dad stands as she approaches, our neighbor Patricia trailing behind, looking concerned. “Thanks for bringing her, Patricia.”
“Of course.” She squeezes Dad’s shoulder with practiced sympathy. “Call if you need anything.”
Hazel crashes into Dad’s legs. I brace for tears, for trauma, for the breakdown I’ve been dreading since she found Mom on the kitchen floor that day. Instead, she pulls back clutching a library book.
“I brought The Fantastic Guide to Beetles !” She beams. “Mom loves bug facts when she’s sick.”
My throat closes completely. Eight years old and already more functional than her twenty-three-year-old sister, who’s having a meltdown that would give Chernobyl a run for its money.
“That’s really thoughtful, Haze.” Dad’s voice cracks.
“Can I see her?”
“A few minutes.” Dad smiles at her. “She’s getting medicine.”
“OK.” She plops into a chair and cracks open her book. “Did you know?—”
As she chirps about insect superpowers and beetles being able to lift 850 times their body weight, I watch my baby sister treating this like any manageable Tuesday while I’m over here catastrophizing.
“Hey.” Mike’s breath tickles my ear again. “Ten minutes are almost up.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, following Dad toward the patient rooms with Hazel still chattering about beetle facts. Dad pauses at room 314, opens the door, and there she is.
My mom.
She’s pale against the white sheets, with an IV snaking into her left hand and monitors tracking her body’s rebellion in real time. But she’s awake, and searching for me first.
“Hi, sweetie.” Her voice floats thin but steady.
I cross the room in two strides, hands already reaching for her IV site. “Is the flow rate optimal? Any infiltration? Are you positional?”
“Sophie.” She catches my hands. “I’m fine.”
“You’re in the hospital.” My voice climbs. “Your myelin sheaths are under active attack. That’s literally the opposite of fine.”
“Sophie, please.” She glances at Hazel, who’s already settled with her beetle encyclopedia. “It was just a flare-up.”
“A preventable flare-up. If I’d been there?—”
“You couldn’t have prevented a cold, sweetheart.”
“But I could’ve noticed earlier symptoms instead of?—”
“Instead of living your life?” Her eyes see too much. “Sophie, stop.”
“Hi, Mrs. Pearson.” Mike steps forward, saving me.
Her smile warms up the whole room. “Please, call me Rose.”
I snatch her chart from the bed’s foot. “Can we focus on your medical status?”
“Sophie.” Dad’s warning hangs.
“What? I have relevant training.”
“You’re her daughter.” His voice gentles. “Be that right now.”
The words sting more than any slap. “I’m being helpful.”
“You’re trying to control,” he says quietly. “Different thing.”
Mike’s hand finds my elbow before I can spiral further. “Coffee?” he suggests.
And then he’s gone, leaving me defenseless against the truth. My mom pats the bed, and I perch carefully, avoiding the tangle of lines. Hazel has progressed to a thrilling chapter on dung beetles, occasionally sharing revolting facts.
“You look exhausted,” Mom observes.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“Learned from the best.”
“Sophie.” Her nurse tone still works even hooked to an IV. “You are not responsible for my immune system. Not responsible for my exercise schedule. You are not my keeper, my nurse, my personal assistant, my personal stylist, or my doctor.”
“Then what am I?” The question escapes smaller than intended.
“My daughter. Who deserves lazy Sundays with her boyfriend. Who gets to be twenty-three without carrying my burdens. Who can be happy without guilt.”
“Goliath beetles grow up to four inches!” Hazel announces. “That’s like my whole hand!”
We both turn. Mom laughs—actually laughs—then refocuses.
“Listen.” Her tone lightens a little. “My MS? Not your fault. My relapses? Not your responsibility. And my illness doesn’t mean you pause your life. Because someday I’ll be gone and you’ll be forty wondering where your twenties went, Sophie.”
“Language,” I whisper, glancing at Hazel, but she’s in her own world, which looks far happier and warmer than mine. “Mom, I?—”
“When’s the last time you made a choice without calculating hospital proximity?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Because every decision for two years has been filtered through exactly that sort of question, and exactly those sorts of contingency plans. Well, except the last few weeks with Mike.
“Exactly.” She glances toward the door. “He seems wonderful.”
“Mom, no.”
“That is one beautiful man who clearly adores you.”
“We’re not discussing my love life while you’re hospitalized.”
“When else?” She sobers. “Not everyone runs when life gets complicated, Soph.”
Jimmy’s name hangs unspoken.
“Some people do,” I manage.
“Not everyone.” She glances at my dad, who’s busy keeping Hazel entertained. “I was healthy when he proposed. MS came later, which is more unfair on him than it is on me, if I’m being totally honest. So do you know what he said when I offered him an out?”
I shake my head.
“He said, ‘In sickness and in health weren’t just pretty words. They were a promise.’” She lets the words hang heavy, and I know they’re aimed right at me. “The right person doesn’t leave, Sophie. They bring coffee and hold your hand through the scary parts.”
Like clockwork, Mike appears balancing a tray. “Coffee for everyone. Hot chocolate for Hazel because caffeine for an eight-year-old seems negligent.”
“Smart man.” Mom accepts her cup. “Though I see Sophie’s has whipped cream. Playing favorites?”
“She mentioned hospital coffee is only drinkable as a caramel latte.” He shrugs. “I know who makes my toast in the morning…”
“Very smart man,” Mom amends.
“Did you know beetles have existed for 270 million years?” Hazel brandishes her book, chocolate mustache already forming.
“That’s incredible.” Mike settles in beside her, giving my dad a break. “What’s your favorite kind, Hazel?”
As Hazel launches into passionate beetle discourse, Mom watches me. Her expression reads knowing and soft. “Some people stay,” she mouths.
I watch Mike seriously debating rainbow scarab merits with my sister. Watch Dad holding Mom’s hand. Watch my mother looking serene despite chemicals dripping into her veins.
Maybe she’s right.
“Dr. Breene wants overnight observation,” Dad interrupts. “To make sure the steroids take.”
“I’ll stay,” I say automatically.
“No.” Mom’s voice brooks no argument. “You’ll go home, Sophie. And you’ll shower, eat, and sleep.”
“But—”
“I’ll stay.” Dad squeezes her shoulder. “That’s what husbands do.”
“And tomorrow I’ll bring dinosaur books!” Hazel adds. “For recovery reading.”
“See? Covered.” Mom locks eyes with me. “Go home.”
Go home, when she’s tethered to machinery. The thought would usually terrify me, but I can already see the steroids are working—color returning, voice strengthening.
“Fine.” The word escapes deflated. “But I’m here by eight tomorrow.”
“Noon,” Mom counters.
“Eight.”
“Eleven.”
“Mom—”
“Ten-thirty, final offer. Steroids make me stubborn.”
“Everything makes you stubborn.”
“You’re learning.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, then nod. “Fine,” I say.
The goodbye takes forever—more facts, more negotiations, more of Dad pretending everything’s routine—until finally we’re in the elevator, then the parking garage, then Mike’s car.
“You good?” Mike asks.
“No.” The honesty surprises me. “I’m really not.”
His hand finds mine across the console. “Want to talk?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s OK.” He squeezes. “We can just drive.”
So we do. Silent except for the engine, my thundering pulse and my brain screaming at me. But as I silently spiral, his thumb traces circles on my palm, that tiny contact keeping me from flying apart.
The right person doesn’t leave when things get hard.
I study Mike’s profile in the dashboard light. He dropped everything. Brought coffee. Discussed beetles with devastating sincerity. Never once made this about him. And, digesting all that, I conclude that maybe my mom is right.
“Where’d you go?” Mike asks.
“Nowhere good.” I manage a shaky breath. “I’m kind of a disaster.”
“I like your disaster.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen the full show yet.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit, words scraping raw.
“Then you won’t be.”
Simple. Like staying is just something people do.
And, maybe for him, it is.