Chapter Ten #2
Go wild she does. Sophie orders a pork tonkotsu ramen with all the fixings, karaage, and a green tea red bean crepe for dessert.
She nibbles through her feast like a mouse sampling its way through a pantry all while regaling me with the latest in middle school drama—Peter Rindell, the boy most of the seventh-grade girls have a crush on, was apparently caught with a strawberry-kiwi vape behind the bleachers and gave all the tween girls the ick.
I listen to her chatter with amusement. Kids her age are a clash of contradictions; Sophie still ties a remnant of her blankie around the arm of her backpack, is scared of the dark, and crawls into her mom’s bed during thunderstorms. But she can also have a surprisingly coherent discussion about gender (“It’s weird that they don’t like him because they think strawberry-kiwi is a girly flavor instead of because being addicted to nicotine at thirteen is lame”), her future job prospects (“I hate when people ask me what I want to be when I grow up when no one pays enough to live anymore”), and the ethics of brachycephalic dog breeds (“How do people think pug snorts are cute? You’re literally hearing the sound of them suffocating with every breath”).
I’m glad to see her in good spirits. I almost don’t want to bring up her dad, but I know from my own days as an occasionally troubled preteen that kids Sophie’s age can be remarkably good at normalizing the abnormal.
I’m thinking through ways to start the conversation: So, how are you liking spending time with Leila, how was last weekend at your dad’s, how are you doing with the split, when Sophie jumps in for me.
“Don’t tell Mom,” she says around a mouthful of chicken, “but Dad’s been acting really weird lately.”
With the mask covering my mouth, the only part of my face I have to control are my eyebrows.
“How so?” I say, feigning surprise.
Sophie shrugs.
“He’s tired all the time,” she complains. “He spends, like, the entire day on the couch watching TV. He doesn’t really even talk to me or Leila unless we talk to him first. It’s like he’s a robot.”
“Huh.” I search for what to say next. “So if he doesn’t talk to you and sits on the couch all day, what do you even do when you’re there?”
Sophie slurps her noodles so aggressively that her broth splashes onto the table.
“I’m almost thirteen, Auntie. I can keep myself busy,” she says. Then she pauses, like she’s about to confess something shameful. “And besides, Leila and I hang out.”
This I did not expect. My left eye twitches, and then I clear my throat.
“Oh?” I say. “What do you do?”
“All sorts of things,” Sophie says. “We bake, sometimes. Last week we made a pumpkin roll, and before that we made a cheesecake from scratch. Also we watch a lot of music videos. She’s a dancer too, so she’s been helping me out with my routine.
She’s really nice to me.” She pauses, her eyes downcast. “I don’t think Dad is going to come to my recital Sunday.
I told him about it like three times, and every time he acts like he’s never heard of it.
Leila said that she wants to be there, but it might be awkward with Mom. ”
My heart aches for Winona. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll be happy that her daughter feels at home with her new stepmother, but I also know that learning that Sophie is making memories that Winona often doesn’t have the time to provide would sting.
She’s already lost her husband to Leila; I can’t imagine she’ll be excited about sharing her daughter too.
“Do you want Leila to come to your recital?” I ask Sophie.
Sophie lowers her chopsticks. She has her mother’s protuberant eyes, but hers are framed all around with thick, doll-like lashes. When she was born, I stared at her for minutes, stunned that my best friend could make such a perfect being.
“Yes?” she asks hopefully. “Can you ask Mom if it’s okay?”
I bite my lip. I imagine Leila dressed in a sleek Lululemon athletic set, helping guide Sophie through her choreography. The pride that will shine on Sophie’s face when she gets through her routine onstage and looks into the crowd to see Leila beaming up at her.
“I can ask,” I say, reluctantly.
An hour and a half later, I keep my promise.
Sophie hugs me good night and springs inside her house to take a shower before bed, and I linger in her mother’s foyer, leaning against the wall to keep myself upright.
After a full week of work and several nights of subpar sleep, I feel like I’m going to pass out, but I figure I can’t until I deliver this message.
Winona responds just as expected.
“She wants Leila to come? Why?” she snips. Her mouth is pressed thin, and the crease between her furrowed brows deepens. Then she sighs. “What am I thinking? Of course Leila can come if Sophie wants her there. I should be grateful that she’s treating her well. Her father on the other hand…”
“Yeah,” I mutter. Navigating being Brandon’s coworker and Winona’s best friend has required delicacy; we have a general understanding that I don’t bring up what goes on at work.
But this feels important. “He’s been strange in the hospital too.
Sloppier with his cases. And he missed a STEMI Saturday. I had to come in for it.”
Winona gapes at me.
“Wait. You mean last Saturday? Isn’t that when you were out with Julian?”
I wince. Hearing Julian’s name stings like my upper lip after a wax.
“Yeah, well.” I sigh, then change the subject. “Look, Sophie is genuinely concerned that Brandon won’t show up for the recital, and I know for a fact that he’s not on call or on service that day. Just…wanted to let you know.”
Winona is all fire and brimstone.
“That is unacceptable,” she hisses. “I’m going to talk to him. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Of course,” I say, creeping for the door.
I have a forty-minute drive and a minimum twenty-minute walk with a cooped-up Onix ahead of me, and I don’t think I can manage an additional second on my feet.
It’s not fatigue that plagues me so much as a bones-deep weakness, like it takes all the energy I have left to hold myself up. “I’m, um, going to head out.”
Winona nods, then reaches for me to give me a hug. I step just out of her reach, then point up to my mask.
“Still not sure what I’ve got,” I remind her.
“You can’t still be contagious,” Winona complains, but she doesn’t try again; most of her patients are immunocompromised and I know she takes keeping herself healthy seriously. “Stay safe on your drive back tonight. There’s apparently a blizzard coming; don’t want you getting caught up in it.”
In my desperation to make it from one day to the next, I have neglected to keep up with the weather.
I pull out my phone, swallow my despondence, when I notice that there are still no new texts waiting for me, check the radar—and there it is, an ominous, swirling cloud of purple and white sweeping toward the city.
“Then I really have to go,” I say. “Good night.”
Winona squeezes my shoulder, like she can’t help but express her gratitude through touch.
“Thanks again, Sulley. For everything. And no pressure to come Sunday; you need to rest, and I know Sophie would understand.”
“And miss out on her sick moves?” I laugh. “No way. See you then; save me a seat.”