Chapter Three Sophie #2
Taking stock, I answer honestly, "Better."
And I do. I always do after talking to Tess, my built-in protector since I was born, more of a mom to me than our own mother was.
Tess was born Teresa, named after a great-aunt we've never met.
I couldn't pronounce Teresa when I started talking.
I could only say Tess, which honestly sounded a lot more like "Teth.
" So, she started going by Tess after that, and I always feel a little special that I gave her the name she prefers.
Tess is ten years older than I am, with no siblings in between us. I was what they called a surprise, which was a nice way of saying 'unplanned and unwanted,’ but Tess always wanted me.
She always took me places, even when I was an annoying kid and she was a cool teenager with a license, a car, and friends.
If she was going to the mall, she asked if I wanted to come and would buy me ice cream.
If she wanted to see a movie, she asked me if I wanted to go with her first before her friends.
When she joined the military when I was nine, I felt lost. It was my first time being home alone with our parents, but I understand it was the best option for her.
While our parents mainly ignored me, they focused too much on her. They demanded perfection, and as any teenager does with strict parents, Tess rebelled.
I can still hear the screaming matches about her wasted potential when I was eight, and she would come home from a friend's house after curfew.
Tess made her own future, joining the military, and graduating from college on the U.S. Army's dime. She built a career, travelled around the world, and is retiring very soon, which I’m happy about.
No matter where she is, though, we remain best friends.
In High School, during holiday breaks, I would take the train down from New York to the base in New Jersey. I even lived rent-free with her while she was stationed at Fort Bragg, allowing me to save money while finishing my bachelor's degree at the University of North Carolina.
Tess is my protector and my safe harbor.
My heart has slowed to a less concerning rhythm. I feel weirdly light—weightless, almost—and I'm not desperately dragging air into my lungs anymore.
My head hurts, but it usually does after a panic attack. I should drink some water.
Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, I ignore Paul's New England Patriots mug, barely resisting the urge to throw it against the wall… or maybe I’ll take a hammer to it. I sip the water slowly, knowing if I chug it, I’ll just throw it up.
"Good," Tess doesn't miss a beat. "I'm gonna put his head through the nearest drywall next time I see him. Then I'm gonna do it again. And maybe a third time, just so he really understands what he did."
"Nurse Ruth told me some men leave when their partners get sick. I just thought—"
"That he would be a decent partner?" My sister's tone is knife-clean—no nonsense, no coddling—but still soft and full of her tough love. "He wasn't, and that's on him, and that's something he'll have to deal with. Not you, Sophie. He—you know what, his head's going through the wall a fourth time."
I laugh because Tess is only half joking. She really would put his head through a wall if she were here right now. If she were here—but she's not, she's on another continent—and I've never felt so alone and so— "Stupid. I feel so stupid."
"You're not stupid," she says, in the same voice she used when I called her after my first date stood me up at fifteen. "You loved your fiancé. You trusted your fiancé. That's not stupidity—that's love, that's a relationship. He failed you, Sophie."
He failed me—yeah, he did—and yet somehow I can't get rid of the feeling that it's partly my fault. Will this feeling go away? I can think of reasons for him to cheat: my lack of libido, my cancer, my crying, and my apparent ignorance of his feelings.
"I can hear your brain right now, Soph. I can't get on a plane right now to knock some sense into you, but trust me, I will be with you in every way I can—in your ear, annoying the shit out of you after every appointment, wanting to know all the details and how you're feeling.
I will scare your oncologist with my questions.
I will send you a spreadsheet of all of them because I know you love spreadsheets, you little math freak. "
"I do," I admit, watery but laughing a little more now.
"You are not alone," Tess says, her voice soft and firm all at once. "I know it feels like it, but you're Sophie. You're adorable and so sweet it makes me sick, and you make everyone you meet fall a little in love with you. You just can't help it. Okay?"
"Yes," I whisper, the weight that had been pressing down on my chest loosening bit by bit. "Yes."
"Good," I picture her sitting at her desk in her fancy Army office in Germany, typing away on her computer with one hand and squeezing her stress ball with the other, imagining that it's Paul's head.
"Tonight, you do three things for me. One: you let yourself fall apart.
Ugly-cry, scream into your pillow, punch it, kick it, let it all out.
You get tonight to fall apart, that's it. "
"Already screamed into one today."
"Good, do it again and again, till it feels better. Two: order yourself some food, don't worry about cooking tonight. Take an everything shower, put a face mask on, put on your comfiest jammies, and order that butter chicken and garlic naan you can't shut up about."
I smile and hum a bit at the thought of the meal.
Amma's Palace has some of the best Indian food I've ever had.
We ordered it the first week we moved into the apartment, and it quickly became the only thing I craved for two months.
The owner, Kavi, greets me by name now when I call to order: "Hello, Miss Sophie, your regular?
" and he always throws in some extra naan for me.
I feel a spark of joy in my chest and smile. "And the third?"
"Retail therapy," I can hear the smile in my sister's voice. "Treat yourself tonight, besides the meal. I don't care what—new fluffy robe, comfy pajamas, new shoes, whatever. Buy yourself something that will make you feel good. You deserve it."
I nod even though she can't see me. A little retail therapy could do me some good—maybe that soft green sweater I've been eyeing at the boutique on Sycamore.
"Okay."
"Oh, and one more thing," Tess starts, "I was talking to one of my coworkers whose wife had cancer, and she did something I think you'd like."
"What?"
"She wrote herself a letter after she was diagnosed, an 'open when you're cancer-free' letter."
"A letter?"
"Yeah, I think it would be good for you. Write down what you want on the far side of this. What you hope you accomplish between now and then. Or a goal list. Whatever—you love writing lists. Virgo," she teases, good-naturedly.
"Aries," I retort, and I can practically hear the smile she has on her face.
"Send me the treatment schedule once it's in your calendar. I wanna be aware of what's going on at all times. But tonight, you just let yourself be, okay?"
"Okay."
"Tomorrow morning, we plan. You'll go to work, and we'll loop in your boss on your treatment schedule. Have me on speaker in your purse if you just need me there for support."
We. She's saying we, the same way I was saying "we" with Paul, but Tess really is steady—and she's an ocean away. I'm not alone. Not really.
My job, thankfully, is something I don't have to worry about.
My official title is Senior Financial Analyst. I'm relatively young for a senior position at twenty-nine, but I have the education, recommendations, and skills to back it up.
I work at a smaller Boston firm called Hanson Capital—forty people, tucked between the Seaport and the Financial District.
My job is basically telling the story of the company's money—where it came from, where it went, and where it's about to go if we're not careful.
I'm capable of taking a big, messy pile of receipts, payroll, bills, and coffee orders and turning it into a clear, easy-to-understand picture at a glance.
My day is essentially spent attached to my laptop, making spreadsheets.
As Tess said, I love spreadsheets. I like it when the columns click into place, and the totals behave.
It's oddly soothing—numbers don't lie to you.
Unlike people.
"No, my boss has been really great through this whole process," I take a deep breath, feeling a lot better now. "She said whatever I need, we can work it out."
"Good, that makes me glad to hear. In the meantime, I will continue plotting my drywall-related justice against your ass of an ex-fiancé. I'm good at multitasking," she brags, and it makes me laugh again. "Soph?"
"Yeah?"
"Say the words: I am going to be okay."
I hesitate for a second.
"I am going to be okay," I whisper, and something unclenches behind my ribs.
"Louder."
"I am going to be okay."
"Yeah, you are," Tess's voice goes tender in a way almost no one ever hears. Only me. "I am so proud of you, Sophie. I am so proud to be your sister. Text me if you need me. If you start to spiral, call. I don't care what time it is here."
"Thank you, Tess," I say, my voice wobbling.
"Anytime. Now go get your pretty floral stationery and weaponize it. Future Sophie is waiting for her kick-ass list."
I take the now mushy, lukewarm bag of bananas and toss them in the trash.
I then go over to my small secretary desk and pull open the drawer, sliding out the box of my extra-pretty, special-occasion stationery—the cream with pretty gold florals on the edges.
I pick the top sheet and lay it on the table, grab my favorite pen, the shimmery dark blue one, and I write a letter to my future self.
Dear Sophie,
Paul cheated. Right now, it feels like a meteor just crashed through the ceiling and ripped a hole straight through the middle of my life.
This morning he was here, and now he's not.
That's his choice, and he has to live with it.
And I hope he can. Or not, Tess is plotting his demise as I write this, and I'm not really inclined to stop her.
I keep forgetting how to breathe and then remembering, because I still have Tess. We'll always have Tess. She told me to write this letter to you because we love making lists. So, when you read this in a year, because of who we are, you will have accomplished the following:
You are going to live.
You are going to have survived chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation.
You are going to endure—and no, not just endure: you are not writing this year off. You will have had a life during the hard parts, not just after.
So, here is the plan for us right now:
1) We are going to kick cancer's ass.
We will show up to every chemotherapy appointment and read, nap, and relax. We will stay hydrated, let people help, wear those cute little hats when we go bald, and forgive the mirror on bad days.
2) Build and rebuild.
Not literal things, but build a support network. Say yes to new opportunities and offers of friendship. All of our friends right now are more Paul's friends, so we will make our own.
3) Buy things.
Silly little knick-knacks that make the apartment mine, not ours: a ridiculous mug, that ceramic lighthouse you've been eyeing, a page-weight shaped like a cat.
Maybe get a cat? We've always wanted one.
New soft towels. Fresh sheets. A new lamp that throws warm light.
Donate the old couple-things to every thrift store in town with a firm thank you and goodbye.
4) Grow the library.
Happy-ever-afters only. If it ends well, it comes home with us and sits pretty on our shelves. I'll buy us one of those fancy library stamps with our name on it and annotate where a sentence catches my breath.
5) Work gently.
Laptop, fuzzy socks, soft deadlines. Let "good enough for today" be enough for today. Don't kill yourself working. It’s not worth it.
I hesitate before I write the next point, glancing over at the graduation picture on the wall—me and Paul in our regalia, beaming at the camera. The various pictures of us through the years decorate the walls, the bookshelves, and the entryway table.
Us.
Our mark is all over this apartment, like it's closing in on me, a reminder that while love can warm and soothe and comfort, it can also sting and burn and stab and carve and tear.
And yet, I still add the last point...
6) Let love be a possibility.
Falling in love is on this list, not as a requirement, but as a suggestion, to not let one cowardly man ruin this experience for us.
Because while love just burnt me with the worst pain I've ever felt, there were good times.
There had to have been. So, while love and dating is not on my radar right now with the battle I'm about to fight looming, I still want to keep hopeful that I will fall in love again.
I will not cut my nose off to spite my face.
I will fall in love, maybe not before you read this, but I will fall in love again one day.
He will be a reliable, dependable man. Someone who stays through the good, but especially through the bad.
A man who chooses me when it's hard, who puts a steady hand at my back and doesn't flinch when life is not pretty.
Who won't flinch when he sees my scars, who will call me beautiful even when I'm not feeling like I am.
Someone who thinks kindness is sexy and gentleness is rebellion.
Someone who accepts me as I am, in whatever state I may be in. That will be my future partner.
When you read this next year, I hope you're cancer-free, confident, and happy.
I hope the apartment feels like yours in every corner.
I hope the bookshelf is heavier and your heart is lighter.
I hope your closet is stuffed with new cute clothes and your drawer has many, many new, cute hats to cover up our bald head.
I hope there are new names in your phone who feel like family.
I hope I can give that to you. You deserve it.
And...
I hope there's a man in the future who proves that love is a verb.
I will fall apart tonight, I will get up and plan tomorrow. Then I will do both as many times as it takes, until we have won.
We are going to be okay.
Love,
Sophie