Sophie's Smile: A Novel (30 page)

He started the engine and turned his questioning face toward me, hands on the wheel, foot on the brake, waiting to know the first stop of his chauffeuring duties.

“Allen’s Flowers and then Sophie’s.”

“Okay.”

I knew Sophie was on campus, taking her last final of the quarter, probably kicking ass. It pained me to know that I wouldn’t be there to hug and congratulate her when she stepped out from the dingy and stressful room.

Hoping for some saving grace, I leaned the bouquet of bright and cheerful yellow and orange sunflowers at the foot of her front door. I imagined the smile it would hopefully bring to her beautiful face, hurriedly wrote on the card (
I Love You! Keep on Smiling, Baby Doll—Liam
) and left.

47

The flight was long but fast. I took some ibuprofen for the pounding headache forming behind my eyes and along the base of my skull—strangely enough, it could not be blamed on the screaming baby in the third row,
nor
on the kid behind me who couldn’t stop kicking the back of my seat, nor from the minor turbulence we faced near the landing. Anxiety crept inside me and began to multiply as it took up residence; it was a suffocating disease, which lay dormant until sparked by a traumatic thought from the past. Once awakened, seething hordes of nervousness coursed through my bloodstream and poisoned my brain.

It had been years since I’d seen Mom. The last time I saw her, she was a mess and she sure was pissed. Her face was contorted and eyes were filled with fury. Her hair was wild and her heart was cold. She thought I chose Dad over her when I decided to live with him. She didn’t understand that he needed me more. She just wouldn’t understand.

Exiting the plane, I began to mentally prepare myself to be drained emotionally, depressed, and alone. Hopefully, a computer would be near so I could contact Sophie. I couldn’t see myself calling her for fear she would detect sadness in my voice and worry. I just couldn’t chance it.

With luggage and carry-on in hand, I headed toward the exit. As the automatic glass doors opened on command, the brisk mountain air surprised me. From behind the looking glass, the bright sun tricked my mind into inviting me into its warmth.

Just as I was beginning to calm myself down, I spotted her. There she was, leaning beside her green sedan, shielding the glare with her hand. When she spotted me, she stood erect, waving frantically to get my attention. She had aged a bit: wrinkles around her brown eyes and lips, hair slightly blonder than I remembered but just as wild, clothes new-
agey
, jewelry loud and bold. But her demeanor was softer, more fragile than my last memory. My mother—not
the other
—came to pick me up.

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi Liam.
How was your flight?” She offered a kind smile; apparently her last memory was fonder than mine. We exchanged a hug—warm on her side but awkward on mine.

“It was fine. How’s Grandpa?”

“He’s weak…” she trailed off, her eyes misty and hollow.

“Oh,” I said, clearing my throat. “So…how are you?”

“I’m really good, Liam. I heard you are doing well, too. Heard you even have a girlfriend?”

“Yes, she’s great.”

“Good.
Can’t wait to meet her.”

“Yeah, me neither,” and as she went to pop the trunk, I said under my breath, “If and when it’s on your terms, right?” Everything was always done on her terms, always her way.
Never a compromise.
Never, “hmm, I wonder what my vulnerable son needs from me.”
Where have you been all these years when I needed you most?
I wanted to drill her with questions, but I didn’t have the strength. With a half-hearted grunt I entered the passenger seat.

During the drive, she startled me by explaining all the places she’d visited and how she seemed to really find herself. I blocked her out. The fire that was boiling in me caught me off guard. I was angrier than I thought I would be.
Maybe because I went to live with Dad.
Watching the days slip by as he succumbed to depression and misery. And a part of me assumed Mom would feel the same, but she didn’t. She seemed happy and content. I should be happy for her, pleased, but I was angry and hurt.

From my vantage point, I couldn’t understand that my mom was also just a person—hurt, lost, and fighting her own inner demons during the culmination of the divorce. I couldn’t understand why she also left
me
when she left Dad. Even if I didn’t live with her, she was my mom and she shouldn’t have gone so far, for so long.

“Liam?”

“Huh?” I realized I wasn’t listening.

“Have you heard from your sister?”

“Not in a few months, why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if she was going to visit also…you know, sort of like a family reunion? That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Nice, or convenient?
Of course I didn’t say that but I thought it. She sure could have done better to raise us, especially Emily.
Em
needed a mother’s guidance and love, maybe
then,
she wouldn’t have run away with Dan to who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. Bitterness consumed me. My body wasn’t acclimating to this hostility as well as it had to the compassion I felt hours before. It angered me that I was unable to look upon Mom with the love and gratitude that all moms deserved from their
children, that
she
deserved from me.

At that moment, pain pricked my insides as I childishly longed for the clock to turn back and be placed at a time when laughter filled my family’s home, and Dad, Mom,
Em
and I were able to enjoy a hearty home-cooked meal together.

48

After an hour-long car ride, we finally got to my grandparent’s cabin. It was just the way I remembered: crisp, soft snow blanketing the yard and rooftop, smoke drifting lazily from the chimney, curtains drawn, and a wooden angel carved into the front door. My grandparent’s house looked like the cover of
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine. I took a deep breath and followed Mom into the house.

I smelled the pot of hot coffee brewing in the kitchen, and heard murmuring in the other room, probably from where Grandpa was resting. Then I heard Grandma’s voice, high and sweet, pierce down the halls, “Oh, my sweet Liam is here.”

She walked fast but regally down the hall, open-arms, filling the room with her warm presence, and kissed me tenderly on the cheek.

“Oh, my sweet Liam, how I’ve missed you,” she was choking back fresh and old tears now. Tears for everyone, it seemed. Even though her voice masked her grief, her eyes were painfully sad.

I felt sad for her. Sad that she felt she couldn’t express herself to her family.
Sad that she felt like she had to be strong and controlled.
Sad that she felt like we wouldn’t understand if she grieved for the man she loved almost her entire life and whom she was losing, slowly but surely.

“I missed you too, Grandma.” I gave her a gentle, loving squeeze and kissed her sunken cheek.

“Oh, you must be tired and hungry. Why don’t you set your things down in the spare bedroom down the hall, you remember, the blue room, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“Grandma, you don’t have to.”

“Hush, now. What are Grandmas for, anyways?” she gave me her best impression of a smile. “Now, you go on and wash up.”

“Okay, thanks Grandma.” There was no arguing with her. What I really wanted to do was drop my things right at the door and go straight to Grandpa’s room and tell him about my Sophie, but I knew there were steps that needed to be taken first.

First, drop my things in the blue room and change out of my travel clothes. Second, eat a hearty meal that Grandma prepared.
Third, antibacterial-wash my hands.
Then I would be allowed to see Grandpa, hopefully alone, but I knew that would be nearly impossible.

The blue room was immaculate, blue, and unchanged. The bed was still in the middle of the room, with blue patchwork quilts and blue pillows; the oak dresser was by the door with the blue-cloth shade lamp on top, and the crib—where all the grandchildren slept—was still in the far corner of the room, unused for some time. Everything was neatly placed and pressed. No dust or lint was able to take up residence in this, or any part of the many rooms in Grandma’s house. No one seemed to have used this room since the last time I occupied it, when I was thirteen.

Grandma stuffed me with four slices of French toast, bacon, eggs, a large mug of coffee and a tall glass of OJ. Shaking my head, I wondered how an eight-year-old boy was ever able to scarf down this meal every day.
No wonder I was the fat kid. But man is it delicious.
After I was stuffed and washed up, we went to see Grandpa and the rest of my sleep-deprived family.

Mom was fussing over Grandpa’s pillow, Aunt Deb was reorganizing his pills into tiny plastic daily boxes and Aunt Carolyn was lecturing Aunt Deb on how to organize the pills in the pillboxes. All three sisters were different in looks, but were each strong-willed, opinionated, and loud—and their men, all divorced out of the family.

“Oh hey, Liam,” my aunts greeted me in unison.

I went over to give them each a hug and a kiss. “Where are the boys?”

“Oh, the boys are playing out back in the snow.” I looked out the window to see Michael, Jacob, and Daniel tossing snowballs at each other.

“They grew,” I offered. I was never that close to my cousins since they were born near the time my parents were divorced.

“Yes,” Aunt Carolyn said wistfully, “My babies have grown. They’re not babies anymore.”

“Liam?” Grandpa all but whispered my name and a lump formed automatically in my throat.

“Yes, Grandpa, it’s me.” I went by his side and knelt down so he could see me. I kissed his brow and held his limp hands in mine. His hands were clammy with cold sweat; raised blue veins made ridges along the blotches of yellow and red. He was a lot weaker than I imagined. His body, once strong, looked limp and frail tucked under the freshly cleaned and pressed sheets. His face was sunken and sallow, his eyes were crusted with tears, and he was nodding off every few minutes. But when I looked into his soft brown eyes, I could see Grandpa fighting for every breath, fighting to stay alive, and that comforted me.

“How’s Sophie?”

“She’s wonderful,” I choked back the hot, salty tears that were prematurely emerging, blurring my vision.
He remembered her. He understands.

There was no doubt in my mind that he understood. He, too, knew the meaning of true love, for his life was a testament to it. I only heard it once, a few years ago from Grandma, but it is a story that will never be forgotten and will always be treasured. Grandpa was sitting on a cool metal barstool (the revolving kind with red vinyl seats), sipping on a fizzy soda-pop (the kind with real syrup and sugar) at a neighborhood ice cream parlor after school. In those days, all the kids congregated there once school let out—their version of
The Max
—and this was where he fell in love. For over a year he watched her from a distance as she laughed with friends, enjoying a scoop of vanilla ice cream from a cone (only on days when she was able to scrounge up enough change). He thought she had the whitest teeth and prettiest dark hair. He was sixteen and she was at the tender age of twelve. From that day forward he promised himself that he would take care of her in every way possible. He never broke that promise. His love for her never faltered, nor did her love for him.

“Is she the one?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he smiled before he nodded off for the rest of the night. It was like he was forcing himself to stay awake until I got there.
Like he was waiting for me.