She didn’t answer for a long time.
Then she said, “Not yet.”
I nodded, though disappointment pressed hard against my ribs.
“Okay.”
She looked at me then, almost confused.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s yours.”
For a moment, her face seemed to tremble around an emotion she wouldn’t name.
Then she reached for the mystery novel on her bedside table.
“Chapter twelve,” she said quietly.
So I read.
The surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday.
In the days leading up to it, Sophie grew quieter. Not distant exactly, but inward. She listened to doctors, signed forms, and accepted visitors with a kind of composed politeness that worried me more than tears would have.
The night before surgery, a storm moved over Chicago.
Rain streaked the hospitalwindows, turning the city lights into long, trembling lines.
Linda had gone back to Sophie’s apartment to shower and sleep for a few hours. I stayed, sitting beside the bed while Sophie picked at a cup of gelatin she clearly didn’t want.
