In a Book Club Far Away(55)

The nurse glanced at her clipboard. “I have an order here for discharge.”

“What time?” She couldn’t wait to go home. She missed her bed and Genevieve. She wanted to see where these new feelings took her, and she was eager to recover her time with her friends.

“Looks like if your afternoon vital signs and pain level are in control, you have the green light.” She looked around the room. “Do you have someone who can take you home?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Great! Let’s schedule it for me to come in an hour to do a full assessment and some discharge teaching, and aim to get you out of here at around three p.m.? Is that good?”

“Sure. It sounds good.” Adelaide emptied her lungs of air. Her mind wandered to the nest of emotions that were tangled together, but with the light of hope behind it.

Yes. She was definitely good.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sophie




March 2012

The first day of spring brought the sun and a blessedly quiet afternoon.

The day’s snowfall was different. It wasn’t a thick blanket of ice that blocked the vision outside one’s windows. Instead it fluttered downward to the ground as if Sophie’s little neighborhood were ensconced in a snow globe, like the world was at the tail end of hibernation. The temperature had climbed into the thirties most days, with the general mood of the neighborhood rising with it.

On this day, in a miracle, Sophie’s girls had been content playing in their rooms and were now taking a late-afternoon nap. The free time allowed Sophie to read. As of yet, no one had volunteered for the next book club meeting nor had a book been designated, so she dug into Breaking Dawn, the fourth installation of the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. Sophie had become hooked on the series, though she hadn’t admitted to anyone else how deep her obsession was. At book four, she was still #TeamJacob all the way.

Six months into deployment, Sophie had gotten into a groove. Her family routine was working. She and Jasper were solid. Her friendships were thriving. Grad school would begin in June and she looked forward to it. There was no drama. Aside from a couple of check-ins with Adelaide and supporting Regina as her belly grew, things were calm on her side of the door.

So when Sophie’s phone buzzed on the couch cushion—a call from her cousin Mario—she sent the call to voice mail.

It was an unkind gesture, and Sophie felt a pit of guilt in her belly. Family was a subject she didn’t really discuss but that remained an ever-present shadow in her periphery. Over the years, she’d simply disassociated herself from her father and extended family; she’d let go of all the distraction and emotions that used to invade her heart for days after communicating with them. But what came with that understanding was the knowledge and sometimes the guilt that it was her choice to break away from them. A good choice, but a shameful choice to make nonetheless.

Mario only called to update her on her father. The two men lived together in Nassau, where her paternal family came from. Her father had returned to his childhood home after Sophie’s mother had died, abandoning her to her mother’s sister—may she rest in peace with the angels—who comforted and cared for Sophie in every way. In her mind, she was orphaned the day her mother passed.

And she wasn’t in the mood, not today.

The last time Mario called, he’d asked for money, insisting that her father didn’t have enough to buy his medications. Drama had ensued in her refusal to send money when he had never lifted a finger for her, when at the time, she didn’t have enough money herself—young soldiers were paid in pennies, and at the time Jasper was a Specialist and she was pregnant with twins and on bed rest. In her empathy, in the past, she’d often taken her family’s issues to heart. Sometimes she’d even try to solve issues not in her control, and these days she couldn’t take responsibility. She had her own little ducks to keep safe.

Unless someone was part of the military community, they—her own family included—did not understand what it meant for a family to have a deployed soldier. They seemed to forget that it was she who was alone, that it was she who needed support.

The phone beeped with a voice mail message. But instead of listening to it, she drew a bath.

She turned off the ringer of her landline, set her cell to vibrate, and left the door ajar so she could hear her daughters while water filled the tub. She inhaled the scent of the rose bath oil she poured into the water—smelling the roses—for the first time in forever.

She sank into the water. She wiggled her toes against the warmth and relaxed in it. She turned on the iPod and stuck an earbud in her ear, and marveled at how this tiny square could hold her most favorite songs, and then shut her eyes.

Why didn’t she do this more often? Why didn’t she take care of herself first? A bath every couple of weeks, a shopping trip for herself. Maybe a movie on her own. She thought of the upcoming months and promised herself time and space…

The next second, she awoke to her girls rumbling around the house. She blinked, eyelids heavy, skin pruned. She scanned the bathroom for her cell—she must have forgotten it in the bedroom. But the water was tepid at best, so it had to have been at least an hour.

Time to face reality—Sophie supposed that she had to resume her motherly duties. She unplugged the tub stopper and turned on the faucet to warm, drew the shower curtain, and rinsed off, taking her time, while commotion ensued in her apartment. Her girls yelled for her. Which, on some days, was par for the course, but along with the humidity of the bathroom, a heavy feeling descended around her.