Page 120 of Changing the Playbook
I shake my head.
“He said, ‘In sickness and in health weren’t just pretty words. They were a promise.’” She lets the words hang heavy, and I know they’re aimed right at me. “The right person doesn’t leave, Sophie. They bring coffee and hold your hand through the scary parts.”
Like clockwork, Mike appears balancing a tray. “Coffee for everyone. Hot chocolate for Hazel because caffeine for an eight-year-old seems negligent.”
“Smart man.” Mom accepts her cup. “Though I see Sophie’s has whipped cream. Playing favorites?”
“She mentioned hospital coffee is only drinkable as a caramel latte.” He shrugs. “I know who makes my toast in the morning…”
“Very smart man,” Mom amends.
“Did you know beetles have existed for 270 million years?” Hazel brandishes her book, chocolate mustache already forming.
“That’s incredible.” Mike settles in beside her, giving my dad a break. “What’s your favorite kind, Hazel?”
As Hazel launches into passionate beetle discourse, Mom watches me. Her expression reads knowing and soft. “Some people stay,” she mouths.
I watch Mike seriously debating rainbow scarab merits with my sister. Watch Dad holding Mom’s hand. Watch my mother looking serene despite chemicals dripping into her veins.
Maybe she’s right.
“Dr. Breene wants overnight observation,” Dad interrupts. “To make sure the steroids take.”
“I’ll stay,” I say automatically.
“No.” Mom’s voice brooks no argument. “You’ll go home, Sophie. And you’ll shower, eat, and sleep.”
“But—”
“I’ll stay.” Dad squeezes her shoulder. “That’s what husbands do.”
“And tomorrow I’ll bring dinosaur books!” Hazel adds. “For recovery reading.”
“See? Covered.” Mom locks eyes with me. “Go home.”
Go home, when she’s tethered to machinery. The thought would usually terrify me, but I can already see the steroids are working—color returning, voice strengthening.
“Fine.” The word escapes deflated. “But I’m here by eight tomorrow.”
“Noon,” Mom counters.
“Eight.”
“Eleven.”
“Mom—”
“Ten-thirty, final offer. Steroids make me stubborn.”
“Everything makes you stubborn.”
“You’re learning.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, then nod. “Fine,” I say.
The goodbye takes forever—more facts, more negotiations, more of Dad pretending everything’s routine—until finally we’re in the elevator, then the parking garage, then Mike’s car.
“You good?” Mike asks.
