Page 28 of Changing the Playbook
Complicated might not mean impossible, but with Sophie, it feels that way.
nine
SOPHIE
The fluorescent lightsin the nursing building hallway have that special ability to make everything look a vague shade of ill. Which is perfect, because nothing says “successful graduate student” and “she’s on top of life” quite like stumbling out of Advanced Physiology with the complexion of expired milk. With a deep sigh at the thought, I shift my textbook to my other arm and check my phone.
There’s a text from my dad:
Mom’s appointment went fine. Talk later.
Fine.
The word lodges in my throat like a swallowed pill. In the Pearson family lexicon, “fine” could mean anything from “genuinely OK” to “currently on fire but managing the flames.” And my dad, more than any of us, deploys vagueness with military precision.
I dial before I’m even out the door, nearly taking out a freshman who’s apparently attempting to set the world record for slowest hallway navigation while texting. The phone rings once… my pulse kicks up. Twice… jaw clenching. Three times?—
“Hey, Fee.” His voice is calm, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. “What’s up?”
“I got your text,” I say. “What happened at the appointment? What did Dr. Breene say about the new medication? Are her levels?—”
“Sophie.”
Full name. Fantastic. That’s Dad-speak for “prepare for disappointment.”
“Everything’s fine. Your mom just doesn’t want to talk about it.”
The hallway suddenly feels too narrow. “But?—”
“She’s resting. She had a long day.”
I press my back against the wall, letting the cold brick anchor me before I say something I’ll regret. “That doesn’t tell me anything. Was there a change in her symptoms? Did they adjust her dosage? What about the MRI results from last month?”
“Everything is under control, Sophie.” He sighs. “You don’t need to worry about every little detail.”
“Every little detail?” The words come out sharp enough to draw a glance from a passing student. “Dad, this isn’t a stationery order. This is Mom’s health.”
“And she’s handling it. We’re handling it.”
The unspoken accusation hangs between us like static on the line. I taste copper and realize I’m biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. Because here’s the thing—nothing would have been “handled” right now, or for the past few months, without me.
Who reorganized Mom’s medication schedule when she started the new treatment? Who drives Hazel to her seventeen thousand activities when Mom’s too exhausted? Who spent three hours last week researching potential drug interactions with her vitamins?
Me.
But sure, let’s pretend I’m the problem here.
“I just want to know what’s going on,” I say, and hate how my voice cracks like I’m fifteen again. “I’ve been worried all day.”
“I know.” His tone softens fractionally, which is some progress, at least. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let your mother and me handle things without dissecting every test result and appointment. It’s exhausting for your mom when you?—”
He catches himself, but the damage is done.
When I what?
Care too much?
Try too hard to keep everyone safe?
