“Movin’ on up!” I start singing the theme song from The Jeffersons, mesmerized by a big crystal chandelier.
Meredith hisses at me to stop it, as the doorman smiles, then asks if he may help us.
“Yes,” she replies, her voice high and prim. “Could you please tell Sophie Mitchell that Meredith and Josie are here to see her?”
He nods briskly, picks up an old-fashioned telephone, and says, “Yes. Hello, Dr. Mitchell. Meredith and Josie are here….Very well. Will do.” He hangs up, points to the elevator, and says, “Ninth floor.”
Mere thanks him, and we head that way. Once inside the elevator, we wait for both sets of doors to close—the outer, then the inner accordion-like grate—before lurching upward.
After a slow ascent, we grind to a stop, and the doors open in reverse order into a small vestibule flanked by two apartments. Before we can select the correct door, one swings open, and there stands a surprisingly faded version of Daniel’s Sophie. I’d still characterize her as attractive, in a Euro sort of way, and she is wearing a very chic jumpsuit and pointed patent flats. But she has a less-than-svelte figure and heavily sun-spotted skin.
“Hello. Come in, come in,” she says, her voice exactly as I remembered, her English accent undiluted by so many years in the States. I can tell she’s nervous as she steps forward to give us each a stiff, arm’s-length hug, in our birth order. “It’s so nice to see you both again.”
“It’s nice to see you, too,” Meredith says.
“Yes, thank you for having us over,” I add as Sophie leads us into her living room. I note that there are about a dozen places to sit, including an L-shaped sectional, two huge armchairs, and several plush ottomans, yet no television in sight. I have a sudden random recollection of her telling us that she wasn’t allowed to watch it growing up.
“You have a beautiful home,” Meredith says.
“Thank you,” Sophie says. “We just completed a renovation. This used to be the dining room…but nobody entertains that way anymore….” She laughs, then adds, “And I still can’t cook.”
I catch the we, and feel sure Meredith does, too, yet still see no signs of a husband, or a child for that matter, though I do see several framed photos of the boy from her Facebook page.
We follow Sophie into her all-white contemporary kitchen, as she asks what we’d like to drink. “A cocktail? Or a glass of wine?”
Meredith and I both say sure, we would love a glass of wine.
“Red or white?” she asks.
“Whatever you have open,” Meredith says, until Sophie insists that we choose.
“Red would be great, thanks,” I finally decide, when I notice that Sophie is drinking red. Her stemless lipstick-stained glass rests on the counter next to an artfully arranged charcuterie board. She may not be able to cook, but she certainly can entertain.
“And for you, Meredith?” Sophie asks with a charming lilt.
“Red would be lovely,” my sister says, sounding pretentious.
Sophie reaches up, plucking two glasses from her open shelving, then fills them both a little more than halfway. Meredith and I each take one as Sophie lifts hers, a smile frozen on her face. An awkward beat follows as it becomes clear that she is poised to make a toast. “To old acquaintances,” she finally says, looking into my eyes, then Meredith’s.
“To old acquaintances,” we echo. I force a smile, as I think of how contradictory the two words are, acquaintances always seeming as if they should be brand-new, either progressing to full-on friendship or falling back into obscurity. Then again, I can’t think of a more accurate categorization—so I give her a pass as we all sip our wine. An awkward lull follows, Sophie speaking first.
“So you’re a lawyer?” She looks at Meredith.
“Yes,” Meredith says. “Though I just took a sabbatical.”
I cringe at the term, wondering why she didn’t call it a “leave of absence” like she has before, as Sophie turns to me. “And you’re a teacher?” she asks.
“Yes, I teach the first grade. How did you know that? From Facebook?”
Sophie shakes her head and says, “No. Your mum told me…the last time she wrote….”
“And when was that?” I ask, uncertain of the timing or frequency of their communication, and wondering if Mom’s been in touch about a December visit.
“Oh, several years back,” she says. “Maybe two thousand ten or eleven…I can’t recall exactly. How is she doing?” Sophie’s brow furrows with concern.
“She’s fine,” I say. “She got her real estate license.”
“Mmm,” Sophie says, a British response that I’ve never been able to decipher. Does it mean “Oh, really?” or “Tell me more” or “I already knew that”?
“And I guess you heard our parents got a divorce?” I say.
Sophie drops her eyes, as she says yes, she knew that. “I’m so sorry,” she adds.