For some inexplicable reason, I feel the urge to make it worse. “Yeah. Mom couldn’t deal with Dad’s drinking. He was on the wagon until…everything fell apart.”
“Okay, then,” Meredith says in a brisk, upbeat voice. “Enough of that.”
I smile, then say to no one in particular, “Okay. Meredith says enough of that.”
“I just think we can find more cheerful things to discuss,” Meredith says under her breath.
I raise my brows, thinking, Oh? Like the last time we all saw each other, at Daniel’s funeral, perhaps?
“Anyway. She sends her best,” Meredith says, which I’m pretty sure is a lie, unless she happened to talk to Mom this afternoon while I was napping.
“Tell her I said hello, too.” Sophie smiles and nods, but can’t mask her pained, pitying look. I know it well—it was the way so many people looked at me for so long after the accident—and feel a rush of annoyance, though I know it’s not fair. How else do I expect her to look right now? And would I really want her not to feel pity?
Silently granting that she is in a lose-lose situation, I pluck a piece of ropy Serrano ham from her appetizer spread, pop it into my mouth, and change the subject. “So?” I say, still chewing. “Are you married, Sophie?”
Meredith interjects with a high, nervous laugh, then says, “Well. That’s a little direct.”
“Oh. It’s fine,” Sophie says, as I recall one of her letters to Mom about a year after Daniel’s death. It was several pages long, both front and back, and written in the most beautiful handwriting, covering every subject imaginable—from her family to her residency to her travels. But there was not one single mention of her romantic situation, only an awkward paragraph about how she still thought of Daniel “every single day.” I remember folding it back up and thinking this should be a given, hardly worth mentioning—and that this seemed to be a sign that she was seeing someone.
In any event, she seems perfectly comfortable with my question now. “I’m actually divorced. But we had a good run…almost ten years.”
“I’m sorry,” Meredith says, bowing her head.
At least he didn’t die, I think.
“Thank you,” Sophie says. “It was hard…but I’m in a good place now.”
I imagine her saying these same words to her ex-husband about Daniel and feel another irrational wave of resentment at just how adept she is at getting over big wounds.
“Do you have kids?” Meredith asks.
“Yes,” Sophie says, smiling. “I have a seven-year-old son. Calvin.”
“Oh, yes. I think I saw him on your Facebook page.”
She smiles, nods, and says, “Yes. That’s him.”
“That’s a cute name,” Meredith says, as I think that I can’t picture my brother going for a name like Calvin. But frankly, I can’t picture Daniel with Sophie at all anymore. Even when I try to adjust his age in my mind—a difficult thing to do—I just don’t see them together as she is now.
“Thank you. He’s a sweet boy,” Sophie says, perking up the way parents so often do when the subject turns to their kids. “Do you have children?”
“I have a daughter. Harper. She’s four,” Meredith replies, a look of pride flickering across her face.
“Oh. That’s a great age,” Sophie says.
Meredith nods her agreement, then says, “Josie’s planning on having a baby soon, too….”
I look at her, surprised, as Sophie asks me, “Oh? Are you pregnant?”
“No,” I say. “I’m planning to do it via donor insemination…soon.”
Sophie cocks her head to the side, giving me a look that can only be interpreted as one of respect. “That’s marvelous. Good for you,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m really excited.”
“You should be,” she says, and as we segue into a lively conversation about pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood, I wonder how long it will be before one of us finally brings up Daniel.
—
NEARLY AN HOUR later, we are seated in a cozy corner booth at Cafe Luxembourg, a bustling bistro where Sophie seems to be a regular. She orders another bottle of wine, which I hope will facilitate a deeper conversation. But by the time our entrées arrive at the table, Daniel’s name still has yet to be uttered. I decide that I can’t wait another moment. Searching for my opening, I find it when Meredith compliments Sophie’s wine selection.
“I’m glad you like it,” she replies. “I actually don’t know much about wine, but I’ve been to this particular vineyard.”
“You don’t know much about wine? That’s surprising….Daniel used to brag about how worldly you were….” I say, thinking that wine selection seems to fall squarely into that purview.
She smiles, then says, “I think he confused my accent with worldliness. I was actually quite green when I met Daniel.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling oddly jubilant that I finally got her to say his name.
“I was,” she insists.