Page 4 of Trying Sophie

I sighed wearily, not bothering to disguise my fatigue. “Yes, mom. I know exactly what you mean.”

I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder and bent down to remove my shiny, black high heels. Every time I wore them I vowed it would be the last, but it was hard to toss them out when they were just so damn pretty. And I knew they made my calves look spectacular.

“Anyway,” my mom continued, ignoring the uncomfortable pause in conversation, “I have something important to discuss with you so I hope this is a good time.”

Straightening, I padded over to the refrigerator and scanned the contents, looking for my stash of specialty U.K. chocolate. Once Samuel had left me high and dry, I hadn’t wanted to stick around the restaurant for dessert. And damn him, dessert was my favorite meal. All day I’d been looking forward to diving into a piece of thick, moist chocolate cake, but now a few bites of chocolate bar would have to suffice. Biting into it, I closed my eyes and silently moaned as the milk chocolate laced with Earl Grey tea melted in my mouth.

“Sure, as good a time as any,” I responded before I’d swallowed the sweet treat.

“Are you talking with your mouth full? How many times do I have to tell you how disgusting that is?”

The chocolate suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth and I wished I’d waited to indulge in my secret vice until after I’d hung up the phone. Trying to ignore my mom’s biting question I plopped down on the sofa. The movement wasn’t graceful, and I was pretty sure I’d ripped the seam of my dress, but somehow I couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Okay mom, here’s the deal. You have exactly 30 seconds to tell me what’s so important that you’re calling on a random Wednesday night instead of waiting for our scheduled Sunday call. I’ve had a shitty night and I really don’t want to be lectured by the Chief of the Propriety Police.”

“Fine, since we’re eschewing any semblance of polite small talk, I’ll just come right out and say it. I need you to go to Ireland to help your grandmother.”

The surprising words sent a slither of dread down my spine. I loved my grandparents but it had been years since I’d visited them. In fact, I’d only been back to Ballycurra twice since I’d moved home at ten years old, the last time being when I was 21 and then only for a couple of days on an extended layover on my way London.

Over the years the majority of our visits had occurred at my step-dad Geoffrey’s large colonial home in an affluent, leafy suburb outside of Boston. It was common knowledge—and yet something the family absolutely refused to discuss—that my mom staunchly refused to go back to Ireland for any reason whatsoever. Instead of fighting about it though, my grandparents said it was easier for them to make the trip out to America. My mom gamely accepted their acquiescence, since—as she put it—her and Geoffrey’s home was much more comfortable than us flying across the Atlantic to stay in the apartment above Fitzgerald’s Pub. Even when a bed and breakfast had opened up just outside Ballycurra a few years ago to rave reviews on TripAdvisor, mom still refused to visit.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, dreading her response.

“I didn’t want to have to tell you like this, but your grandfather had a heart attack.”

“Is he okay?” I shrieked into the phone as my own heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t until a few beats later that I realized she’d tossed the statement out so blithely. “And how can you be so cavalier about it?”

“How will me saying it any other way change the fact that it happened?” she asked, without a note of chagrin.

“You could at least show some sort of emotion.”

“Just because I’m not sitting here crying about it doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected me, Sophie Monroe Newport, and I’ll not have you lecturing me about how I’m handling my father’s health.”

The quick outburst was probably the most emotion I’d heard my mom muster in over a year and the fact that she’d raised her voice at all was telling. She was upset, sure, but her pride was more important.

“I’m sorry mom. I know it must be tough for you. When did it happen?”

When she hesitated to answer, I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Last month.”

“What?! Gramps had a heart attack a month ago and you’re just now getting around to telling me? How could you keep something like that a secret?”

I felt the hot sting of tears well in my eyes and then my throat seized up with my effort not to cry. I’d always known my mother was a cold woman but this took the cake.

“He’s fine Sophie. It was a minor heart attack. In fact, they weren’t even sure it was a heart attack until they ran more tests. Your grandpa didn’t even want to go to the hospital. He swore up and down it was just a bad case of indigestion.”

I could picture the fight he must have put up when they tried to get him in the ambulance. He hated doctors, but more than that, he hated anyone making a fuss over him. Based on my other grandfather’s own heart attack a few years prior, I had some idea of what the recovery period looked like. Colm Fitzgerald would be miserable being fawned over, not being able to keep to his routine.

“You’re sure he’s okay?”

“The doctor himself assured me he’d be fine. He has to give up his pipe, cut back on drinking, eat healthier, increase his level of activity, and go on cholesterol medication, but if he sticks to the plan we’ll have many more years with him.”

I felt the tension that had taken root in my shoulders leave my body in a rush. My gramps would be okay. I’d get to see him again.

But …

“Why can’t you go?”

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