Chapter 7 - The Apartment She Never Wanted Me to See
The first round of treatment began two days later.
Sophie hated every second of being watched.
She hated nurses asking about nausea.
She hated me asking whether she needed water.
She especially hated when I stood every time she stood.
“If you follow me into the bathroom, I will have security remove you.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You leaned forward.”
“I moved my foot.”
“You were preparing.”
“Preparing for what?”
“To hover.”
I almost smiled.
It was the most Sophie had sounded like Sophie in months.
After four days, Dr. Brooks allowed her to go home between treatments.
I expected her to give me the address of the apartment she had rented after the divorce.
She didn't.
“I can drive myself.”
“You're exhausted.”
“I have a car.”
“You're on medication.”
“I know.”
“Then I'm driving.”
She glared.
I waited.
Finally, she gave me an address.
The building was twenty minutes from the hospital.
Old brick.
Narrow parking lot.
Three floors.
No elevator.
I stared up at the stairs.
“You've been climbing those?”
“Usually.”
“Usually?”
“Sometimes I sit halfway.”
My jaw tightened.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Do the angry jaw thing.”
“I'm not angry at you.”
“You're always angry at yourself now.”
She was learning me again.
Or maybe she had never forgotten.
Her apartment was on the third floor.
It had one bedroom.
One couch.
A folding table.
Two lamps.
Almost nothing on the walls.
I stopped in the doorway.
“This is where you've been living?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the furniture from the house?”
“I sold some.”
“The bedroom set?”
“Sold.”
“The dining table?”
“Sold.”
“The piano?”
She hesitated.
My stomach dropped.
“Sophie.”
“I needed the money.”
That piano had belonged to her mother.
I turned away because I didn't want her to see my face.
“You should have called me.”
She set her bag down.
“We've covered that.”
I looked around.
There was a stack of medical bills on the counter.
Beside them sat a framed photograph.
Our wedding photograph.
I walked toward it.
Sophie quickly stepped between me and the counter.
“Don't.”
I stopped.
“You kept one.”
She looked embarrassed.
“Apparently I'm bad at divorce.”
My throat tightened.
Then I noticed something else.
A small square of paper tucked into the corner of the frame.
Pale gray.
Morning Mist.
The nursery color.
I stared.
Sophie followed my eyes.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, she reached for the paint sample.
“I found it in my coat pocket when I moved.”
“You kept it.”
“I couldn't throw it away.”
I looked at her.
Neither could I.
May you like
Because the next morning, I went back to the house we had shared.
And behind an old box in the garage, I found something Sophie had never known I kept.
