Chapter 10: Everything She Asked For
We drove to Boston on a Wednesday.
Sophie sat in the back seat with her blanket pulled around her shoulders and her book open on her lap, though she wasn't reading it.
She watched the highway through the window with an expression I had come to recognize — not fear, but a kind of serious, clear-eyed attention, as if she was memorizing things.
"Daniel," she said, somewhere past the state line.
"Yeah."
"Is the trial going to work?"
I glanced at Rebecca.
She was looking straight ahead.
"The doctors think it has a strong chance," I said.
"That's why we're going."
"But you don't know for certain."
"No.
We don't know for certain."
Sophie was quiet for a moment.
"That's okay," she said.
"I just wanted you to tell me the truth."
"Always," I said.
She went back to watching the highway.
The trial coordinator in Boston was a brisk, kind woman named Dr.
Anand who had clearly explained this process to many families and had not lost her patience for it.
She walked us through everything — the schedule, the monitoring, the response indicators they would be watching for.
Sophie asked three questions, all of them specific, and Dr.
Anand answered each one directly and without softening anything.
"You're a very precise thinker," Dr.
Anand told her.
"My mom says I get it from my dad," Sophie said.
Rebecca looked at the floor.
I looked at the wall.
Dr.
Anand moved on to the next page of the intake form.
The first treatment was scheduled for the following Monday.
We stayed in Boston that night — a hotel near the hospital, two rooms, Sophie insisting that her room have a window that faced the city because she wanted to see the lights.
She got her window.
She stood at it for a long time before she went to sleep.
I sat with Rebecca in the small hotel corridor between our rooms after Sophie was settled.
We sat on the floor with our backs against the wall because there were no chairs, and Rebecca laughed at that — a real laugh, surprised out of her — and it was the best sound I had heard in weeks.
"She asked me something last night," Rebecca said.
"Before we left."
"What did she ask?"
"She asked if you were going to be her dad.
Officially." Rebecca looked at her hands.
"I told her that was a conversation for you and me to have."
"It is," I said.
"So I'm having it."
I looked at her.
"What do you want, Rebecca?
Not what Sophie wants.
Not what I want.
What do you want?"
She thought about it for a long moment.
"I want her to have her father.
For however long she has." She paused.
"And I want — I think I want to stop being afraid of you.
Of what you might think of me.
Of what I took from both of you."
"I'm not angry at you."
"I know.
That almost makes it harder."
I reached over and took her hand.
She didn't pull away.
We sat like that for a while in the quiet corridor.
"I'm going to file for legal recognition," I said.
"As her father.
Carol can handle it.
It won't take long given the test results."
Rebecca nodded.
"And I want to be here.
Through the trial.
Through whatever comes after." I paused.
"All of it.
Whatever that looks like."
She turned to look at me.
Her eyes were steady now, no tears, just that same clear expression she'd had at the journalist's table — someone who had decided something and was no longer afraid of it.
May you like
"Okay," she said.
That was enough.
