Chapter 2 - The Four Calls I Never Answered
Oncology.
I had heard that word hundreds of times in my life.
I had seen it printed on hospital directories.
I had heard people use it in conversations about someone else’s father, someone else’s wife, someone else’s child.
But until that moment, I had never understood how one word could erase every other sound in a hallway.
The nurse stood beside Sophie with one hand resting lightly on the IV pole.
Sophie kept her eyes closed.
I stared at her.
My mind rejected what I had heard.
There had to be another explanation.
Maybe she was seeing someone in oncology for testing.
Maybe they were ruling something out.
Maybe this was one of those situations where fear arrived before facts and eventually turned out to be nothing.
I had spent years teaching soldiers not to react to assumptions.
Get the facts.
Assess the threat.
Then act.
But I wasn’t Colonel Parker in that hallway.
I was a man looking at the woman he still loved and realizing she might be seriously ill.
“Sophie.”
She opened her eyes.
I saw embarrassment there.
That nearly broke me.
She was embarrassed that I had found her sick.
“Go home, Ethan.”
The nurse looked between us.
“Are you family?”
I opened my mouth.
Sophie answered first.
“No.”
That one word hurt more than it should have.
Then she added quietly,
“He’s my ex-husband.”
The nurse’s expression changed.
Not judgment.
Just understanding.
“I see.”
I looked at Sophie.
“What did they find?”
She rubbed her fingers over the bracelet again.
“Ethan.”
“Please.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Stand here pretending the last two months didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You ignored me.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“I know.”
“I called four times.”
“I know.”
“I left messages.”
“I know.”
Her eyes flashed.
“No, you don’t.”
She finally looked directly at me.
“If you knew, you would have listened to them.”
There was nothing I could say.
Because she was right.
The nurse stepped away slightly, giving us space.
I lowered my voice.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
Sophie shook her head.
“You don’t get to walk back into my life because you accidentally took the wrong hallway.”
The words were sharp.
But beneath them, I heard something worse.
Fear.
She was terrified.
And she was trying to protect herself from needing me.
I recognized the behavior because it was exactly what I had done to her.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to let me understand.”
“Why?”
“Because I still care about you.”
Her lips trembled.
She looked away before I could see what that sentence did to her.
The nurse touched Sophie’s shoulder.
“They’re ready.”
Sophie nodded.
Then she slowly pushed herself upright.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the floor.
She gasped.
For one second, her entire body rested against mine.
She felt impossibly light.
Too light.
I wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Sophie.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Let go.”
“You almost fell.”
“I said let go.”
I released her immediately.
She grabbed the IV pole.
The nurse moved to support her.
Sophie took one step.
Then another.
I followed.
She looked over her shoulder.
“Ethan.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
For the first time, something almost familiar crossed her face.
Annoyance.
Real annoyance.
It was the same expression she used to give me when I refused to ask for directions.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Mostly by me.”
“I remember.”
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
Then the oncology doors opened.
And the moment disappeared.
The consultation room was smaller than I expected.
There was a desk.
Three chairs.
A computer monitor.
A box of tissues.
I hated the tissue box immediately.
Every room where our lives had fallen apart seemed to contain one.
A woman in a white coat entered a few minutes later.
She looked to be in her early forties.
Her badge read DR. MAYA CHEN.
“Sophie.”
Then she saw me.
Sophie folded her hands together.
“This is Ethan.”
Dr. Chen paused.
“Your former husband?”
Sophie nodded.
The doctor looked at her carefully.
“Do you want him here?”
I held my breath.
Sophie stared at the floor.
A full five seconds passed.
Then she whispered,
“He can stay.”
I sat beside her.
Not too close.
Dr. Chen opened the file.
“I know today has been difficult.”
Sophie gave a humorless laugh.
“That’s one word for it.”
Dr. Chen’s expression softened.
Then she became serious.
“The biopsy confirms Hodgkin lymphoma.”
Everything inside me went quiet.
I knew the word lymphoma.
I knew what cancer meant.
But there was a strange difference between understanding a word and hearing it connected to Sophie’s name.
I looked at her.
She didn’t look back.
Dr. Chen continued.
“The imaging shows involvement in several lymph node regions, including the chest.”
“What stage?”
The question came out automatically.
Dr. Chen glanced at me.
“We’re classifying it as stage three.”
My hands tightened together.
Stage three.
I heard explosions in my memory.
Rotor blades.
Gunfire.
Radio static.
But none of those sounds scared me the way those two words did.
“How bad?”
Sophie finally turned toward me.
“Ethan.”
“I need to know.”
Dr. Chen remained calm.
“Hodgkin lymphoma is serious, but it is also one of the cancers we often treat very successfully, even at advanced stages.”
Often.
Not always.
I hated that word too.
“What’s the treatment?”
“Chemotherapy.”
“When?”
Sophie stared at her hands.
Dr. Chen answered.
“Today.”
I looked at Sophie again.
“You already started?”
“This is my second cycle.”
The room tilted.
“Second?”
Sophie’s face stayed blank.
I counted backward.
Our divorce.
The missed calls.
Her disappearing.
The haircut.
“You’ve been doing this alone?”
She didn’t answer.
Dr. Chen did not rescue either of us.
I leaned closer.
“Who brings you home?”
“I use a ride service.”
“After chemotherapy?”
“I manage.”
“Who stays with you?”
“No one.”
My chest tightened.
“Sophie.”
“Don’t.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Arizona.”
“Does she know?”
“Yes.”
“And she isn’t here?”
“She offered.”
“Then why—”
“Because I said no.”
I stared at her.
Of course she had.
Because Sophie and I had spent years learning the same terrible skill.
We had both become experts at suffering alone.
Dr. Chen explained the treatment plan.
Six cycles.
Scans after several rounds.
Adjustments depending on response.
Possible complications.
Nausea.
Fatigue.
Infection risk.
Hair loss.
Fertility concerns.
That last phrase made Sophie flinch.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
I wondered whether Dr. Chen did too.
My throat tightened.
After two miscarriages, fertility wasn’t a clinical word.
It was a graveyard.
Dr. Chen closed the folder.
“We’re going to take this one stage at a time.”
I almost laughed.
That was military language.
One objective at a time.
One day at a time.
One battle at a time.
Except this wasn’t my battle.
That was the part I couldn’t accept.
The infusion room had twelve recliners separated by curtains.
Some patients slept.
Some watched television.
Some talked with relatives.
Sophie sat alone.
I pulled a chair beside her.
She looked at me.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“You have work.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You can’t just disappear from your job.”
“I’m not disappearing.”
“Ethan.”
“I said I’ll handle it.”
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then turned toward the window.
The nurse connected another bag to her IV.
I watched every movement.
The tubing.
The gloves.
The labels.
The clear fluid.
I wanted to memorize everything because information made me feel less helpless.
Two hours later, Sophie became nauseated.
She tried to hide it.
Of course she did.
I held the plastic basin when she finally vomited.
She looked humiliated.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.”
“No.”
She glared at me weakly.
“You always were stubborn.”
“So were you.”
“I had reasons.”
“So did I.”
“No.”
Her voice became quiet.
“You had excuses.”
That landed exactly where she intended.
I looked down.
“You’re right.”
She blinked.
The old Ethan would have defended himself.
Maybe that surprised her.
“I was scared.”
She watched me.
“I know.”
“I thought if I stayed busy enough, I wouldn’t have to feel what happened.”
“I know that too.”
“I didn’t understand what that was doing to you.”
“Yes, you did.”
I looked at her.
She wasn’t angry.
That made it worse.
“You knew I was drowning.”
My throat tightened.
“You just decided not to look.”
I had no defense.
So I didn’t make one.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared at the IV.
“I needed you.”
Those three words nearly destroyed me.
“I know.”
“No.”
Her eyes filled.
“You know now.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I needed you then.”
I moved my hand toward hers.
This time, I stopped halfway.
Sophie looked at it.
Then, slowly, she placed her fingers in mine.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
It wasn’t reconciliation.
It was simply two exhausted people holding on to something familiar.
For the next hour, neither of us spoke.
When the infusion finally ended, Sophie could barely stand.
I drove her home.
She protested twice.
I ignored her both times.
Her apartment was fifteen minutes from the hospital.
It was a one-bedroom unit above a bakery.
I followed her upstairs carrying the small bag the nurse had given her.
The apartment surprised me.
There were almost no decorations.
No photographs.
No flowers.
No color.
It looked temporary.
Like she had never intended to stay long.
On the kitchen counter sat prescription bottles and stacks of medical paperwork.
I noticed a folder marked PAYMENT PLAN.
Sophie saw me looking.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Start trying to fix things with money.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was thinking you shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”
“I’ve been alone for months.”
I closed my eyes.
“I deserved that.”
“No.”
She leaned against the counter.
“You deserved to hear it.”
That difference mattered.
She walked toward the couch.
Halfway there, she stumbled.
I caught her again.
This time, she didn’t tell me to let go.
I helped her lie down.
She looked exhausted.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Water.”
I brought a glass.
She drank two sips.
Then closed her eyes.
I stood there awkwardly.
I had once known every inch of this woman.
Now I didn’t know whether I was allowed to sit on her couch.
“Ethan.”
I looked at her.
“You can go.”
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
She opened her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because I should have stayed before.”
Her expression changed.
Pain passed across it.
Then something softer.
But she didn’t answer.
Twenty minutes later, she was asleep.
I covered her with a blanket.
On the coffee table, her phone buzzed.
I didn’t touch it.
Then I saw the screen.
ST. VINCENT PATIENT SERVICES.
Underneath the notification was something else.
A reminder.
EMERGENCY CONTACT UPDATE REQUIRED.
I looked away.
It wasn’t my business.
Then Sophie began coughing.
She woke.
Her eyes found me immediately.
“You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
She stared at me as though she couldn’t decide whether that made her angry or relieved.
Then her phone buzzed again.
She picked it up.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
“What?”
I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Sophie.”
She sighed.
“They keep telling me to update my emergency contact.”
“Who is it?”
She didn’t answer.
I knew before she said it.
“Me?”
Her eyes filled again.
“I never changed it.”
I sat down slowly.
“Why?”
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she whispered,
“Because when they asked who I wanted called if something happened to me, your name was still the only one I could think of.”
I couldn’t breathe.
But before I could answer, her phone rang.
Dr. Chen.
Sophie picked it up.
“Hello?”
Her face changed almost immediately.
She sat upright.
I watched the blood drain from her cheeks.
“What do you mean the scan changed?”
Silence.
Then Sophie gripped the phone tighter.
“Dr. Chen, what did you find?”
She listened.
And then she looked directly at me.
Fear returned to her eyes.
The kind of fear I had seen in the hospital hallway.
Only this time, it was worse.
Much worse.
Because whatever Dr. Chen was saying had not been part of the plan.
May you like
And Sophie whispered,
“You think it’s in my bone marrow?”
