Chapter 11 - The Fear That Came Back First
The cancer had not returned.
The bloodwork abnormality was temporary.
A viral infection.
Nothing more.
But the forty-eight hours before we knew that taught us something remission had not.
Cancer could leave the body and still live inside the mind.
Sophie stopped sleeping.
I became obsessed with checking her temperature.
She caught me watching her neck for swollen lymph nodes.
“Stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re visually examining me.”
“I’m looking at you.”
“You’re looking at my lymph nodes.”
“I happen to find them attractive.”
She stared.
“That is the worst flirtation attempt in American history.”
I smiled.
She didn’t.
Then I understood.
She was afraid too.
We sat at the kitchen table.
“Every time the phone rings, I think it’s back.”
She whispered.
“Me too.”
“I thought remission would make me normal.”
“What does normal mean?”
“I don’t know.”
She rubbed her chest.
“Not feeling like my body is a bomb with an unknown timer.”
I took her hand.
“We should tell Ortiz.”
“You mean Miles.”
“Both.”
“You want more therapy?”
“No.”
She laughed.
“I knew it.”
“I want less terror.”
That was enough.
We continued therapy.
Not because our marriage was broken.
We weren’t married.
Not yet.
But because rebuilding required skills neither of us had learned.
Months passed.
Then came our one-year mark since remission.
Dr. Chen smiled after reviewing the scan.
“Still clear.”
Sophie cried.
So did I.
In the parking garage, she stopped beside the car.
“One year.”
“One year.”
She looked at me.
“Take me somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Surprise me.”
I drove west.
Two hours later, we reached a small mountain cabin near Buena Vista.
I had reserved it weeks earlier.
Sophie stared.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“What if the scan was bad?”
“I would’ve canceled.”
She looked at me.
“You were that confident?”
“No.”
I opened her door.
“I was hopeful.”
That word mattered.
Hope used to terrify us.
Now we were learning to risk it again.
The cabin overlooked the mountains.
Snow still covered the peaks.
We cooked dinner badly.
Played cards.
Argued about rules.
Sophie cheated.
She denied it.
That night, we sat beside the fireplace.
She rested against me.
“Ethan.”
“Yes?”
“Why haven’t you asked me to marry you again?”
I almost inhaled my drink.
She laughed.
“That face.”
“You told me not to pressure you.”
“I did.”
“You said you weren’t ready.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Are you?”
She stared at the fire.
“I don’t know.”
I waited.
“Then why ask?”
“Because I wanted to know if you were afraid.”
I considered lying.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I’m terrified.”
That made her smile.
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because so am I.”
I took her hand.
“I bought a ring.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
“Months ago.”
“Where is it?”
“Not here.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t plan to ask.”
She slapped my arm.
“You bought a ring and brought me to a mountain cabin and didn’t bring the ring?”
“I was trying not to pressure you.”
“That is aggressively considerate.”
I laughed.
She looked at me.
Then became serious.
“What does it look like?”
“Simple.”
“Diamond?”
“Yes.”
“Big?”
“Reasonable.”
“That means expensive.”
“I’m a colonel.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re good with money.”
“I married you once.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“That sounded like an insult.”
“It wasn’t.”
She smiled.
For a long time, we sat quietly.
Then Sophie whispered,
“I’m ready to see it.”
My heart stopped.
“Tonight?”
“No.”
She rested her head on my shoulder.
“When we get home.”
We drove back the next afternoon.
The ring was in my apartment.
I had kept the lease longer than necessary.
Maybe part of me needed an escape hatch.
Sophie noticed the nearly empty rooms.
“You haven’t ended the lease.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I looked around.
“I don’t know.”
She gave me the expression.
“Fine.”
I sighed.
“Because moving back felt good.”
“And?”
“And I was afraid we’d fail.”
Her face softened.
“So you kept somewhere to run.”
“Yes.”
Sophie walked toward the bedroom.
“Where’s the ring?”
I stared.
“That’s your response?”
“No.”
She turned.
“My response is end the lease.”
My chest tightened.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“But do it anyway.”
I did.
Then I retrieved the ring.
Small velvet box.
My hands shook.
Sophie sat on the couch.
I opened it.
She stared.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You hate it?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“Shut up.”
I smiled.
Then closed the box.
She frowned.
“What are you doing?”
“You said you wanted to see it.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t say you wanted a proposal.”
She stared.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m evolving slowly.”
She laughed.
Then kissed me.
I did not propose.
Not that night.
Three weeks later, Sophie did.
Not with a ring.
Not on one knee.
We were at the grocery store.
I was arguing that we did not need four types of cheese.
She put a bag of shredded cheddar into the cart.
“Marry me.”
I froze.
An elderly woman beside us looked over.
“What?”
I asked.
Sophie picked up mozzarella.
“You heard me.”
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“You spent years criticizing unromantic men.”
“I have cancer trauma.”
“You are currently in remission.”
“Still counts.”
I stared at her.
She tried not to smile.
Then I realized she was shaking.
She was terrified.
I stepped closer.
“Ask again.”
Her eyes filled.
“Ethan Parker.”
“Yes?”
“Would you be willing to make the extremely questionable decision to marry me again?”
I kissed her in the middle of the dairy aisle.
The elderly woman applauded.
A teenager recorded us.
I didn’t care.
“Yes.”
I whispered.
“Yes.”
We planned a small wedding.
No ballroom.
No military ceremony.
No elaborate guest list.
Backyard.
Family.
Friends.
Three aspen trees.
Sophie chose a simple dress.
I wore a suit.
Not my uniform.
“This is about us.”
She said.
I agreed.
Two days before the wedding, Sophie received a certified letter.
She opened it at the kitchen table.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
I asked.
She handed it to me.
It was from the fertility clinic.
A notice about stored genetic samples from our earlier evaluation.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
We called.
The clinic transferred us twice.
Finally, a genetic counselor came on the line.
She explained that material retained from our second miscarriage had been preserved for testing.
Newer analysis had been completed after Sophie’s chromosomal diagnosis.
My stomach tightened.
“What did it show?”
The counselor paused.
“The pregnancy did have an unbalanced chromosomal arrangement.”
Sophie closed her eyes.
Confirmation.
The second loss had an answer.
But the counselor continued.
“There’s something else.”
I looked at Sophie.
“What?”
“The sample also showed a second genetic profile.”
I frowned.
“Contamination?”
“That was our first assumption.”
The counselor sounded careful.
“But repeat analysis suggests otherwise.”
Sophie’s face went white.
“What are you saying?”
The counselor took a breath.
“It appears that pregnancy may originally have been twins.”
Everything stopped.
Twins.
One pregnancy.
Two babies.
May you like
We had lost more than we knew.
And two days before our second wedding, the past opened another door.
