As our drives logged multiple hours and hundreds of miles, I felt an unmistakable comfort in her presence. No need to hide anything—a considerable amount of psychical weight had lifted off my shoulders.
“I think I’ve found my true calling,” she revealed while we carted north through the Central Valley one weekend on I-5. “Finding wayward men to help.”
“I have to say you do take care of me. I don’t understand why some guy didn’t swoop you up long ago.”
“It probably could’ve happened. I was just waiting for some neurotic jerk to come along.”
I stiffened, weighing the accuracy of her statement. I looked at Sophia and she started laughing, flushing away my apprehension. It could have been her old-world Greek roots that made her so tough yet nurturing, or a bit of Hispanic blended in from a bygone generation. My parents came to know of Sophia as an acquaintance of mine in the weeks that followed, but I never discussed our budding accord. Given my past track record, I tried to keep our relationship as low profile as I could—especially since I was engaged to Pamela only a short time ago.
With each succeeding weekend, my panic symptoms gradually abated. Sophia herself encountered only one complication during a visit to Devils Postpile on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada near Mammoth Mountain, a popular skiing destination for people from Southern California. As we made our way up the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada above the Owens Valley on U.S Highway 395, Sophia doubled over in pain suddenly.
“My stomach really hurts,” she grunted.
“Let me take you to a hospital,” I said. Panic tried to rear its head but was held at bay by the crisis at hand.
“No, that’s okay. But do you mind if we delay going to Devils Postpile for a few hours? Maybe we can rest at a hotel.”
“Of course not. We can even go back home. We’re about six hours away.”
“No, just go to a hotel. I’ll be fine in a while.”
I turned the car around and headed back to the town of Bishop. I found an old ranch-style motel just off the highway. As soon as we got into the room, Sophia dashed to the bathroom. “I’ve got to throw up,” she said while closing the door.
I went to an all-night convenience store and bought two small cartons of orange juice and a pack of energy bars. During the drive, my concern for her trumped any possible agoraphobia that tended to swirl in my thoughts. It just wasn’t there. No initial pumping heartbeat, no skewed perception of being in reality, no fear of being detached. When I returned to the room, Sophia was stretched out across the bed.
“My stomach feels swollen. And it hurts. Maybe it’s food poisoning.”
“Rest, Honey. We don’t have to go to Devils Postpile.”
“We will go,” Sophia insisted in a voice that was overtly labored. “Just give me a few hours and I’ll be ready.”
“We’ll see. I have some orange juice and snacks if you want any.”
“I’ll take some juice,” she said.
I cupped my hand behind her head and tipped the juice carton to her mouth. Her straight hair slipped softly in my palm as she situated her head to take the first sip. After tending to her few sips, I removed my clothing and threw my pants and shirt next to the TV before I snuggled next to her on the bed.
* * * *
“I’m ready, let’s go.” Sophia’s voice brought me out of a deep sleep.
My eyes opened and I saw unfamiliar surroundings. It took a second to remember we were in a cheap motel in Bishop.
“You’re ready to go where?”
“To Devils Postpile. Come on, get up.”
“How long did we sleep?”
“About five hours. But we need to get going.”
I slid out of bed and looked around the room for my clothes. Sometime during my slumber, Sophia had neatly folded and placed them on the chair by the front window.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“I’m fine. Get some clothes on that sexy body of yours.”
While I slipped my clothes on, Sophia went outside and stood by the car. As I went out the hotel door, she was wrapping her red bandana around her hair. I froze for a moment to admire her before approaching the car. We jumped in and drove off without bothering to check out of the place.
Sophia sat quietly while we traversed up the mountain on Route 395 to Devils Postpile. The last seven miles of the drive was on a narrow, bumpy road off the main highway. Although Sophia seemed run down, her stoic will to conclude the trip was stronger than her fatigue and lingering pain.
Devils Postpile was a spectacular formation of sixty-foot high columnar basalt created from lava flow that once filled the mountain valley. We hiked up to the towering columns of Devils Postpile with the serene fluid flow of the nearby San Joaquin River serving as a soothing audible background setting. We found another trail leading to the top of the formation. Sophia labored as we climbed the steep incline. She never complained, never stopped. Once there, we stood and marveled at the basalt columns. Large columnar pieces had fallen below the formation, giving the illusion of standing above ancient Greek ruins. I stared at the natural wonder and couldn’t help feeling a pang of contentment from another successful trip, though I was concerned about Sophia’s stomachache. She didn’t let on that it was still hurting, but I could see soreness in her posture—a slight hunch coupled with a tentative stride.
Sophia slept most of the way on the drive home. I was once again on a desolate high desert road with miles separating small towns. There was no discomfort on the drive, as if I had forgotten all the hours that I had spent on isolated highways slipping into mental breakdowns. Though Sophia was next to me, my confidence had grown to the point of believing I could actually be on the drive alone and suffer no panic. The past started to seem no longer relevant as the present had incremental breakthroughs of optimism. The brain works in strange ways: Conditionable, yet still a tough customer.
When we arrived at the apartment late that evening, Sophia hugged me tightly as we walked in the door.
“You took good care of me when I was sick,” she said.
The thought hadn’t entered my mind prior, but it gave me a tinge of pride being able to help her for even a short moment of time, when the relationship had been, since the beginning, her taking care of me. As Sophia gave me one last tight squeeze to end the hug, I came to recognize that ours was a peculiar union, the sheltered beauty hooking up with a philandering agoraphobe—an odd couple that seemed to fit in its own trivial way.
Though flying was still something I could not even think of doing, the heartache of staying on the ground seemed to ebb as I concentrated more on my immediate traveling victories. I even called Dr. Crouch’s office to cancel future appointments. Sophia seemed to do more for me than any doctor I’d ever consulted. My panic along with the myriad of offshoot ailments were almost becoming manageable. The cycle of depression had been broken. After leaving the message with Dr. Crouch’s secretary, I knew he wouldn’t call me back. He was now just the guy who gave me a tip on body mulch and filled prescriptions that I no longer took. I wouldn’t change his life or schedule at all, he’d just fill my appointment slot with the next hapless patient who came along˗˗and there were always new poor suckers evolving daily.
22. The Fall
“Where are we going this weekend?” Sophia rolled over and asked as I woke up to greet an August Thursday morning.
“Catalina Island,” I said.
“A boat? You think you can handle that?”
“I love boats, it’s being detached from land that gets me. But no problem, I can handle the ferry ride. It’s what, maybe two hours? Piece of cake.”
Sophia gave me a kiss, then pulled back in surprise. “It’s our seventieth night together,” she exclaimed.
“It is?” I rotated my head, scanning the bedroom. “Does that mean you’re going to gather your clothes and leave?”<
br />
She nodded her head casually. “No, I think I’ll stick around.”
“That’s cause for a little celebration.”
With a mischievous grin, I wiggled my body under the silky bed sheet to inspect her naked flesh. Her legs slid open wide enough for me to nuzzle myself between, working my way to the small soft tuft of shiny dark hair between her legs.
Her hips swayed as my tongue moved across her. I stroked my hands over her front, surrounding her bellybutton with my fingers. My kneading hands registered her stomach jutting outward in an exaggerated slope. The rise began two inches below her belly button, cresting at the middle of her abdomen.
As I continued enjoying Sophia, I couldn’t help but direct my eyes at her protruding stomach as her back arched up and down. I pushed my hands over the area again, noticing it was firm, almost rock hard. It felt like there was part of an upside-down bowl affixed under her skin.
I had detected a slight bloat to her stomach when she was sick on our trip to Devils Postpile, but I’d hoped it was nothing more than an intestinal bug. Now with my head nestled between her legs, the lower vantage point revealed a lump that had grown to an unmistakably round, compacted mass. Her waist was still as skinny as when we met, and her body didn’t appear any heavier. It was as if a ball had been sewn underneath her skin while the rest of her remained untouched. After a few minutes, Sophia stiffened her long legs and moaned loudly.
Still focused on her abdomen, my concern overshadowed the exhilaration of giving her pleasure. I knew by now I could talk about anything with Sophia, but I was lost on how to approach the subject of her distended stomach.
I had never knowingly knocked up a girl and was ignorant as to the speed with which a woman’s belly grew while carrying a child. Her midsection had the bulged appearance of early pregnancy, creating an instant pang of fear within me. Not that I didn’t want children, I just worried about being able to support them if my panic disorder ever disabled me completely. It was never the fear of kids, it was the uncertainty of myself. But Sophia and I had discussed this subject during our drives, and I learned she was all for having kids and she thought I would make a great father, no matter my condition. Bearing her beliefs in mind, there was no sense pondering how to ask her.
“You know, your stomach is really round and hard.” I glided my hand over the area.
“I know,” she said, self-consciously turning on her side.
“You were sick when we were at that motel in Bishop. Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
“It’s not natural to have a growing lump in your stomach.”
She ran her fingers across her abdomen. “I think it started about a year ago when I fell off a wall.”
“A wall?”
“I was at a punk concert sitting on a wall to the side of the stage. Someone pushed me, and I fell.”
“How high?” I asked.
“About eight feet, I guess. I landed right on my side. It hurt for a couple of weeks, then kind of stopped.”
“Did you ever have that checked out?”
“No.”
“This could be internal bleeding or something. When’s the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I saw a gynecologist six years ago. That’s the last time I went to a doctor. It’s been hurting lately. Not my stomach, it feels more like my intestines are shifting.”
“Yeah, I bet. Promise me you’ll get that checked out as soon as possible. I don’t want anything to be wrong with you.”
“I don’t have any insurance. Even if I did, the deductible would be too high. But I can go to Harbor General and see a doctor—that’s what some of my friends do.”
“Just do it,” I said firmly. “Don’t be scared to see a doctor. I’ll pay for it if you need me to. It’s probably nothing, but should be examined.”
23. Fashionably Late
The alarm rang at half past five. My right arm floated automatically atop the “off” switch to subdue the intrusion. I noticed a wicked adrenaline rush in me, one that not too long ago was an acutely familiar companion. The feeling failed to cause heightened concern because I knew this was the beginning of no ordinary day.
I stared at Sophia. She looked so beautiful on the bed. I loved the way her long hair fell over her body and flowed on to me. Many times we would fall asleep clutching each other and could remain that way until morning.
One minute after I stifled the alarm, Sophia arose and got to work preparing for the unknown. She put on her skintight black bicycle pants and an old t-shirt from my failed auto detailing business. I hoped she would fare better than the business did.
It was getting lighter outside as Sophia switched lights off and on, nervously preparing for her trip to the hospital. I staggered over to the dresser and pulled a pair of unironed, but acceptably wrinkleless shorts over my naked body. I didn’t need to get ready for work just yet. In fact, as I adjusted the cotton shorts around my waist, I could tell by the tingling feeling in my gut that I wasn’t quite ready for the entire day.
Just fifteen days after Sophia saw a doctor for her hardened stomach, she was scheduled for surgery. Her appointment turned out to be anything but routine as multiple specialists at Harbor-UCLA Medical Center viewed the ultrasound of Sophia’s insides.
The protrusion turned out to be a large tumor growing inside her... and it had nothing to do with falling off a wall a year earlier. The doctors decided removing and analyzing the mass was of vital importance. At first they planned to obtain a small sample for a biopsy, but due to its abnormal size, they elected to operate as soon as their schedules allowed.
There was not much conversation between us as she brushed her black hair methodically, from the top of her scalp all the way down to the ends just above her rear. She originally wanted to pull her hair into a ponytail with her lucky red bandana, but worried the bandana may get misplaced at the hospital. As she scurried around the apartment, I wished I had an idea of what was going through her mind. I could tell she was edgy, though I didn’t quite know how to calm her.
“I wanted to drive you to the hospital.”
“I know, but my mom insisted.”
“You’re going to be all right.”
“I just wish I knew what they’re going to do to me,” she said, tensing the inner edges of her dark eyebrows closer together.
“Well, the doctors went over all of that in your preliminary appointment. They’re going to put you under and pull that thing out of you. Then sew you up and I’ll take care of you from there.” I added a quick peck on her cheek to soften the abridged clinical utterance.
A moment later, her mom’s car horn honked from Capital Avenue as morning commuters whizzed by.
“I love you,” Sophia said. Her body felt rigid as I hugged her tightly. I could sense the fear in her frame.
“I love you too. You’ll be all right.” As she pulled away from our embrace, I noticed one tear coming from each eye. “Don’t cry, you’ll do just fine and I’ll see you tonight.”
“You don’t even know what room I’ll be in.”
“I’ll find you.”
I watched her walk with stiff strides to her mother’s old faded Cadillac. She went through a rarely used unlocked gate off the sidewalk that led out to the street. When the car door creaked opened, I heard Barbara Syros apologizing frantically for being late. Her arms flailed about, helping her enunciate the words. They drove off leaving me standing by the doorway wearing only knee-length shorts. I wondered if indeed this was going to be a routine operation.
* * * *
I stopped to purchase a dozen red roses after work and drove through the cities of Lomita and Torrance, eventually entering Harbor City. Harbor General, as it was known, or even just Harbor to locals, was a sizable county hospital catering to mainly welfare and economically poor patients. Harbor’s parking lot was a huge slab of concrete
and asphalt that seemingly stretched about five blocks behind the main building. The hospital’s original architecture was late 1940s utilitarian vintage. The exterior surfaces had undergone a facelift within the past decade, giving the structure a more updated covering—though it was still a cold and sterile looking place.
Not knowing exactly where to go after parking my car, I entered the first door I saw. It whisked me into the emergency room waiting area. The large room was a disturbing mass of people, most bearing withered drawn faces. I passed crying babies, patients with wounded appendages clutching bloody rags, coughers, wheezers, snifflers and the terminally waiting bored. The open room, about the size of a modest conference center, appeared almost Third World in its human despair. The bunch of red roses in my hand was the only pleasant thing in the area. I dashed through a pair of oversized swinging doors located on the far side of the ER. My feet seemed to lead me automatically as I made a left turn down a corridor and spotted a nurse’s station.
“Spelled S-I-R?” the slender brunette nurse asked.
“No, S-Y-R,” I said.
She consulted a sheet on a clipboard. “She’s in the recovery room, but is assigned to room 308, upstairs.”
As the sliding elevator door revealed the third floor, I noticed the stark linoleum walkways and an overall disinfected atmosphere that didn’t leave much to the eye. Familiar faces appeared as I stepped out of the elevator. A buzz stirred around a small waiting area to my right as news of my arrival traveled. Sophia’s mom walked to me hunched over as if cinderblocks were affixed to her back.
“Where have you been?” Barbara Syros asked in desperation, abruptly wiping the smile off my face.
“I stopped after work to get some flowers,” I said. “The nurse told me she’s still in the recovery room.”
“Where were you?” she repeated, clutching a moist well-used tissue in her left hand. Her sad eyes revealed evidence of heavy crying. “We called, but you didn’t answer. Sophia wanted you to be here, she loves you.”
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