“Of course I’ll help.”
“She has another appointment at the UNC Greenvillehospital tomorrow at three.” Consuela’s child began wailing in the background, accelerating her speech. “Make note of the miles. The school will repay use of your car. Take her to lunch. Anything she wants. Keep the receipt.”
Sofia’s passion was history. She was a silent child and spent the ride over and back and the time in the waiting room reading on her tablet. Colin had no idea how to start a conversation. They had shared several dinners together, at least in the sense that their two bodies had occupied the dining room. But Sofia had rarely looked up from her tablet, and even then he wasn’t sure she had actually seen him. She was not impolite, merely uninterested. But he had no problem with silence.
Three days later, there was another doctor, this one at New Hanover Regional, the main Wilmington hospital. The visit lasted so long they missed dinner. Colin asked if she wanted to grab something in the hospital cafeteria before they left. Sofia responded by looking at him. Really looking.
Colin said, “What?”
“Could we go to a Mexican restaurant I know north of the city?”
“If that’s what you like, sure, I guess.”
“It’s on 17, up toward Hampstead. Guelaguetza Oaxaca. My father used to take me.”
Colin had no real interest in spicy food, but he didn’t complain, because already Sofia was emerging from her normal withdrawn state. She turned off her tablet and watched the road, the buildings, people, the gathering night. The restaurant was a simple place in a local strip mall. The exterior wall was painted with purple Day-Glow cacti wearing bright orange sombreros. Sofia ordered in rapid-fire Spanish, then told Colin, “The chef is from Guadalajara. He says his specialty is torta ahogado.”
Colin told the man behind the counter, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
The night was so mild they ate at a picnic table set beneath a neighboring oak. The food was fantastic.
Midway through the meal, Sofia said, “You’re at university, yes?”
“Right. UNCW.”
“But you also go to Chapel Hill every week, yes? Why do you stay at Sojourn House?”
He shrugged. “Nowhere else to go, really.”
“Your family …”
“Is it okay if we don’t talk about them?”
“Sure.” She bent back over her meal. “I don’t like my family either.” Another bite, then, “What do you study?”
“Right now, I’m struggling. Trying to tie together some different subjects. The school calls it interdisciplinary.”
“That must be nice.”
“It doesn’t feel that way now. Maybe someday. If I can make sense of it all.” He risked asking, “What’s the matter with your eyes?”
“I have dysplastic nevus.”
“I don’t know—”
“They’re like freckles. On my retinas. They’re growing.” She pushed her plate away. “The doctors are worried because that’s a sign of worse things. Choroidal nevus. And melanoma.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “If it’s the one thing, I’ll probably go blind. If it’s the other, they have to take out my eyes.”
He struggled then. Trying to find room for breath. And the news. And the look in that young face.
This time, he was the one who needed the silence. It took him all the way back to the campus, and inside Sojourn House, before he could manage, “Whatever you need. Day or night. I’m here for you.”
She climbed three stairs, then turned back. Her eyes held amost remarkable darkness, and a depth too great for her young years. “Nights after the hospital. They are so very hard.”
“I could come read to you, if you like. I mean …”
