What Happened to Sophie Wilder Read Online Free PDF

asked.
    â€œSophie,” she said.
    â€œI’m Dr. Phillips. I wondered, while I have you here, if we might talk.”
    Sophie expected to be taken into an office somewhere, but the doctor led her into an empty hospital room. It had been years since Sophie had been in one. The absence of patients gave it an eerie air, as if she and the doctor were conversing among the dead.
    â€œYour father-in-law is quite upset that we’ve kept him here, I know. But really there wasn’t any other way.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œHow much do you know about his condition?”
    â€œNot much,” Sophie said. “To be honest, we’ve never met.”
    Dr. Phillips seemed relieved that she wasn’t actually confronting a grieving loved one.

    â€œIt’s quite serious.”
    â€œIs he dying?”
    â€œYes.” Then she clarified. “There are still some things we can try, of course. We went in for an endoscopy, to take a look at some growths in his stomach. We found a substantial presence in some nearby lymph nodes. Possibly also his liver. We’re going to know more after we get the results of his biopsy back, but it’s not a great prognosis we’re looking at. I think our most promising course is going to be a complete gastrectomy. That is, we’ll take out his stomach. While we’re in there, we can also take out those lymph nodes and some surrounding tissue.”
    She paused like a teacher measuring classroom comprehension.
    â€œI’m sorry to be telling you all this in this way. We don’t have a lot of choice. I’ve explained things to Mr. Crane, but he isn’t in great shape, and I’m not sure how much he’s taking in. I understand that he and your husband aren’t close, but you’re the only contacts he’s given us.”
    â€œWhat exactly are you looking for us to do?”
    â€œWell, there are ways to make all of this easier for him. Mr. Crane doesn’t take very good care of himself. For starters, he doesn’t seem to be taking his medicine. I’m going to write some scrips for you, and I want you to make sure he gets them filled.”
    â€œI can do that,” Sophie said. “But I can’t promise much else. My husband and his father don’t get along.”
    The doctor was already handing over the prescriptions.
    â€œJust do what you can. Ultimately, of course, he’s responsible for his own well-being.”
    A duty had been discharged then, another imposed, and there was a subtle shift in balance between the two women as they walked out into the hall and back to the reception area.

    â€œHere’s my card,” Dr. Phillips said by way of parting. “If you have any questions, you can call.”
    After she left, Sophie filled out the forms and waited for Crane’s arrival.
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    Later, Sophie imagined that he had first appeared like a ghost, his pale green hospital gown emanating from him in waves. She imagined him floating toward her, bringing with him an obligation—as every spirit does—as though the demand he would eventually make was present in that instant, carried palpably within him.
    But he was already dressed to leave, in a loose black T-shirt and black jeans, an outfit Sophie recognized as the uniform of a particular kind of older man who haunted lower Manhattan. He still wore his hospital slippers, shuffling to her, and if he resembled anything otherworldly, it was a creature from some medieval portrait of perdition, his pale face animated only by fear. The look made his obvious resemblance to Tom—square jaw; proud nose; thin, tight mouth—all the more troubling. His hair was white where it grew in patchy stubble on his cheeks and chin; it was gray and slight on top of his head, where it had been combed back in an effort to make him presentable. The nurse who walked beside him pointed him toward Sophie. Perhaps she knew, as the doctor seemed already to