Something About Sophie by Mary Kay McComas

of her mouth with a sterile swab. It was over in no time—except for the three-day waiting period for the results, which she’d promised Hollis she would hang around for.
    Simply comparing blood types with Arthur Cubeck would have been quick but inconclusive; DNA results were indisputable but they took longer. Of course .
    Maybe she ought to rent an apartment, she pondered wryly, wondering how many more times she’d have to postpone her departure.
    Not that she had anything more pressing to do.
    She’d agreed to do some tutoring of first and second graders struggling with reading and math, but that was still weeks away. She’d thought about painting her bedroom and possibly the bathroom in the meantime, but it wasn’t her favorite leisure-time interest—and she never did decide on colors. Still and all, she hadn’t planned on more than an overnight in Clearfield and she hated being bored.
    She could explore the town, but she didn’t think that would take more than a day. She tried to recall if she’d seen a movie theater on Main Street, but she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t much of a window shopper, but if she got desperate . . . She might spend time in Charlottesville checking out the university—ask her dad where to go and what to see; call him when she got there to give him a verbal tour and updates on the changes over the last quarter of a century, which she imagined were considerable. Perhaps a drive in the country? She would take on most anything to avoid having to think about the test results.
    And just as she was collecting her purse and preparing to go, a possible solution presented himself.
    â€œHi.”
    â€œDrew. Hi. How did you know I’d . . . or you didn’t. I mean, you probably come here a lot, to the lab. And I happened to be . . . well . . . Hi.” Aw, jeeze.
    Kindly, he pretended not to notice her prattle. “Actually, I did know you’d be here. Jesse called. I asked to be notified when you arrived, but I was with a patient or I’d have come down sooner for moral support.”
    â€œOh. Thanks. But it was easy. Just a swab. I was prepared for them to draw blood. After being with my mom and seeing what she went through, I’ve developed a reasonably good queasy threshold, so needles don’t bother me too much anymore.” She stood, thanked the tech, and left the cubicle. “Not nearly as much as hospitals, in general, anyway. You’d think with all the advancements in modern medicine, someone would come up with something for this wretched smell. And don’t bother telling me it’s disinfectant because every hospital I’ve been in smells exactly the same, and I don’t believe for a second that they’re all using the same antiseptics. It’s death, isn’t it? Rotting bodies and the various byproducts masked by the scents of bland, boiled food, floor polish, and then cleaning products. Right?” She looked up to find him staring at her, his expression in check. “No offense.” He frowned as if in pain, closed his eyes and gave a short shake of his head. “What?”
    His face split into a wide grin, and when he opened his eyes they were bright with humor. “I’m guessing this is a no to a cup of coffee in the doctors’ lounge.”
    â€œOh.” Fudge! “I . . . oh, dear . . . I didn’t mean . . . well, I did mean it but not, you know, the smell doesn’t make me want to vomit or pass out or anything. It’s, you know,” she flipped her hand around in the air, “memories. Like spaghetti sauce and chocolate chip cookies, only not as nice. And not together. Eggs, too, smell good sometimes, though I think most hospitals use the powdered kind so they don’t smell as good as real eggs . . . actually, they don’t smell at all if you ask me but some people might—”
    Seemingly unable to