We’ve zoomed across Wales. Boy, did Sophie love Wales! She kept saying, “Wouldn’t you like to live here? In this village? Where would we go to school? What would we eat for breakfast? Who do you think lives in that little house there?”
But last night was the strangest of all. We were at an inn, waiting downstairs for Sophie so we could have dinner, and Brian was badgering Uncle Dock to tell us what had happened to Sophie’s real parents.
“We have a right to know,” Brian insisted.
“I don’t know about that,” Uncle Dock said.
“What happened?” Uncle Stew said. “Nobody ever tells me anything.”
Brian said, “Why is she always lying about her parents? Those aren’t her parents. Why is she lying about Bompie? I’m going to ask her straight out why she’s lying.”
“Sophie’s not lying,” Uncle Dock said.
“Is too,” Brian said.
Uncle Dock said, “Look, I tell you what. I’ll tell you a story—”
“I don’t want a story,” Brian said. “I want the truth.”
“Just listen,” Uncle Dock said. “Once there was a child who lived with her parents by the ocean. They were a nice little family and the girl was much loved. But something happened—the parents—the parents died, and then—”
My head felt like it was being bombarded by a whole cloud of zinging fireworks. “Wait!” I said. “So afterward, everyone was telling the little girl how the parents went to heaven—”
“Well, I don’t know exactly—” Dock said.
I kept going. “Everyone was saying how heaven was such a beautiful place and all, with no worries, no woes, and that made the little girl feel awful, that she was left behind while the parents were off in this beautiful place without her—”
“Well, erm, I don’t know exactly,” Dock said. “I just know that then the little girl went to live with—”
“Wait,” I said. “Her grandfather? Did she live with her grandfather?”
“Yep,” Uncle Dock said. “But she only lived with her grandfather for a short time, and when he died, she went to an aunt’s house, but the aunt—”
“The aunt didn’t want the little girl, right?” I said. “And so the girl went to a foster home or something and then another and another. Nobody wanted her probably. She lived in a lot, a lot of places, right?”
“Yep,” Uncle Dock said.
“What the heck is going on?” Brian said. “How do you know this stuff, Cody?”
“How come nobody ever tells me this stuff?” Uncle Stew said.
“So,” I said, “the little girl finally, finally was adopted, right?”
“Yep,” Uncle Dock said.
“And by this time”—I was really talking fast now—“by this time, she wanted so much to be wanted that she made herself believe that this was her real family, her only family, and they had chosen her and they loved her and they couldn’t live without her.”
When I got to that point, Sophie came into the room, and we all stared at her, and Brian put his head in his hands and said, “Oh. Oh!” and Uncle Stew said, “Oh, Lord. Nobody ever tells me a darn thing!”
And then we had dinner.
I could hardly eat because all I could do was look at Sophie, this whole new Sophie, and everybody else was looking at her, too, and finally she put her fork down and said, “Exactly why is everyone staring at me like I’m a ghost or something?”
Uncle Dock said, “You just look real special tonight, Sophie, that’s all,” and she bent her head, and I watched one lone tear drop down her cheek and onto her plate.
We’ve just crossed the Severn River (there was a bridge! no ferry!) and are now in England. Both Uncle Dock and my father cried when we entered England. Sophie asked them what was the matter and Uncle Dock said, “England! England!” which wasn’t exactly an answer.
Sophie said, “What about England?”
My dad said, “Our father was born here.”
“I know,” Sophie said.
“So why does that make you cry?” Brian asked.
“Our father. Bompie. Born here.” My dad turned to Uncle Stew. “You know what I mean? Bompie was born here.”
Uncle Stew, who was driving, said, “I have to concentrate here—where do we go now? Who has the map?”
My dad turned to Uncle Dock. “Dock? You explain. It’s a little emotional—”
“Sure,” Dock said. “I know what you mean. Our own father was born in this very country, and it’s like part of us is here, too. We came out of all this—”
And then they were all very quiet, staring out at the countryside.
“Just think,” Sophie said. “If Bompie and his parents hadn’t come to America, you would have grown up in England, too. You wouldn’t be Americans. This would be your home.”
My dad nodded. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Brian said, “Well, if Bompie had grown up here, maybe he wouldn’t have married who he married and you all wouldn’t be here. Or maybe if you were here, you’d all have grown up here and you wouldn’t have married who you married and then I wouldn’t be here. Or Cody—”
Sophie whispered, “Would I be here?”
And everyone looked at her and then back out at the countryside and Brian said, very soberly, “Now that is the question of the century.”
Sophie leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. I think she’s sleeping now.
Brian just whispered to me, “But what about the Bompie stories? How does she know the Bompie stories? Did she make them up?”
“I don’t know,” I said. And now I’m thinking about all the other things I don’t know about Sophie. I want to know how her parents died. Did they get a terrible disease? Did they die at the same time or did they die one at a time, and if they did, which one died first? And what did Sophie think? And how did Sophie feel?
I wonder what Sophie is dreaming.
We’ll be at Bompie’s tonight.