Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“William.” She sniffles. “I am barely hanging on. We’ll talk more about this later. Please, just give me something else.”
I rub my hands over my face and sigh. “She’s fine. And we’re not done talking about Dad. So be ready to discuss this later.”
“She?” Mom’s eyes widen, ignoring my comment about Dad.
“Yes. She’s a psychiatrist.”
“You’re living with a female doctor?” For the first time since I’ve arrived, there’s a hint of something in her expression that’s not doom and gloom.
“Jamie used to work for her. Her house is the one that burned down with the bird inside.”
“Oh. Yeah, I remember. Is she pretty?”
“I don’t know. She’s my roommate. It’s not my place to decide that.”
“William, it’s an opinion, not a decision. You’re not blind. Either you think she’s pretty or you don’t.”
“Where do you think we should take Dad for a second opinion?”
“Oh dear. You like her.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s fine. Easy on the eyes. Whatever. Why don’t you want Dad to get a second opinion?”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Mom.” I frown.
She deflates like I’m sucking what little joy she has left in her soul.
“I’m not ready to let him go,” I whisper, threading my fingers through my hair, head bowed, elbows on the table. “You’ll go on and remarry. Leah has a family, a husband who’s a father. But I can’t replace him.”
“William, I don’t want to replace your father. I may never fall in love again. But I don’t want to watch him suffer for . . . what? A few extra months?”
“A few months?” My eyes widen as my heart hits the bottom of my stomach. “Is that how long he has?”
“Three to six months without treatment. A year with it.”
I stay in Somers until Dad is released from the hospital and returned to the skilled care facility two days later. My friends (and Everleigh) text me and try to call, but I’m not ready to talk about anything.
Thursday evening, after I return to Missoula, Everleigh comes in the back door with a bag of groceries. I glance up from my laptop at the kitchen table. I’ve been researching my dad’s cancer.
She eyes me as if I’m supposed to say the first word.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” She sets the sack on the counter and drops her tote to the floor by the door along with her shoes.
I rehearsed this in my head so many times on the drive back to Missoula.
My dad has cancer. It’s spread to his bones. He has three to six months to live. He’s back at the care facility. Hospice could be called soon.
Everleigh washes her hands. “Fitz, Jamie, and Maren are worried about you. I told them everything moves at a snail’s pace in a hospital. Tests. Results. Diagnosis. Treatment plan. I said you probably weren’t responding because there was nothing to share yet.”
I close my computer and scoot back in my chair, hands laced behind my head.
She tosses the towel aside and leans against the counter. Everleigh is beautiful, gifted, kind, and probably a million other things I’ve been too angry and stubborn to see. But our timing is all wrong.
“But I think either something has already happened to your father, or he doesn’t have much time left,” she says with a sad smile.
I clear my throat. “Why do you think that?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Just an educated guess.”
I haven’t cried, and I’m not going to. He’s not dead. Why can’t she be annoying? Why didn’t she leave the kitchen a mess or run into the mailbox? I need to stay angry.
“I start my last shift tomorrow. Then I’m moving to Somers.”
She swallows.
If I’m not crying over my dying father, she can’t get emotional over my leaving.
“You can shrink me all you want. I’ll take Dr. Reichart right now. Just not . . .” I can’t even say her name, so I pinch my lower lip and slowly shake my head.
“I have the next three days off,” she says, standing straight, shoulders back, hands folded in front. “What can I do to help?”
I open my computer again. “It’s cancer,” I say without losing my shit. “He’s not treating it. They don’t want a second opinion. I’m not trying to save his life. I just want to understand it. To prepare for what’s to come. Can you help me understand it?”
She steps behind me, looking at the screen over my shoulder. I smell her floral tones and feel the warmth of her body.
“Of course I can help you understand it,” she says, resting her hand on my back.
In the next breath, her hand disappears, and she sits in the chair opposite me. “What kind of cancer?”
“Liver. It’s spread to his bones.”
She folds her hands on the table. “What do you want to know? What symptoms to expect? The progression? How they’ll treat the pain?”