Vadim
Preston is quiet as he prepares dinner.
He's been a lot less talkative ever since he came in from the terrace after speaking to his parents.
I've let him be, keeping my nose in my laptop, watching him without intruding.
It'd be hypocritical for someone like me to expect anyone to open up. But it has been a few hours, and whatever’s on his mind still has a hold on him.
I close the laptop and slide it to the side on the counter. "Are you okay, Preston?"
He's at the stove, and from where I'm sitting, all I get is his profile. His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deeply. He gives the sauce a final stir then closes the lid and turns to face me.
"My dad is sick."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." I cast my mind back to meeting Eric at The Butterfly Lounge. He wasn't displaying any visible signs of illness, not that that means anything.
"He's got mesothelioma."
I get off the stool and walk over to Preston. "I don't know what that is."
"It's a rare type of cancer that develops in the lining of the lungs.
Most people who get it came into contact with asbestos at some point.
The real scary part is it takes forever to show up, like, someone could've inhaled the fibers twenty, thirty years ago and only find out they have it now when it's already progressed. When it's…too late."
"How did your dad get exposed to asbestos?"
"He was a firefighter."
"Does he know what incident may have caused it?"
Preston nods, his eyes dropping briefly before coming back up, filled with a sadness that makes my heart clench.
"There was a fire at an old building that was being redeveloped when I was a kid.
The developer was supposed to handle the asbestos before any demolition started, but they didn't, or they didn't do it properly.
When the fire broke out, Dad went in without proper protection because nobody flagged it as a hazmat situation.
He got heavy exposure that day and had no idea.
It only came to light later during the legal case, when the developer's records showed the asbestos was never properly cleared.
It happened almost twenty years ago. And now, here we are. "
I brace his arms. "I'm so sorry, Preston."
"My parents, along with families of the other crew, are suing the developer for failing to make the site safe.
But it's taking a lot of time and costing a lot of money.
" He sighs. "I hate this so much for them.
They had kids later in life, so now they should be retired and doing whatever retired people do.
Playing golf and going on cruises or whatever.
Instead, they've had to take out a second mortgage, and they’re spending all their time dealing with this complicated legal stuff, not to mention all the medical stuff on top of it all, too. "
Shit like this makes me mad.
I get being ambitious and wanting to make a lot of money. That runs in my blood, and it's what this country was built on. But work hard for it. Don't fuck other people over to line your own pockets. That's some seriously messed-up shit.
"Did something happen on your call with your parents?"
His eyes turn watery. "Yeah."
When his lower lip begins to tremble, I reach out and pull him into me. The hair on top of his head tickles my nose, and I breathe him in even though it's pointless.
"He went to the doctor, and it's not good," Preston says softly, his voice muffled against my shoulder.
"Last time he and Mom were in town, the time you met them, he was really active, cracking jokes, obsessing over his damn iPad, just…
being Dad. I convinced myself those were signs he was getting better. "
Preston pulls out of the hug and looks up at me.
"I have a skill for compartmentalizing, for being able to fool myself.
It's a type of superpower, really." He walks back to the stove but doesn't lift the pot lid.
"Despite Dad having energy, I noticed he'd lost a lot of weight.
He was always a solidly built man, but as you saw, he's slim now.
Apparently, weight loss is a classic late-stage symptom.
The body just stops being able to hold on to anything.
The latest scans showed the cancer has spread to his lymph nodes.
Stage four. The doctor told them they're dealing with months, not years, and that treatment at this point is about keeping him comfortable more than anything else. "
"Oh, Preston." I reach for him again, and he sags into me, crying. I stroke his hair. "It's okay, it's okay."
Not the situation, obviously, but him needing to let it out. I think he gets that.
He cries for the next few minutes.
All I can do is hold him, which feels about as useful as doing nothing. I hate being powerless even though there's nothing that I, or anyone else, can do. His dad got dealt a shitty hand. That's just life sometimes. Unfair and cruel.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm fine." He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and shakes his hand, averting his gaze.
Like he's embarrassed. "Or, I will be fine.
It was just a shock, that's all. I really want to go and see him, but…
" He fans his hand in front of his face.
"How long do you think it will be until I look normal again? "
"I'd give it at least a week."
He nods, dispirited. Not the answer he wanted to hear.
"Is there anything I can do?" I ask again, in a futile attempt to shake the helplessness picking at my chest.
"There is." He manages a feeble grin as he lifts the pot and smells the sauce. "You hungry?"