Chapter 23 #2
I grab for the goodies, giving Unc my back and assuming he’ll follow me into the kitchen. He does, closing the door behind himself.
I grab a plate and open the bag. “You didn’t want a bear claw?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I ate a couple of doughnut holes. That was more than enough for me.” He pats his flat belly. “But I had some oatmeal this morning, Mom.”
The small joke does lift my lips. He knows I’m always keeping track of him to make sure he’s eating and drinking enough every day and doesn’t look too tired or seem too pale.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Straight to the core, no tip-toeing around for Unc. No way, that’s not his style.
“I can’t.”
No one can know why I did what I did, what I gave up so that Bobby can have his dream come true. That’s between me and the jagged shards of my heart.
Unc grunts, looking disappointed. I bet he thought the doughnut and coffee treatment would get me to spill my guts. In any other situation, it probably would.
“Fine. Keep your business to yourself. Of anyone, I can damn sure understand that.” Somehow, he has managed to keep his cancer diagnosis out of the grapevine. As far as I know, the only people who know are him, Doc Jones, Mom, and me.
“Thanks.”
“Wanna know what I’ve learned?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer but keeps right on rolling.
“When it gets bad and you want to lay down and die, because at least then you wouldn’t be in pain, you need a distraction.
Like how they get women in labor to do all that huffing and puffing.
” He demonstrates, filling his cheeks and making a hee-hoo-hee-hoo breathy sound.
“Don’t know if it does anything special for the baby, but it gives the mama something to do.
Distraction.” He nods like he’s made some groundbreaking discovery. “So, you wanna go fishing with me?”
“Fishing?”
Why in the world would he think fishing would distract me? The idea of sitting still on a boat in the middle of the lake, being quiet so I don’t disturb the fish, sounds like the exact opposite of what I need. Out there, I won’t have anything to do but listen to my screaming heart.
“Yeah . . . fishing,” he repeats with new emphasis. I realize what he’s actually asking and murmur my recognition. Quietly, though no one’s here but us, he says, “I’ve got a checkup in an hour. Come with me.”
All the stuff with Bobby and my broken spirit freezes.
Unc needs me. He needs me so much that he’s asking outright for me to go with him.
I can thaw out my mess later, cry some more, and remind myself why I did it.
But right now, Unc’s appointment is the distraction I need. And I’m the help he needs.
I shove the rest of the pink doughnut with sprinkles into my mouth, mumbling around it, “Give me five and I’m ready.”
I expected to sit in a patient room with Unc since he called this a check-up.
But we’re in the doctor’s small office, seated in two chairs with our knees nearly bumping against the front of the desk.
The artwork on the walls draws my attention, as usual.
It’s bland, boring, and abstract. Its primary purpose is to be unoffensive, forgettable, a simple space filler.
Mom would hate it. I do too. Its emptiness reminds me of my own, devoid of meaning.
That’s not true, Willow. Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not meaningless, I’m just Bobby-less.
Same difference, it feels like.
Unc reaches over and takes my hand. His palm is soft, but the remnants of calluses remain from his years of hard work. The skin feels paper thin, his bony knuckles prominent. I grip him tightly, needing to believe that he’s okay and that we have time. I’m thankful that I’m here.
The door opens and a white-coated man walks in.
He’s younger than I’d expected for some reason, probably in his early forties at most, with perfectly combed hair, reading glasses on the tip of his nose, and kind eyes.
He must both love and hate his job as an oncologist, being the bearer of both prayed-for good news and life-ending news.
He’s got a poker face that could match Unc’s, not clueing me in about today’s appointment.
He sits down in the leather executive chair behind the desk, flipping through the papers in the folder he holds. “How’re you feeling, Hank?”
Unc shrugs. “Guess that depends on what you tell me, Doc.”
The doctor smiles at the gruff answer. “Fair enough. Let’s go over your numbers . . .”
He launches into a spiel of numbers and acronyms that don’t mean anything to me. He might as well be speaking another language. Well, I guess he is. He’s speaking Doctor-ese, or Cancer-ese, or something else that only some people understand.
Unc nods along, seeming to get it.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “but I have no idea what any of that means. Can you spell it out for those of us without M.D.s?”
The doctor smiles serenely, looking from me to Unc, who gives a grunt of permission.
“Of course. You must be Willow?” I nod, surprised he knows that.
He’s too far out from Great Falls to be part of the gossip chain, so Unc must’ve mentioned me.
“What it boils down to is . . . it’s working.
Hank’s cancer is responding to the meds, so his blood levels look better than they have since he first came to me. The latest scan shows improvement too.”
I sigh in relief. “So he’s okay?”
The doctor’s head tilts in a way that reminds me of a curious dog.
“Well, not yet. But he’s well down the road there, and I think the worst of it is past us.
” To Unc, he says, “Stay the course. Keep taking your meds, rest when you need to, eat nutrient-dense food that stays down, and keep your appointments. We’ll do a full-panel blood check again in two weeks, but call me in the meantime if anything changes.
If you go more than twenty-four hours without keeping food down, feel like something’s off, or have any questions or concerns, I’m only a phone call away, anytime, day or night. ”
Unc chuckles. “I’ll hold you to that, Doc. You know the hours I keep.”
They laugh like that’s a long-running joke between the two of them, and Unc stands to shake the doctor’s hand. “You sure I can’t talk you into coming by for a hand or two?”
The doctor laughs even harder, shaking his head. “No way. I didn’t forget that you’re a card shark. I like my money where it belongs, in my wallet, not yours. Nice to meet you, Willow. You two can head up to the front when you’re ready.”
And with that, the doctor leaves us alone. Unc sinks back down to the chair.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters, a vacant look in his eyes.
I smile, taking his hand again. “That’s good news.” Maybe he didn’t hear that? Or it hasn’t sunk in yet?
“It’s better news than I imagined. I’ve been feeling better, a little bit, mind you, but I thought maybe it was the calm before the storm.
You know how people get a surge of energy sometimes right before they die, like God knows they need to handle their shit so it’s not stacked on someone else’s shoulders?
But maybe I’m just . . . feeling better.
” His voice gets softer, losing the gruff edge it usually has. “I’m better.”
Tears spring forth again, and this time, they’re happy tears. Why our eyes leak for every emotion on the spectrum—happy, sad, mad, surprised—I’ll never know, but the overwhelming joy runs down my face into my smile.
“You’re better,” I parrot.
Unc looks to me, his eyes suddenly bloodshot and blinking rapidly. He’s fighting his tears, too stubborn to let them flow.
“I couldn’t have done this without you. You know that, right?” he says.
“I did what family does, Unc,” I tell him with as much emotion as I can risk right now. “I’m happy to help, just glad it made a difference.”
“Picking up from their life and moving to a town where they don’t know a soul, other than a grumpy old man, is not something people do,” Unc corrects me.
“But you did. I want you to know how much I appreciate it, Willow-girl. It means a lot to me, and I’m damn glad you took it upon yourself to fix what I broke so long ago.
” He pats my hand, and I know how hard it is for him to say those words.
He’s a hard man, much like his brother, but Unc is different.
He’s willing to be soft when he needs to.
I don’t know if he was always that way or if it’s a newfound clarity found in his looming mortality.
But he’ll speak his heart when it's needed. I can appreciate that because I do it all the time, and I know how vulnerable it makes you feel. So I give him the out he needs to back away from the dangerous territory he’s dancing around, “Well, Doc Jones should probably get some of that thanks. I wouldn’t have known you needed me if he hadn’t called Mom. ”
Unc grins devilishly. “You haven’t told him that I know that, have you?”
“No?” I drawl out slowly.
“Good. Haven’t gotten my pound of flesh outta him yet,” Unc says, laughing. I’m reasonably certain he means it, though, and I wonder how much he’s taken from Doc’s coin jar. Card shark, indeed.
I swat at his shoulder, truly smiling for the first time in a couple of days. “You’re awful!”
His shrug says he won’t argue with that.
“Look, Willow . . . I might be better, and I hope to get even better than this.” He gestures to his baggy jeans, white T-shirt with a Ford logo on it, and his old boots.
He doesn’t mean his clothes, though. He means what’s inside him, the battle he’s still fighting on a cellular level.
“But I’m getting old—don’t tell anyone I admitted that or I’ll have your hide.
” He glares for a split second before his expression softens again.
“Having you here has been nice, knowing that I could leave the bar in good hands if I needed the day off or wanted to go fishing. Like, actually fishing.” He suddenly beams brightly.
“I tell you I caught a ten-pound trout last week?”
“No. Is that good? Big? Small? I have no idea.”