rapidly. “A change. I told you.” I swallow down the bile threatening to come up. It’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth.
“Tell me more. After all these years, why now?” A thread of anger weaves through the question, and while I’d like to tell myself it’s a leftover emotion from Grandpa or Mom, I know it’s because he can read me like a book. And he knows I’m still lying to him right now.
If the only way out of this is with the truth, then so be it.
Sorry, Mom.
“I remember you from when I was younger. You know I always thought you were my cool uncle. You’d take me for rides in your truck, letting me bounce around in the front seat when Mom made me sit in the back, and you’d tell stories and cuss with zero care that Oakley and I were in the room, and you . . .” I fall back into the past, into memories around the dinner table with Mom, Dad, Oakley, Unc, and me. “You talked to me like I had thoughts and opinions worth hearing. Other than Mom and Dad, you were the only adult who did that. It made me feel . . . not invisible at a time when all I felt was invisible.”
He starts to say something, but I need to get this out while I have a chance. If he sends me out of here today and I go home to the city with my tail between my legs, I need him to know how much he means to me.
“But when you and Grandpa . . .” Unc flinches, and I graze around that wound. “Fought, you left. You left me like I was nothing, like maybe I wasn’t so worthwhile and important, after all. And I was hurt. I was furious for a long time. But time keeps passing, and when I got older, I realized we don’t always have ‘later’ to sort things out, so I came. For a change with you, before it’s too late. Before we’re out of time.”
The last words are my real fear. His time is short, shorter than it was all those years ago for sure, and there’s more at stake now.
He starts to speak but coughs, covering a catch in his throat. “How long have you known?”
“Since I came. It’s why I came,” I confess.
“I figured as much,” he says dryly, leaning back in his chair. He props his feet up on the desk, crossing his hands over his belly, the bandaged one still covered by the good one. He’s somehow the utter picture of relaxation, as though yesterday didn’t happen and we’re not discussing a cancer diagnosis.
The word alone hits me hard, which is why I’ve tried to avoid it, even in my own thoughts. Unc has cancer. It’s bad. He’s alone and needs help. He needs me.
Cancer. Death. Fear. Time.
Powerful words that seem to not hit Unc in the slightest. I want this memory—of Unc strong and resolute, dismissive of the seriousness of his reality. Click. Not with my camera, but with my mind this time. I know I won’t forget this image.
“Okay, your turn. If we’re getting this out in the open, what’s the prognosis? What does the doctor say your odds are and how can I help?” I’m a woman on a mission, charging full steam ahead to handle whatever needs attention. This is what I’m here for, and there’s no need to refute it any more or hide it in subtle, secretive moves so I don’t poke at his pride.
Unc snorts derisively. “Like he knows a damn thing. He says this is what’s gonna kill me, but he ain’t got a crystal ball. I might get hit by a bus tomorrow, so no sense worrying about what he thinks he knows.”
What a bright, uplifting outlook, I think wryly.
“There are no buses in Great Falls,” I challenge.
“You know what I mean. I ain’t worrying about things I can’t change. And school buses,” he counters, plenty of sass in his own voice.
I don’t bother reminding him that it’s summer and school buses aren’t running. “But you’re doing what the doctor says, right? Following orders?” I already know the answer, but I want to make him say it so he sees that he’s doing too much.
And he is—working six days a week for lunch and dinner shifts the way he always has, with just those rare two days he took off, still carrying boxes around