The four of us have always made comments about our luck. Since Journey and I grew up in a time when divorce was prevalent, we know we are fortunate to have two loving parents who always paint a picture of a healthy relationship. Our family dynamic differs greatly from what I had seen and gone through with myclosest friends. Our situation often made me feel like we were escaping the jaws of death. We were all healthy, we never needed much, and we were an exceptionally happy family.
It turns out, we were also a target for disaster.
The fifteen minutes we had been waiting, felt like hours, but now we’re being escorted into a room with oversized windows, which offer us the view of a lake with colorful reflections of some surrounding trees that haven’t lost their warmth yet. I keep my focus on the scenery, while we wait for the doctor to startle us with what will probably be an abrupt knock on the wooden door.
As I assumed, the sound of his fist makes my chest hurt, and my throat feel tight. My stomach no longer feels like it’s in a knot, but now feels weak like I’m going to be sick.
Dr. Manapple walks in, dressed in a white coat; pristine and starched, his almond brown pants have a perfect creasedown the center from his knees to his ankles, and his toffee-colored loafers are so polished they reflect the ceiling light.
"How is everyone doing today?" he asks while folding Dad’s files under his arm.
How does he think we’re all doing? The four of us arenearly green with worry.
"What’s the verdict, doctor?" Dad asks, sounding stronger than he must be feeling.
Dr. Manapple lowers his head for a moment before looking up at our four sets of wide eyes. "The margins are clear. Your numbers look great, and the blood work is clean. Mr. Quinn, the chemotherapy worked. There is no evidence of the disease left in your body."
I didn’t mean to fall to my knees, but I should have been sitting in a chair when receiving this news, knowing how my body reacts to stress. Journey is quick to lift me back up and hug me as we both cry into each other’s shoulders. "He’s okay," she whimpers, pulling me over to Dad and Mom, who are holding each other so tightly, it looks as if they have a fear of gravity separating them.
"Thank you, Doctor," Dad utters. "Thank you."
"I’ll want to see you in six months for a checkup, Mr. Quinn. I’ll let you have this moment with your family. Congratulations, sir."
"We’re going to Europe, Hawaii, and Australia. Anywhereyou girls want to go, we will gosee the world and live as if there is a tomorrow … because there is a tomorrow. The doctor said so. I have a second chance, and I will not take it for granted," Dad cries.
"We had five years, sweetie," Dad reminds me.
"I shouldn’t have moved to South Carolina," is all I can think to say.
"Yes, you should have moved there. You are living the life you desirewith Ace. This is your chance to have the perfect life you always talked about."
I can’t help but look at Ace while Dad is saying these sweet remarks. He’s flipping through the mail, no longer concerned with the letter. "I’m not happy,” I confess.
I should not have told Dad I’m not happy. My happiness doesn’t hold a flame to finding out his cancer is back.
"What?" Dad questions.
"How bad is the cancer?"
There’s a pause. A long pause. "It’s bad, Melody, it came back with a vengeance and spread everywhere. My CT scan was lit up like a Christmas tree."Christmas. Will he make it another Christmas? I didn’t come home last Christmas, and it could have been our last. "He told me to make my end-of-life plans. It could be a week or two months. There’s no telling how long I have left."
I clap my hand over my mouth, trying to stop the wretched sounds threatening to escape my throat. "I’ll be home tomorrow.”
"Melody—"
"Dad," I cry into the phone. "There has to be something we can do." I spin around, feeling frenzied and lost.
"Melody, you don’t need to stop living—"How can he tell me this when he’s about to stop living?
"I will be home tomorrow, Dad."
2
"When will you be back?"Ace asks.
I can only blink when he asks me this question. "I don’t know, Ace. I mean, should I ask my dad how long he thinks he’ll be alive for?" I’m sure he can sense my sarcasm.
This is our airport goodbye conversation.
