Page 70 of When the Smoke Clears

“All the contacts in my phone are out of order.” He looks around. “Where’s my phone?”

“I don’t know. Mom probably has it. I’m sure your contacts are still in alphabetical order.”

“Every time I call someone they are the only one I can ever call.”

“Maybe you’re going to recent calls on your phone instead of your contacts.”

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“You’ve been at a care facility, not jail.”

His eyes pop open. “I can’t go anywhere on my own! It’s jail!”

“Shh . . . calm down.” I rest my hand on his arm.

Again, he closes his eyes. “Just let me die.”

“I find any excuse not to go see him,” Mom confesses over lunch in the hospital cafeteria. “I’m a terrible wife.”

“He’s not himself. You’re not a terrible wife.” I squeeze ketchup onto my burger.

She stares at her salad.

“Eat,” I say. “You’re looking too thin.”

“I’m exercising.” She rolls her eyes.

“That’s great. But you’re not eating. Eat.”

She frowns, picking up her fork. “I don’t regret you or Leah, but I really should have married a younger man. I feel like I’m getting the short end of the stick with the ‘sickness and health’ part of our vows.”

“He’s agreed to raise your baby even though it’s not his.” I take a bite of my burger and smirk.

“Oh, be quiet.” She reluctantly laughs.

We focus on eating, content with letting the harsh reality of Dad’s situation hang over us like a rain cloud. But there is no umbrella to be had. No shelter in sight. The effects will be felt, and there is nothing we can do.

“It’s cancer,” Mom says.

I slowly set my napkin aside and clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

She lifts her teary-eyed gaze and swallows. “There’s a mass on his liver. We’ve known about it, but your father didn’t want to say anything. So we chose to wait.”

It takes a few seconds after she stops speaking for my brain to replay her words. Cancer?

“What do you mean ‘we’ chose? Dad thinks you’re pregnant. He’s not in his right mind to make choices like fighting for his life or giving up. So what you’re saying is you chose. And you didn’t say one fucking word to your adult children? What is wrong with you?”

“Excuse me?” She narrows her eyes.

I feel five years old again, taking my frustration a step too far. But this isn’t a dispute over another hour of TV before bed. It’s a human life. Eighty years is not an afterthought. There’s no room for making the wrong decision.

She picks at the other half of her salad I know she’s not going to eat. “They think it’s hepatocellular carcinoma. It’s spread to his bones. We can get a second opinion, but—”

“Then we should.”

Mom doesn’t look at me.

“Right?” I ask.