Page 71 of When the Smoke Clears

“How’s your roommate?”

I set my empty plate on the tray and wipe my mouth with the wadded napkin. “Don’t change the subject. You can’t drop this on me, then ask about my roommate.”

“William.” She sniffles. “I am barely hanging on. We’ll talk more about this later. Please, just give me something else.”

I rub my hands over my face and sigh. “She’s fine. And we’re not done talking about Dad. So be ready to discuss this later.”

“She?” Mom’s eyes widen, ignoring my comment about Dad.

“Yes. She’s a psychiatrist.”

“You’re living with a female doctor?” For the first time since I’ve arrived, there’s a hint of something in her expression that’s not doom and gloom.

“Jamie used to work for her. Her house is the one that burned down with the bird inside.”

“Oh. Yeah, I remember. Is she pretty?”

“I don’t know. She’s my roommate. It’s not my place to decide that.”

“William, it’s an opinion, not a decision. You’re not blind. Either you think she’s pretty or you don’t.”

“Where do you think we should take Dad for a second opinion?”

“Oh dear. You like her.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s fine. Easy on the eyes. Whatever. Why don’t you want Dad to get a second opinion?”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Mom.” I frown.

She deflates like I’m sucking what little joy she has left in her soul.

“I’m not ready to let him go,” I whisper, threading my fingers through my hair, head bowed, elbows on the table. “You’ll go on and remarry. Leah has a family, a husband who’s a father. But I can’t replace him.”

“William, I don’t want to replace your father. I may never fall in love again. But I don’t want to watch him suffer for . . . what? A few extra months?”

“A few months?” My eyes widen as my heart hits the bottom of my stomach. “Is that how long he has?”

“Three to six months without treatment. A year with it.”

I stay in Somers until Dad is released from the hospital and returned to the skilled care facility two days later. My friends (and Everleigh) text me and try to call, but I’m not ready to talk about anything.

Thursday evening, after I return to Missoula, Everleigh comes in the back door with a bag of groceries. I glance up from my laptop at the kitchen table. I’ve been researching my dad’s cancer.

She eyes me as if I’m supposed to say the first word.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” She sets the sack on the counter and drops her tote to the floor by the door along with her shoes.

I rehearsed this in my head so many times on the drive back to Missoula.

My dad has cancer. It’s spread to his bones. He has three to six months to live. He’s back at the care facility. Hospice could be called soon.

Everleigh washes her hands. “Fitz, Jamie, and Maren are worried about you. I told them everything moves at a snail’s pace in a hospital. Tests. Results. Diagnosis. Treatment plan. I said you probably weren’t responding because there was nothing to share yet.”

I close my computer and scoot back in my chair, hands laced behind my head.