“There are no options,” Steve said. “You and I both know that.”
If the doctor was surprised by his response, he didn’t show it. “There are always options,” he said.
“But none that can cure it. You’re talking about quality of life.”
The doctor set aside his clipboard. “Yes,” he said.
“How can we discuss quality if I don’t know how much time I have? If I only have a few days, it might mean that I should start making phone calls.”
“You have more than a few days.”
“Weeks?”
“Yes, of course…”
“Months?”
The doctor hesitated. He must have seen something in Steve’s face that signaled he would continue to press until he knew the truth. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve come to learn that predictions don’t mean much. Too much lies outside the realm of medical knowledge. A lot of what happens next comes down to you and your specific genetics, your attitude. No, there’s nothing we can do to stop the inevitable, but that’s not the point. The point is that you should try to make the most of the time you have left.”
Steve studied the doctor, aware that his question hadn’t been answered.
“Do I have a year?”
This time, the doctor didn’t respond, but his silence gave him away. Leaving the office, Steve took a deep breath, armed with the knowledge that he had less than twelve months to live.
The reality hit him later as he was standing on the beach.
He had advanced cancer, and there was no known cure. He would be dead within the year.
On his way out of the office, the doctor had given him some information. Little pamphlets and a list of websites, useful for a book report but good for little else. Steve had tossed them in the garbage on the way to the car. As he stood beneath the winter sun on the deserted beach, he tucked his hands into his coat, staring at the pier. Though his vision wasn’t what it once was, he could see people moving about or fishing by the rails, and he marveled at their normalcy. It was as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
He was going to die, and sooner rather than later. With that, he realized that so many of the things he’d spent time worrying about no longer mattered. His 401(k) plan? Won’t need it. A way to make a living in his fifties? Doesn’t matter. His desire to meet someone new and fall in love? Won’t be fair to her, and to be frank, that desire ended with the diagnosis anyway.
It was over, he repeated to himself. In less than a year, he was going to die. Yes, he’d known something was wrong, and perhaps he’d even expected the doctor to deliver the news he had. But the memory of the doctor speaking the actual words began to recur in his mind, like an old-fashioned record skipping on a turntable. On the beach, he began to shake. He was scared and he was alone. Head lowered, he put his face into his hands and wondered why it had happened to him.
The following day, he called Chan and explained that he could no longer teach piano. Next he met with Pastor Harris to tell him the news. At that time, Pastor Harris was still recovering from the injuries he’d suffered in the fire, and though Steve knew it was selfish to burden his friend during his convalescence, he could think of no one else to talk to. He met him at the house, and as they sat on the back porch, Steve explained his diagnosis. He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but he failed, and in the end, they cried together.
Afterward, Steve walked the beach, wondering what to do with the little time he had remaining. What, he wondered, was most important to him? Passing by the church—at that point, the repairs hadn’t been started, but the blackened walls had been torn down and hauled away—he stared at the gaping hole that once housed the stained-glass window, thinking of Pastor Harris and the countless mornings he’d spent in the halo of sunlight as it streamed through the window. It was then that he knew he had to make another.
A day later, he called Kim. When he told her the news, she broke down on the phone, weeping into the receiver. Steve felt a tightness in the back of his throat, but he didn’t cry with her, and somehow he knew he would never cry about his diagnosis again.
Later, he called her again to ask whether the kids could spend the summer with him. Though the idea frightened her, she consented. At his request, she agreed not to tell them about his condition. It would be a summer filled with lies, but what choice did he have if he wanted to get to know them again?
In the spring, as the azaleas were blooming, he began to muse more often on the nature of God. It was inevitable, he supposed, to think about such things at a time like this. Either God existed or He didn’t; he would either spend eternity in heaven, or there would be nothing at all. Somehow he found comfort in turning the question over in his mind; it spoke to a longing deep inside him. He eventually came to the conclusion that God was real, but he also wanted to experience God’s presence in this world, in mortal terms. And with that, he began his quest.
It was the last year of his life. Rain fell almost daily, making it one of the wettest springs on record. May, however, was absolutely dry, as if somewhere the faucet had been turned off. He purchased the glass he needed and began to work on the window; in June, his children arrived. He’d walked the beach and searched for God, and somehow, he realized, he’d been able to mend the fraying ropes that had tethered him to his children. Now, on a dark night in August, baby turtles were skimming the surface of the ocean, and he was coughing up blood. It was time to stop lying; it was time to tell the truth.
His children were scared, and he knew they wanted him to say or do something to take their fear away. But his stomach was being pierced by a thousand twisting needles. He wiped the blood from his face using the back of his hand and tried to sound calm.
“I think,” he said, “I need to go to the hospital.”
31
Ronnie
Her dad was hooked up to an IV in a hospital bed when he told her. She immediately began to shake her head. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
“No,” she said, “this isn’t right. Doctors make mistakes.”
“Not this time,” he said, reaching for her hand. “And I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Will and Jonah were downstairs in the cafeteria. Her dad wanted to talk to each of his children separately, but Ronnie suddenly wanted nothing to do with any of it. She didn’t want him to say anything else, not one more word.
Her mind flashed on a dozen different images: Suddenly she knew why her dad had wanted her and Jonah to come to North Carolina. And she understood that her mom had known the truth all along. With so little time left together, he had no desire to argue with her. And his ceaseless work on the window now made perfect sense. She recalled his coughing fit in the church and the times he’d winced in pain. In hindsight, the pieces all fit together. Yet everything was falling apart.
He would never see her married; he would never hold a grandchild. The thought of living the rest of her life without him was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair at all.
When she spoke, her words sounded brittle. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before I left? Or after I was back in New York?”
When he didn’t answer, she could feel the blood rising in her cheeks. She knew she shouldn’t be angry, but she couldn’t help it. “What? Were you planning to tell me on the phone? What were you going to say? ‘Oh, sorry I didn’t mention this when we were together last summer, but I have terminal cancer. How’s it going with you?’”
“Ronnie—”
“If you weren’t going to tell me, why did you bring me down here? So I could watch you die?”
“No, sweetie. Just the opposite.” He rolled his head to face her. “I asked you to come so I could watch you live.”
At his answer, she felt something shake loose inside, like the first pebbles skittering downhill before an avalanche. In the corridor, she heard two nurses walking past, their voices hushed. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a bluish pall over the walls. The IV dripped steadily—normal scenes from any hospital, but there was nothing normal about any of this. Her throat felt as thick and sticky as paste, and she turned away, willing the tears not to come.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he continued. “I know I should have told you, but I wanted a normal summer, and I wanted you to have a normal summer. I just wanted to get to know my daughter again. Can you forgive me?”
His plea cut her to the core, and she let out an involuntary cry. Her father was dying, and he wanted her forgiveness. There was something so pitiful in that, and she didn’t know how to respond. As he waited, he reached over and she took his hand.
“Of course I forgive you,” she said, and it was then she began to cry. She leaned toward him, resting her head on his chest, and noticed how thin he’d become without her even being aware of it. She could feel the sharp outline of the bones in his chest, and she suddenly realized that he had been wasting away for months. It broke her heart to know she hadn’t been paying attention; she’d been so caught up in her own life that she hadn’t even noticed.
When her dad put his arm around her, she began to cry harder, conscious that there would soon be a time when this simple act of affection would no longer be possible. Despite herself, she remembered the day she’d arrived at his house and the anger she’d felt toward him; she remembered storming off, the thought of touching him as alien to her as space travel. She’d hated him then and she loved him now.
She was glad she finally knew his secret, even as she wished she didn’t. She felt him running his fingers through her hair. There would come a time when he would no longer be able to do this, when he would no longer be around, and she squeezed her eyelids shut, trying to block out the future. She needed more time with him. She needed him to listen as she whined; she needed him to forgive her when she made mistakes. She needed him to love her the way he had this summer. She needed all of it forever, and she knew it wouldn’t happen.
She allowed her dad to hold her and wept like the child she no longer was.
Later, he answered her questions. He told her about his father and the history of cancer in his family, he told her about the pains he’d begun to feel as the New Year rolled in. He told her that radiation was not an option, because the disease was present in so many of his organs. As he spoke the words, she imagined the malignant cells moving from one spot in his body to the next, a marauding army of evil that left destruction in its wake. She asked about chemotherapy, and again his answer was the same. The cancer was aggressive, and while chemotherapy might help slow the disease, it couldn’t stop it, and it would leave him feeling worse than if he’d done nothing at all. He explained the concept of quality of life, and as he did, she hated him for not telling her earlier. Yet she knew he’d made the right decision. Had she known, the summer would have unfolded differently. Their relationship would have taken a different course, and she didn’t want to think of what it might have become.
He was pale, and she knew the morph**e was making him sleepy.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Not like it did. It’s better,” he assured her.
She nodded. She tried again not to think about the malignant cells invading his organs.
“When did you tell Mom?”
“In February, right after I found out. But I asked her not to tell you.”
Ronnie tried to remember how her mom had acted back then. She had to have been upset, but either Ronnie couldn’t remember or she hadn’t been paying attention. As usual, she’d been thinking only about herself. She wanted to believe she was different now, but she knew that wasn’t completely true. Between work and spending time with Will, she’d spent relatively little time with her dad, and time was the one thing she could never get back.
“But if you’d told me, I would have been around more. We could have seen each other more, I could have helped you so you wouldn’t be so tired all the time.”
“Just knowing you were here was more than enough.”
“But maybe you wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital.”
He reached for her hand. “Or maybe watching you enjoy a carefree summer while you fell in love was what kept me out of the hospital in the first place.”
Though he didn’t say as much, she knew he didn’t expect to live much longer, and she tried to imagine life without him.
If she hadn’t come to stay with him, if she hadn’t given him a chance, it might have been easier to let him go. But she had, and nothing about what was happening was going to be easy. In the eerie quiet, she was able to hear his labored breathing, and she noticed again how much weight he’d lost. She wondered whether he would live until Christmas, or even long enough for her to visit again.
She was alone and her father was dying, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.
“What’s going to happen?” she asked him. He hadn’t slept long, maybe ten minutes, before he’d rolled to her.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Will you have to stay in the hospital?”
It was the one question she’d been afraid to ask. While he’d dozed, she’d held his hand, imagining that he would never leave this place. That he’d spend the rest of his life in this room that smelled of disinfectant, surrounded by nurses who were no more than strangers.
“No,” he said. “I’ll probably be home in a few days.” He smiled. “At least I hope so.”
She squeezed his hand. “And then what? Once we’re gone?”
He thought about it. “I suppose I’d like to see the window completed. And finish the song I started. I still think there’s something… special there.”