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“In the kitchen,” I call back, sliding a cardboard container of steel-cut oats into the cabinet that serves as pantry space.
The builder-grade oak cabinets are the same as they’ve always been, with the same ornate brass pulls. Some of my old drawings are still stuck to the front of the small white fridge. I’m pretty sure they’re from my middle school era, if the sketches of horses painstakingly created with various ovals are any sign. I think it was sixth grade when I started caring about proportion in my drawings. They’re held up by the Santa magnets Dad still collects. I’ve given him one every Christmas since I was maybe two or three. Now he leaves them up all year long and I’ve had to get creative finding new designs.
“Tell me you didn’t buy me groceries.” He busses my cheek as he shuffles into the room and sits heavily on one of his dining chairs. He’s wearing a pair of Velcro sandals with white crew socks, the same combo he’s been wearing my whole life, and I can’t explain why I suddenly have a lump in my throat.
“Just eggs, avocado, oatmeal, some almonds and pumpkin seeds. There’s some chicken noodle soup Jen and I made, and a head of broccoli. Oh, and there’s Greek yogurt in there with honey in the cabinet.”
“Thanks Quinnie.” He shifts to pull his wallet out of his sweatpants.“How much do I owe you?”
I wave him off. “Nothing. I was already out and about, and I don’t mind.”
I pick up the smallest metal pot and add six eggs before filling it with cold water from the tap. I let the water run until the eggs are submerged, then put it on the ancient stove. The igniter clicks when I try to turn the gas on, and nothing happens. I turn it back off, wait a few seconds, then try again. Blue flames softly lick the underside of the pot, and I look around for the lid.
“Quinnie,” my dad’s voice is gentle, but it doesn’t disguise his frown.
“I’m just going to boil some of these up for you so they’re easy to grab. I know your fingers have been bothering you recently, especially when touching cold things, so I’ll peel them before I go.” According to my research, heat sensitivity is a common side effect. I’ve started keeping a pair of gloves in my purse, just in case he needs them.
“Quinn,” Dad says again, and I turn my attention back to the stove. Tiny bubbles are forming along the bottom of the pot, but it’s nowhere near boiling yet. “I appreciate everything you do for me, but it’s not your job to take care of me, baby girl.”
“I know.” I say.
I don’t want to talk about this. Why won’t the damn pot boil or something?
“How would you feel if I showed up at your house with groceries and stocked your fridge? Or came over after work and swept and mopped your living room? Or sent Uncle Harvey to do it?”
“I wouldn’t mind.” The lie tastes bitter in my mouth. We both know that having someone in my personal space, touching my things, doing jobs I’d planned on doing without consulting me first, would drive me absolutely insane. But even though I’d hate it, I can still recognize when someone does something out of love. Even if I don’t want it done ever again.
“You would mind. Probably kick me and Harv right out of the house with clear instructions not to return without calling first.” Dad laughs. “And you’d probably donate all the groceries I brought you to the local food pantry just to prove you didn’t need the help.”
“It’s not the same,” I say.
The pot has reached a rolling boil now and I take the distraction, covering it with the lid before turning down the heat and setting the timer on the back of the stove.
“Why not, Quinnie?” Dad’s hands come down heavy on my shoulders. I didn’t hear him move from the table, but here he is, standing behind me. The skin over his fingers is paler than I’m used to, the skin almost loose as the tendons stand out. Dad’s hands look old. Older than my memories. Almost frail.
I turn around, dislodging his grip, and wrap my arms around his waist. It’s hard to bury my face into his chest like I used to as a kid. I duck my head into his shoulder. He still smells the same, like amber and cardamom and aftershave. My eyes burn and I squeeze them shut. I must have spent too long staring into the steaming pot of water because I’m not about to cry. Not now. Not in front of my dad.
“You know why.” I mumble the words into his t-shirt.
He pulls me in closer, arms flexing against my back. He’s thinner than before, his shoulder blades delicate under my touch. My nose tingles like I need to sneeze, and a tear leaks from the corner of one eye. Dammit. No.
“I’m sick,” Dad says and no matter how I lock my muscles and order myself not to, I can’t hold in the sob that tumbles out. “I’m sick, but I’m getting better.”
He rocks me back and forth as more tears escape onto the gray cotton of his shoulders. I hope he can’t feel the wet against his neck, but he probably can. Either way, it’s not like he doesn’t know I’m crying. My whole body shakes as I try to stifle the sobs.
I’m not supposed to be doing this. I promised myself I would not make this—cancer, chemo, surgery—about me. I’m not the one fighting. I promised that he’d never see me cry, not unless they’re happy tears. I failed. We have months to go and I failed him. Dad murmurs something against my hair, soothing words I can’t make out, but the cadence of them helps. He’s comforting me. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but I can’t bring myself to step away. I just let my dad hold me like I’m five years old again and wipe my nose on the cotton of his shirt.
“I know the treatments have been hard on both of us,” he says long after the timer has gone off and my sobs dissolve into sniffles.
Dad reaches behind me to turn off the stove, but the eggs are most definitely ruined. I couldn’t even do that right for him. Boiling eggs is about as simple as it gets. I feel the tears pool again and I suck in a watery breath.
“I’m exhausted and my stomach is off,” Dad says. “I ache, and my brain doesn’t always work the way I want it to.”
“I j-just want to h-h-help.” More tears clog my throat, “I c-can take care of th-th-things for you.” I need to. If I could shrink down and fight the cancer cells myself I would, but I can’t. This is what I can do. I can make sure he’s fed and comfortable. I can make sure he can focus on getting better instead of worrying about errands. If I focus all my energy on what I can do, then I won’t have time to think about what I can’t. I won’t have to think about what happens if… none of this works.
What if the treatment doesn’t work?
What if he doesn’t get better?
