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What if one day he isn’t here?
“You have always done more than you have to, Quinnie.” Dad rubs my back in big, sweeping circles. “It is not your job to take care of me. You are my child. If I need help you have to trust me to ask for it. And to ask the right people. It won’t always be you, Quinn. It shouldn’t be.”
“But your groceries—”
“Can be delivered.”
“Cleaning—”
“I can still work the vacuum, and Harv knows how to work it, too.”
“So you can ask Harvey for help, but not me?” I sound like a brat, I know I do, but I can’t help it.
“He’s my brother. You’re my baby.” He pulls me in even tighter. “All I want from you Quinn, is for you to still live your life and be happy. Spend time with your old man when you want to, but don’t let this one hiccup halt your life.”
“It’s not a hiccup,” How can he even say something like that? How can he be so cavalier? My tears morph into anger. “It’s cancer, Dad. The reoccurrence rate—”
“I know,” he says, “But you were there Quinn. You were there after the surgery when the doctors said they got the tumor. You were there when they said they had clean margins. You were there when they told you that removing my bladder helped to keep it from spreading outward into my body. You were there when the scans came back and showed nothing had metastasized. I can’t get through this worrying about it coming back. I can only focus on what we know right now. Right now, chemo is preventative. Right now we’re okay.”
I push out of Dad’s arms and turn my attention back to the stove. I carry the pot to the sink and drain the water, dropping each egg into a bowl of ice. They will be horribly overcooked, but I don’t care. I can’t just throw them away. I rinse and clean the pot, drying it with a kitchen towel. I put it back in the cabinet and lean my forearms on the counter. If I look at my dad right now, I don’t know if I’ll cry or scream.
He’s so calm about all of this. Like cancer doesn’t kill. Like people don’t suffer complications in hospitals all the time. Like he isn’t the only person I have left. Sure, there’s Uncle Harvey and his newest wife, Mary, but I didn’t grow up with them. They lived out of state when I was young and I grew up in the era before video calls. I had known Harvey from photos and the Christmas and birthday cards he mailed. They are nice enough, but it isn’t the same.
Jen is wonderful too, but we’ve only worked together for a few years. Jen is younger than me and not only does she have her own family, but she basically has a second family in her best-friend-since-birth Sofia Hill. The truth is, beyond work and my dad, I’m on my own. I don’t mind, really, I don’t. I enjoy spending my weekends reading. I like being at home. I’m not sure that’s much of a life to get back to.
“I can’t just pretend this isn’t happening, Dad.”
I pull one of the eggs out of the ice bath and rub it over a paper towel, pressing down with the palm of my hand to crack the shell. It comes apart in almost two parts, but the stubborn little pieces rip off chunks of the white and I have a sudden urge to throw the egg as hard as I can at the closest wall. It’s already ruined. Why even bother peeling them? I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth then pick up the next one.
“I’m not asking you to pretend it isn’t happening, but I would rather that we spend time together like we used to do. I’m your dad, Quinnie. Not your patient.”
“The Arctic has a home game coming up.” My words have a mind of their own. “I can see if I can get a ticket and we can go together.”
Dad sucks in a breath and drops his chin to his chest. For a moment I’m sure I’ve messed it all up. That when he said he wanted to spend time with me that didn’t include hockey. Why would it? I’ve never shown an interest before. I’m about to offer something, anything, different when he says, “I’d like that Quinn,” and the tension leaks out of my body.
Of course I offered too fast and don’t know how to get a ticket, but how hard can it be? Dad only has the one. A quick check online shows nothing available in Dad’s section. Maybe he’d be okay sitting somewhere else. I can swing two last-minute tickets in the three-hundreds. Erik calls them the nosebleeds, but that has to be an exaggeration, right?
Erik.
I can text Erik. Maybe his family owns the season ticket he’d used or knows who does. If it’s owned by the team maybe his connections can get me in touch with them to buy it. Whatever the price, it will be worth it. I’ll even leave my e-book at home.
I take out the cleaning solution and spray down my dad’s counter. Erik has an important job and I’m pretty sure he keeps regular hours. I don’t want to bother him at work. Not while I’m asking him a favor. I grab a paper towel to wipe down the counter and hear my dad say my name. There’s a sigh in his voice and I drop the paper towel and spray. I just agreed to stop doing things for him and I’m already going back to my old ways.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s instinctive.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Dad says. “This is going to be a change for both of us. I’ve let you be the parent for longer than I should.”
“Will you still keep me updated on everything?” I ask, trying not to let my voice shake. There have been enough tears for one morning.
“Of course.” He chucks me under my chin. “I’m not trying to box you out. I’m trying to make sure the time we spend together isn’t all about cancer. I heard from a reliable source that it’s important for both of us to have a support system separate from each other. We can’t lean only on each other or we’ll both break.”
There is no need for me to feel like my own dad is dumping me. In theory I can understand what he’s saying. In reality, it sucks to hear that I’m not enough. And okay, that isn’t exactly what he said, but that’s what it feels like right now.
“Who’s your all-important source?” I ask. Who had been the one to tell my dad he doesn’t need my help anymore? Doesn’t need me?
“The hospital is working on a program that provides therapy hours for pediatric oncology patients. When I learned about the program, I asked the hospital for a reference to get a therapist of my own.” Dad pulls a business card out from underneath a knit Santa magnet with moveable arms. “Give them a call. I bet they’d have someone you can talk to, too.”
“That’s—” I want to hold on to my mad, no matter how irrational. I want to say I don’t need a therapist. I’m not the one with cancer, I’m just the loved one left at home. The one terrified about the future and aware that I can’t ever say anything. But a therapist for my dad is a good option. I’m not a professional and he deserves all the love and support he can find. And something about this sounds familiar. “That’s Erik’s program,” I say and Dad winks.
