Page 4 of When the Smoke Clears

Not this again.

“Yesterday, a canary died on my shift,” I say.

Mom snorts. “A canary?”

“Marie Curie.”

“What?” She laughs. “Who names their bird Marie Curie?”

“A psychiatrist in Missoula.” A real piece of work.

“Well, that’s sad that she lost her bird. Did you save most of her house?”

I slowly shake my head. “She wasn’t home. Unfortunately, by the time the neighbor across the street called it in, the house was in flames.”

“Poor lady.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. Despite my aversion to Everleigh Reichart, I wouldn’t wish that destruction on anyone.

“Well, we should visit your dad and find out what flavor of nonsense he’s serving today,” she says.

I stand, holding out my hand, and she takes it with a heavy sigh. Her bravery doesn’t completely mask the nervous smile. She’s worried about him, and so am I.

Running into a burning building to save a life is easy compared to watching someone slowly wither away, knowing there is no way to save them from the inevitable. There’s an arbitrary age that feels like “a good life,” and reaching said age is supposed to make the death process less tragic. It does not. When the day comes that my father passes, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker, and there’s nothing I can do to prepare for or run from it.

What’s most frustrating? Amid my father’s decline and my mother’s uneasiness about it, my mind keeps drifting to the late Marie Curie and her infuriatingly annoying owner.

Chapter Three

I used to live with Fitz the smoke jumper, Maren the tanker pilot, and Jamie the traveling nurse.

My house.

Three of the best roommates.

Then Fitz and Jamie broke the house rules and not only slept together, but fell in love and moved out. After that, Maren fell for a mechanic, even though we agreed to be each other’s backup spouses.

Do I need a roommate financially? No. Would I mind occasionally sharing space with another human? Also no.

Maren answers her phone on the second ring. “Hey. How’s your dad?”

“He’s messed up,” I say, staring at the mesmerizing sunset over Flathead Lake, muted pinks, purples, and yellows as a backdrop to the pristine water. There’s a weathered dock and an idle fishing boat below the haze from a nearby fire. A residual aroma of garlic chicken from dinner on the grill lingers in the air, along with a stickiness from the hot afternoon.

“How did he go from being relatively fine for his age to a frail, confused, and angry old man in a matter of months?” I rub the tension from my neck. “It’s hard to believe I saw him in March, and he was moving snow for the complex with his tractor and repairing a neighbor’s shed. I’ve only been here a week, and just since I got here, he’s declined even more. He’s using a fucking walker. It’s not right.”

“Dang, Will. I’m sorry to hear that. What do his doctors say?”

“They treated him for a urinary tract infection, but he’s still loopy. Mom said something about high calcium, but I’m not sure what that’s from. He’s eighty-two. I know he will not live forever. But whatever this is feels like it’s progressing quickly.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Tired. Stressed. Worried. I don’t know. She’s hard to read.”

“Well, give her my best. Your dad, too, if he remembers me.”

I laugh. “I’ll see if he perks up hearing your name. He’s always loved you.”

“Aww . . . that’s sweet. Oh, by the way, I have good news. I interviewed a few roommate candidates, and I found the perfect one, and she’s very excited.”