Page 87 of Something Like Winter

Tim settled down in the waiting room as soon as Eric was called away by a nurse. As open as Eric now was about his cancer, he still didn’t like Tim being there for the tests and consultations or even when the hospice nurse came around. That Tim was allowed to be in attendance for the chemotherapy was an honor, and one step closer in their strange relationship that Tim still struggled to define.

Today the appointment was taking longer than usual. Eric reappeared twice, sitting with Tim while waiting for the next doctor or test results. In between these periods, Tim tinkered with his laptop, playing card games and listening to tunes. The nurse on duty, a ramrod-thin woman with tired blond hair, gave him a sympathetic smile whenever she caught his eye. When he grew weary of music and took off his headphones, she stopped to talk to him.

“I’ve seen you here before,” she said.

“Yeah, I might as well move in,” Tim quipped.

The nurse smiled. “It’s really nice of you to always be there for your father.”

They got this a lot. Eric found it annoying, but Tim thought it was funny and rarely corrected anyone. “It’s the least I can do.”

“He’s doing really great,” she said. “For mesothelioma, it’s amazing he’s made it this long.”

Tim’s jaw nearly dropped. Were the nurses supposed to be so negative? “Of course he’s made it this long. He’ll make it all the way!”

“He will!” the nurse said quickly. “He’ll be the exception to the rule, especially with a son like you. You’re both incredibly brave.”

She smiled again—a gesture Tim didn’t return—before returning to her duties. For the rest of his wait, he remained haunted by the discussion. No wonder Eric was so private about his illness, when even the professionals were all doom and gloom about his chances. The feeling of unease remained with him even when Eric returned, finally finished for the day.

“What’d they say?” Tim asked as they walked down the hallway.

“Can’t we discuss something else?” Eric snapped. “All I’ve talked about today is cancer.”

“Sure. No problem.” Once they were in the car, Tim buckled up but didn’t start the engine. “Just give me a thumbs up or thumbs down. Otherwise I’ll go crazy.”

Eric sighed, but he raised a thumb in the air. “Now get going. I’m starving, and I know you must be too.”

Thumbs up. Okay. Tim could deal with that. Maybe they weren’t out of the woods yet—otherwise Eric would be happier—but they were headed in the right direction.

* * * * *

Car interior smelling like cooking grease from the golden arches, Tim swore under his breath. Eric had asked him to come straight home after class today, but Tim was running late. He’d only stopped to pick up french fries for Eric. Lately a lot of things tasted repulsive to him, but good ol’ fries always made Eric happy. Lord knew he could use the calories, so Tim brought them whenever he could. Except today he had gotten stuck in the drive-through for an annoyingly long time.

He gunned it home—as he now thought of Eric’s house. Tim really hadn’t intended to stay there for so long, but Eric asked him to move in permanently, over and over again, until Tim happily relented. Today two cars were in the driveway. One belonged to Lisa, the hospice nurse. The other Tim had never seen before. Lisa usually didn’t come by on Thursdays, so Tim ran inside the second his car was parked, fearing the worst.

He found Eric in the living room, the one based on René Magritte’s horse painting. For Tim it had taken on special meaning. While it looked like a woman riding through the woods, much of the image was missing. People were no different—everyone had their hidden side, be it sexuality or illness.

Eric seemed to be in good spirits. Lisa was seated next to him, across from a man who reminded Tim of his father, probably because he looked fresh from a round of golf.

“There he is,” Eric said. “What took you so long?”

“Fries,” Tim said, holding up the bag.

“Oh, how nice! Just set them down for now and have a seat.”

Tim sat, still tense and hoping for an explanation. “So—”

“Max Burnquist,” the stranger said, sliding a business card across the coffee table. “I’m Eric’s attorney.”

“Okay,” Tim said.

“There’s simply some paperwork that needs to be filled out,” Eric explained. “I need witnesses for this to be legal, which is why you are here. Please, Max, go ahead.”

The attorney started a handheld tape recorder, set it on the table, and cleared his throat. Reading from a piece of paper, he said, “Eric Conroy, do you testify that you are of sound mind and memory and not under restraint?”

“I do.” Eric sounded like he was taking his vows.

“And do you also testify that the content of this will, dated March 24th, 2001, is of your own creation or that the contents meet your approval and intentions?”