“Oh.” My heart skipped a beat.
“First, before we go down scary roads like that, let’s just see how your health is in general, okay?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you exercise? Eat well?”
“I’m active and try my best.”
“Okay, have you ever been on medications or dealt with long-term illnesses?”
“No.” I massaged the back of my neck. “Never.”
“Any heart palpitations? Lack of appetite? Abdominal pain? Chest pain? Shortness of breath?”
Shit, I’d had all of those on and off over the past few years.
I glanced at John who sat beside me.
Just like there hadn’t been any discussion about money or I.Ds, there’d been no discussion if he would accompany me into the appointment.
“Go on, Ren. Answer the man.” He scowled, angry with me but also afraid. I understood his fear came from Patricia dying—that he’d leap onto anyone ill because he’d lost someone. But just because I understood didn’t mean I liked being smothered or being told what to do.
The doctor probed me again. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-ish.”
“You don’t know your date of birth?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know your family history and if lung issues are common?”
“No.” I crossed my arms. “Can’t you just give me some antibiotics and clear it up? I probably should’ve had some a couple of years ago when I got the flu. It turned into a chest infection.”
His eyes narrowed as if I’d given him a clue. “Do you often get chest infections?”
“He had pneumonia when he was a lad. Fifteen, I think,” John said gruffly. “Occasionally, he’d get a cold, and they’d stick on his chest for a while, but he was healthy apart from that.”
I threw him a look. “Didn’t know you were keeping such close tabs on me.”
He smiled sternly. “I notice when all my kids are ill.”
I swallowed hard. I knew John loved me like his other sons. Hell, he’d often called me son and treated me no differently.
But to have his concern overflow, to have him bristle beside me and force me into this all because he was worried, made me feel warm and cared for—despite my temper.
Tapping his pen against his lips, the doctor re-read his notes, the wrinkles on his forehead growing deeper. His blue eyes met mine with an intensity I didn’t like. “Have you ever been around asbestos?”
“The building stuff?”
“Correct. Sometimes it’s blue, brown, green…white.”
“Not that I recall.” I snapped my fingers. “No, wait, that’s not true. The police said there was asbestos at the farm I visited last week.”
“Did you inhale any of it?”
I shook my head. “No, we weren’t close enough.”
John went dangerously still. “He lived there. When he was a boy.”
“Ah.” The doctor nodded, his face falling. “How long did you live there?”
My insides went cold and still. “Two years.”
“How long ago?”
I bit my lip, begging my brain to do simple math. “Um, twenty years ago, I guess.”
His pen scratched on paper, wrenching hope from my achy chest. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, studying me as if he had X-ray vision and could see my lungs and the secrets they hid.
Finally, he glanced at John before asking me, “And in that time, did you play with any building supplies or have contact with such things?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. Play? There was no play. I’d been beaten with a piece of lumber, had wall debris smashed over my head, and a hot brand driven into my skin.
If that was play, I didn’t want to know what abuse was.
The doctor, whose name hadn’t been provided, pursed his lips. “Something funny?”
Swallowing a twisted chuckle, I said, “Sorry. No. I didn’t play, but I did use the tractor to break apart an old shed that Mcla—the farmer didn’t want. I buried it.”
“And have you done any other work around suspect buildings?”
I went to shake my head, only a horrible thought appeared. “I did. In 2015 when I got a job as a menial labourer. I was paid cash to dismantle unwanted structures at night. It seemed…shady, and no one else wanted to do it.”
Fuck.
I’d been so happy to take the extra cash.
I didn’t have a clue back then about contaminations or that man-made materials could be so deadly.
My ignorance had given me extra pocket money, but at what price?
John put his head in his hands, elbows wedged on his knees.
I wanted to pat his back and assure him that whatever conclusions his doctor was cooking were wrong. I wanted to say I’d worn masks and gloves and knew what the hell I was dealing with.
But the lies solidified on my tongue and terror turned into stones inside me.
No one spoke.
All of us dealing with ramifications, deep in separate thought. Shakes infected me the more I fell into the pit of despair.
“Right then.” The doctor shattered the taut silence, scribbling more notes. Spinning in his chair, he faced the computer and started typing with two fingers. “There are numerous explanations for your symptoms, so we’re not going to worry just yet. You’re young and fit, which is always a good thing.” He threw me a look, stabbing his fingers on the keys. The process was laborious and not at all smooth like Della’s typing.
“However, I’ve dealt with a lot of claimants over the years and learned that jumping to conclusions can sometimes be a good thing.” His eyes burned into me. “Sometimes, they can save a life.”
Hitting enter, a printer whirred into action.
Grabbing the document, he signed it then passed it to me. “You need to go to the hospital. I’ve referred you for blood tests, X-rays, and possibly a CT scan.”
“What? Why?” The stones inside me manifested into rocks, weighing me down, pushing a painful cough from my lips.
“I’m not wasting time testing for bacterial infections or immune deficiencies. I’ve dealt with too many cases not to see the warning signs. Once I know the answer to this question, then we’ll look at other possibilities.”
“The answer to what question?” John asked, his voice tight, face harrowed.
“The warning signs of what?” I blurted at the same time.
Giving us both a grave look, the doctor answered us in one go, announcing the nature of my death. “Mesothelioma.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
DELLA
2031
HE NEVER TOLD me.
After decades together, unbreakable trust, and a never ending connection, he didn’t tell me.
He
didn’t
tell
me.
Just writing those words breaks my heart into smithereens.
It breaks me in so many ways. It makes me sob, rage, beg, curse, and scream.
For so long now, I’ve shown you how pedantically Ren protected me all my life. Revealed how he would do anything for me, in any circumstance, time, or place.
I’ve painted his picture over and over, showing you exactly what sort of man he was, and how his greatest quality was also his biggest flaw.
He was selfless and careful and kind.
And in this…he was no different.
He decided to carry the burden alone.
I hated him for that.
I cursed him every day for lying.
I never knew what he went through that night.
How John drove him straight to the hospital, signed with his insurance, and sat with Ren for hours, waiting for the tests.
All I knew at the time was Cassie received a phone call as we were on our way back from spending the afternoon with Chip and Nina, saying they’d gone into town for a beer and dinner.
It was a tad unusual, but John had treated Ren to a meal out—just the two of them— before, so I wasn’t overly concerned.
I wasn’t concerned when Ren came home later than normal and tossed his jeans into the wash straight away.
I wasn’t concerned when he ran more ‘errands’ with John a few days later, leaving Cassie and me sketching out stables and arena concepts for her horse business.
I wasn’t even concerned when the phone rang for Ren and he took it alone in the farmhouse, returning a little while later subdued and quiet but still willing to kiss and laugh when I poked him to liveliness.
All that time.
All those minutes and hours and days.
I didn’t know.
How
did
I
not
know?