Gregor was patient and understanding, but the doctor’s words washed over me garbled and loud. The cancer had spread, beginning first in his pancreas. They could give him something for pain, could do treatments to prolong life, but it was all very perfunctory. In the end, the cancer was too progressed. In the end, there was no saving him and no telling how much longer he’d live.
I wanted to scream and cry and fight, but I didn’t because Gregor wouldn’t want that. There’s nothing more confusing than knowing you’re going to lose someone you love and there’s nothing you can do about it. I felt like an egg with a fractured shell, the crack growing larger and larger until I was sure the insides would fall out, scrambled and undone. I wanted to ask Gregor how he felt, but I didn’t. I think he needed that semblance of calm strength, as if he needed to be strong for me to be strong for himself.
There were questions he did answer. He wanted to die at home, and the doctor discussed the care he was eligible for, the palliative nursing he may need as the pain progressed and his body became less able to function. For now, he’d continue as he always had until he just couldn’t anymore.
It was the second day that I asked to drive home. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to drive, I’d just never really had to before. There were a lot of things that were going to have to change. Driving was the least of them. I had a driver’s license, had taken both the written and hands on test when I was sixteen, but I’d rarely been behind the wheel.
Climbing into my uncle’s dented Ford Tempo, I took the steering wheel and stared as he stooped to get in, his face creased.
“I love you, Uncle Gregor,” I said suddenly.
I’m not sure what made me say the words just then. We’d said them plenty of times before, but this time was different. I needed him to know that someone loved him, that someone cared enough about him to change the way they lived to be there for him. He’d always been there for me.
Uncle Gregor shut the door behind him, his fatigued smile wide when his gaze met mine. “I love you, too.”
He settled back against the seat, and I began to drive, the road speeding beneath us, the trees outside blurring into one long line of green and brown, like a stroke of wild paint.
With one unreliable vehicle, I’d always walked while Gregor used the car, so it kind of surprised me that Heathcliff was right. Driving felt good.
“Why don’t we roll the windows down, Uncle?” I suggested.
He didn’t seem loathe to the idea, his eyes on the world beyond the metal body, and I opened the windows, the air rushing in around us. It smelled cleaner and wetter than the closed interior.
“Feels good, right?” I asked loudly.
Uncle Gregor glanced at me, his lined eyes crinkling. “I like you this way,” he replied.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel, a smile forming on my lips. “You look funny with the wind messing with your hair.”
He chuckled.
We passed a line of chicken houses, the foul odor rushing through the car, and Uncle Gregor threw me an amused look. “Hawthorne, how could you?”
“That was totally you,” I teased.
My laughter joined his, and it felt good. Outside, the world was pressing in on us, but it didn’t matter. Life wasn’t about the world beyond anymore. It was about moments. Little moments.
Something caught my eye outside, and I pulled the car over on the side of the road.
“Remember this?” I gasped.
Uncle Gregor sat up, his gaze finding an old silo. It was empty and rusted, the grain long gone. Beside it was a path, a trodden trail leading down to a small lake.
Gregor’s hand went to the door’s handle. Pushing it open, he stepped out, his fatigued face lifting to the bright sun above.
I joined him. “Gosh, I think I was maybe thirteen the last time we came here.”
My uncle had brought me here often when I was growing up. It was his thinking place, he’d told me. We’d play hide and seek in the silo, then trek down to the lake. He’d search the shallow water near the edge for things to study, and I’d fish. Occasionally, we’d take a boat out on the water, letting it float as we ate sandwiches or talked about things; books, people, school, or the future. We’d even fought on the lake’s edge. The first time had been about a cat. I’d had a list of reasons why we needed one, and Uncle Gregor had an equally impressive list of reasons why it wasn’t practical.
Then came the year I turned thirteen, the last year we’d come together. It had been a bad year for me. It was the year I started my period, and the year I found myself resenting Gregor for my parents’ absence. It was normal, he’d told me then, to hate him. It was my hormones, my repressed rage. At thirteen, I hadn’t cared about any of that. I just wanted someone to resent other than myself.
“I hate you!” I’d yelled, tears rushing down my cheeks.
Memories assaulted me as I stared at the silo and the path beside it.
My hand found my Uncle Gregor’s, my fingers wrapping around his. “I didn’t mean it, you know.”
He leaned against the car, his foot tapping. I think he wanted to walk to the lake but was too tired to attempt it. “Children often never mean it. I never thought you hated me. We all say that to the people we love at some point or another.”