Feels like Home (Lake Fisher 2)

“I think he notices more than you think,” Aaron says after he gets in and tosses the photo albums into the back seat.

“No. He really doesn’t,” I say quietly.

He reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. But I’m okay with where my marriage is right now. I’m okay with it being over.

“So, what’s up with you?” I ask.

“Not much,” he replies. “Staying busy.” He drives out of the complex and past the campground.

“Kids are doing okay? Since Lynda?” I don’t say “since Lynda’s death” because that part still seems like poking at an open sore.

“Miles and Kerry-Anne are fine. Sam is a little bit of a challenge. She misses her mom. I think she wishes it was me who’d died instead.”

I turn to face him. “She doesn’t wish that.”

“It’s okay,” he replies. “I wish it had been me too.”

The car is quiet for a few minutes. I can’t think of the right thing to say.

“How’s work?” he finally asks me, breaking the silence. “Are you still taking pictures?”

“No,” I reply. I quit doing that a few years ago. “I got an office job. Crunching numbers.”

His brow furrows. “You hate numbers.”

“Have to pay the bills, and taking pictures was just a hobby.”

“When we were little, you never went anywhere without a camera.”

I had wanted to be just like my mom. She always had her camera with her, and I wanted to do everything she did. “I’m not little anymore,” I remind him.

He turns off the highway and pulls up to a medical building. “Come on,” he says as he flings open his door.

“Why are we here?” I ask as I get out.

&n

bsp; “I have an appointment,” he replies. He gets the photo albums out of the back of the car. I follow him in through the glass door, the cold air tingling my cheeks. He checks in and I stand back, but they take him to the back immediately and he motions for me to come too. I follow warily, unsure of what we’re doing. He follows the chatty nurse to the back of the building, where lines of chairs and curtains are set up. He settles into a chair and unbuttons his shirt, where I see a tiny plastic disc on his chest.

I lean closer so I can see it more clearly. “What’s that?”

“Chemo port,” he says blandly, still chatting with the nurse as she gives him a little cup with pills in it, hangs a bag of fluid, and affixes the other end of the tube to the port.

When she’s gone, I blink hard and try to clear the confusion. “Are you sick again, Aaron?”

“Cancer’s a bitch,” he replies.

I suddenly feel like it’s hard to breathe. “I thought you were in remission.”

“I was,” he says. “Now I’m not.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?” I feel like someone just let the air out of me. “How long have you known?”

“I found out a little while before Lynda died.” He stares hard into my eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Honestly, I didn’t want to face it.” He shakes his head. “Cancer a second time is a little scary, Bess.” He looks into my eyes. “And I’m telling you now.”