Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

The small joke does lift my lips. He knows I’m always keeping track of him to make sure he’s eating and drinking enough every day and doesn’t look too tired or seem too pale.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Straight to the core, no tip-toeing around for Unc. No way, that’s not his style.

“I can’t.”

No one can know why I did what I did, what I gave up so that Bobby can have his dream come true. That’s between me and the jagged shards of my heart.

Unc grunts, looking disappointed. I bet he thought the doughnut and coffee treatment would get me to spill my guts. In any other situation, it probably would.

“Fine. Keep your business to yourself. Of anyone, I can damn sure understand that.” Somehow, he has managed to keep his cancer diagnosis out of the grapevine. As far as I know, the only people who know are him, Doc Jones, Mom, and me.

“Thanks.”

“Wanna know what I’ve learned?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer but keeps right on rolling. “When it gets bad and you want to lay down and die, because at least then you wouldn’t be in pain, you need a distraction. Like how they get women in labor to do all that huffing and puffing.” He demonstrates, filling his cheeks and making a hee-hoo-hee-hoo breathy sound. “Don’t know if it does anything special for the baby, but it gives the mama something to do. Distraction.” He nods like he’s made some groundbreaking discovery. “So, you wanna go fishing with me?”

“Fishing?”

Why in the world would he think fishing would distract me? The idea of sitting still on a boat in the middle of the lake, being quiet so I don’t disturb the fish, sounds like the exact opposite of what I need. Out there, I won’t have anything to do but listen to my screaming heart.

“Yeah . . . fishing,” he repeats with new emphasis. I realize what he’s actually asking and murmur my recognition. Quietly, though no one’s here but us, he says, “I’ve got a checkup in an hour. Come with me.”

All the stuff with Bobby and my broken spirit freezes. Unc needs me. He needs me so much that he’s asking outright for me to go with him. I can thaw out my mess later, cry some more, and remind myself why I did it. But right now, Unc’s appointment is the distraction I need. And I’m the help he needs.

I shove the rest of the pink doughnut with sprinkles into my mouth, mumbling around it, “Give me five and I’m ready.”

I expected to sit in a patient room with Unc since he called this a check-up. But we’re in the doctor’s small office, seated in two chairs with our knees nearly bumping against the front of the desk. The artwork on the walls draws my attention, as usual. It’s bland, boring, and abstract. Its primary purpose is to be unoffensive, forgettable, a simple space filler. Mom would hate it. I do too. Its emptiness reminds me of my own, devoid of meaning.

That’s not true, Willow. Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not meaningless, I’m just Bobby-less.

Same difference, it feels like.

Unc reaches over and takes my hand. His palm is soft, but the remnants of calluses remain from his years of hard work. The skin feels paper thin, his bony knuckles prominent. I grip him tightly, needing to believe that he’s okay and that we have time. I’m thankful that I’m here.

The door opens and a white-coated man walks in. He’s younger than I’d expected for some reason, probably in his early forties at most, with perfectly combed hair, reading glasses on the tip of his nose, and kind eyes. He must both love and hate his job as an oncologist, being the bearer of both prayed-for good news and life-ending news.

He’s got a poker face that could match Unc’s, not clueing me in about today’s appointment.

He sits down in the leather executive chair behind the desk, flipping through the papers in the folder he holds. “How’re you feeling, Hank?”

Unc shrugs. “Guess that depends on what you tell me, Doc.”

The doctor smiles at the gruff answer. “Fair enough. Let’s go over your numbers . . .”

He launches into a spiel of numbers and acronyms that don’t mean anything to me. He might as well be speaking another language. Well, I guess he is. He’s speaking Doctor-ese, or Cancer-ese, or something else that only some people understand.

Unc nods along, seeming to get it.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “but I have no idea what any of that means. Can you spell it out for those of us without M.D.s?”

The doctor smiles serenely, looking from me to Unc, who gives a grunt of permission. “Of course. You must be Willow?” I nod, surprised he knows that. He’s too far out from Great Falls to be part of the gossip chain, so Unc must’ve mentioned me. “What it boils down to is . . . it’s working. Hank’s cancer is responding to the meds, so his blood levels look better than they have since he first came to me. The latest scan shows improvement too.”