Page 123 of Something Like Forever
“I usedto feel sorry for you,” Thomas said. “When it became clear thatthis wasn’t just a phase or some sort of experimentation, I thoughtyou were setting yourself up for an unhappy life. The only joy Ihad ever known—true happiness—came from meeting your mother. Iwanted that for you too, so I tried to convince you that you werewrong. Now, with every year that goes by, more of the world seemsto agree with you, and fewer people agree withme.”
Tim braced himself for alecture about the world going to hell, but it never came. He lookedinto eyes the same color as his own, but despite the similarity,couldn’t decipher their intent. “So who do you think is right thesedays?”
“I want you to be happy,”Thomas repeated.
“Ben makes me happy,” Timsaid.
“Good.”
Tim stiffened in shock.Good? For his father, this was practically like him leaping up andmarching around the waiting room while waving a rainbowflag.
“I alsowant you to get better. Your mother and I will help you however wecan. I thought I could explain what I remember of my father’sbattle with cancer, just in case it helps. I’ve seen what it can doto a person.”
“So have I,” Timsaid.
“Because of Eric.” Hisfather nodded musingly. “Then neither one of us wants to see you gothrough that.”
“Definitely not.” Tim shot a glance over at his father, wholooked exceedingly uncomfortable. Somehow he didn’t think a hugwould improve the situation. His own mind was racing. This wasn’tan apology. It was almost better, because it was an explanation. Hehadn’t realized how messed up his father’s upbringing had been, orhow much easier his own was by comparison. Thomas had wanted to dobetter, and for what it was worth, he had.
They sat in silence, Timwondering how far away that Starbucks was, because his mother wastaking her sweet time. Thomas probably wasn’t feeling too relaxedeither. Tim noticed the television in one corner, a sports anchorreporting on the game from the night before, and realized theeasiest way to make peace. “The Astros sure fucked up lastnight.”
“Language,” Thomas scolded. Then he visibly relaxed. “And yes,they did. The Royals stand a real chance this year. They were smartto bring in Martinez. Have you ever seen anyone pitch likethat?”
“He’sgot arms like Popeye,” Tim agreed. “If he was standing on thepitcher’s mound, I’d drop the bat and run.”
Thomas grinned. “Me too.First I’d get his autograph. There’s a game coming up, you know. Inthree weeks at Minute Maid Park.”
“Ohyeah?” Tim asked, not daring to read into this.
“We could go. If you’refeeling well enough.”
“Okay,” Tim said. “Yeah.For sure! We need to cheer the Royals on, let them know they’ve gotfans here, even on enemy turf.”
His father nodded,launching into a lecture about a game he saw when he was younger,and how great teams could still falter even when at home. They kepttalking sports once Ella returned with coffee and after theappointment on the ride home. Tim wasn’t foolish enough to think hewould have the warm sort of relationship with his father that he'dhad with Eric. The love hadn’t grown between them, but somethingwas now there that had been missing before. Respect.
* * * * *
Chemo fucking sucked. Thefirst round had been so different. Maybe they had messed up andgiven him an incomplete dose, because round two was kicking hisass. Tim glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror of thedoctor’s office. Despite buying clippers and buzzing his hair toits shortest length, entire patches were missing. Tim put the bluebaseball cap back on (Go, Royals!) to hide his scalp, which helpedsomewhat. He looked more gaunt than before, thanks to his continuedlack of appetite and chemo making food taste bad. He was on proteinshakes to keep his weight up, and following Dr. Staples’ advice,was still exercising as best he could. Maybe he needed to rethinkthe hat and buy clothes that fit better. Tim felt he looked creepy,like the kind of guy who would loiter around a cruise park atnight, hoping to appear twenty instead of fifty.
He needed good news. Todaycould be the turning point. He washed his hands and returned to aseating area lined with chairs and dotted with outdated magazines.All the world’s a stage, Shakespeare had claimed. These days, Tim’sworld was a waiting room. He walked over to where Ben was sittingand joined him.
“Pleasetell me you didn’t stink up the bathroom,” Benwhispered.
“Why? Do you need to useit?”
“Nope,but a lady went that way as soon as you came back, and I’m worriedshe’ll get in there and lose consciousness.”
“Thenit’s a good thing we’re in a doctor’s office,” he retorted. “Shouldwe send in a bomb disposal robot to check onher?”
A nurse entered thewaiting room. “Mr. Wyman?”
“Themoment of truth,” Tim muttered as he stood.
“It’ll be good news,” Bensaid. “I just know it.”
He sure hoped so. If thetumor had shrunk or—better yet—disappeared, then this nightmarewould be over. Dr. Staples didn’t keep them waiting. She met themin the hall, gesturing to an exam room where scans of his lungswere already hanging up and backlit. His eyes moved to his lowerright lobe, easily spotting the tumor, now that he knew what tolook for. Nothing seemed to have changed, so he assumed these werethe original results, and that she would reveal what two gruelingrounds of chemo had achieved.
“Everyone has a differentphysiology,” she began. “While we can predict with some accuracyhow most patients will react to treatment, there are alwaysoutliers, exceptions to the rule.”
