Something Like Winter (33 page)

Tim shrugged dismissively.
“I’m a painter studying his subject. That’s all.”

“
Well, study me when I
don’t look like hell.” Eric set aside the book and massaged his
temples. “Do you have classes tomorrow?”

“
Just one. Nothing I can’t
skip. Why?”

“
I know it’s short notice,
but I need you to drive me to MD Anderson.”

Located in Houston, MD
Anderson is one of the most comprehensive cancer centers in the
United States. Tim had already ferried Eric there multiple times,
especially lately, since the strong painkillers he was on made Eric
the equivalent of a drunk driver.

“
Can we take your car?” Tim
asked.

“
Of course.”

“
Then it’s a deal.” Tim
reached out a socked foot and affectionately nudged Eric’s leg.
“What’s the reason? Time to see how the chemo did?”

Eric nodded. “That, and a
few other things. Bring a book. It’s going to be a long
day.”

Tim knew that from
experience. The next day he brought not only a book, but the laptop
Eric had given him for Christmas. Eric dozed for most of the
three-hour ride to Houston, which was just as well, since riding in
cars made him nauseous lately. Plus, this meant Tim could drive the
Jaguar XJR like the racecar it was meant to be.

Tim settled down in the
waiting room as soon as Eric was called away by a nurse. As open as
Eric now was about his cancer, he still didn’t like Tim being there
for the tests and consultations or even when the hospice nurse came
around. That Tim was allowed to be in attendance for the
chemotherapy was an honor, and one step closer in their strange
relationship that Tim still struggled to define.

Today the appointment was
taking longer than usual. Eric reappeared twice, sitting with Tim
while waiting for the next doctor or test results. In between these
periods, Tim tinkered with his laptop, playing card games and
listening to tunes. The nurse on duty, a ramrod-thin woman with
tired blond hair, gave him a sympathetic smile whenever she caught
his eye. When he grew weary of music and took off his headphones,
she stopped to talk to him.

“
I’ve seen you here
before,” she said.

“
Yeah, I might as well move
in,” Tim quipped.

The nurse smiled. “It’s
really nice of you to always be there for your father.”

They got this a lot. Eric
found it annoying, but Tim thought it was funny and rarely
corrected anyone. “It’s the least I can do.”

“
He’s doing really great,”
she said. “For mesothelioma, it’s amazing he’s made it this
long.”

Tim’s jaw nearly dropped.
Were the nurses supposed to be so negative? “Of course he’s made it
this long. He’ll make it all the way!”

“
He will!” the nurse said
quickly. “He’ll be the exception to the rule, especially with a son
like you. You’re both incredibly brave.”

She smiled again—a gesture
Tim didn’t return—before returning to her duties. For the rest of
his wait, he remained haunted by the discussion. No wonder Eric was
so private about his illness, when even the professionals were all
doom and gloom about his chances. The feeling of unease remained
with him even when Eric returned, finally finished for the
day.

“
What’d they say?” Tim
asked as they walked down the hallway.

“
Can’t we discuss something
else?” Eric snapped. “All I’ve talked about today is
cancer.”

“
Sure. No problem.” Once
they were in the car, Tim buckled up but didn’t start the engine.
“Just give me a thumbs up or thumbs down. Otherwise I’ll go
crazy.”

Eric sighed, but he raised
a thumb in the air. “Now get going. I’m starving, and I know you
must be too.”

Thumbs up. Okay. Tim could
deal with that. Maybe they weren’t out of the woods yet—otherwise
Eric would be happier—but they were headed in the right
direction.

* * * * *

Car interior smelling like
cooking grease from the golden arches, Tim swore under his breath.
Eric had asked him to come straight home after class today, but Tim
was running late. He’d only stopped to pick up french fries for
Eric. Lately a lot of things tasted repulsive to him, but good ol’
fries always made Eric happy. Lord knew he could use the calories,
so Tim brought them whenever he could. Except today he had gotten
stuck in the drive-through for an annoyingly long time.

He gunned it home—as he now
thought of Eric’s house. Tim really hadn’t intended to stay there
for so long, but Eric asked him to move in permanently, over and
over again, until Tim happily relented. Today two cars were in the
driveway. One belonged to Lisa, the hospice nurse. The other Tim
had never seen before. Lisa usually didn’t come by on Thursdays, so
Tim ran inside the second his car was parked, fearing the
worst.

He found Eric in the living
room, the one based on René Magritte’s horse painting. For Tim it
had taken on special meaning. While it looked like a woman riding
through the woods, much of the image was missing. People were no
different—everyone had their hidden side, be it sexuality or
illness.

Eric seemed to be in good
spirits. Lisa was seated next to him, across from a man who
reminded Tim of his father, probably because he looked fresh from a
round of golf.

“
There he is,” Eric said.
“What took you so long?”

“
Fries,” Tim said, holding
up the bag.

“
Oh, how nice! Just set
them down for now and have a seat.”

Tim sat, still tense and
hoping for an explanation. “So—”

“
Max Burnquist,” the
stranger said, sliding a business card across the coffee table.
“I’m Eric’s attorney.”

“
Okay,” Tim
said.

“
There’s simply some
paperwork that needs to be filled out,” Eric explained. “I need
witnesses for this to be legal, which is why you are here. Please,
Max, go ahead.”

The attorney started a
handheld tape recorder, set it on the table, and cleared his
throat. Reading from a piece of paper, he said, “Eric Conroy, do
you testify that you are of sound mind and memory and not under
restraint?”

“
I do.” Eric sounded like
he was taking his vows.

“
And do you also testify
that the content of this will, dated March
24
^th
,
2001, is of your own creation or that the contents meet your
approval and intentions?”

Tim’s stomach twisted. A
will?

“
I do,” Eric
said.

The attorney moved some
papers across the table to him. “Please sign here.”

“
Lisa Ownby, do you testify
that the patient in your care is still of sound mind and
memory—”

Tim barely listened to the
rest, distracted by the implications. Did Eric think he was going
to die? When the attorney got to Tim, he answered and signed as
expected. Then he sat there numbly as more details were discussed,
remaining in his seat when Eric rose and saw his guests to the
front door.

“
I hate this,” he said when
they were alone.

“
I know.” Eric sat,
rustling in the greasy brown bag for some fries. “One of life’s
ugly necessities, especially when money is involved.”

“
But why now?”

Eric chewed and swallowed,
sucking the salt from the tips of his fingers. “I have family, you
know. I don’t talk about them much, but I have a sister and a
gaggle of nieces. My sister and I lost our parents, one to cancer
and the other to drink, so we’ve seen the worst that can happen. We
don’t stay in touch much, but she has three daughters headed off to
college. I’ve already made sure they have tuition and everything
else they need. When I die, my sister will inherit most of what I
have.”

“
Don’t talk like that,” Tim
pleaded.

“
A fair amount will go to
charities I believe in,” Eric continued unabashed. “As for this
house, I would like you to have it.”

“
I don’t want it!” Tim
shouted. “I want you, so shut up about your stupid
will!”

Eric didn’t even blink. “Of
course there are property taxes and general upkeep. You’ll have
enough money that, if you’re careful, you’ll be able to afford that
and live comfortably off the interest.”

“
Shut up!” Tim was on his
feet. “Are you giving up? Is that what this is about?”

“
I’m dying!” Eric shouted
back, his composure breaking.

The force of those words
sent the blood draining from Tim’s face. He’d never heard Eric
raise his voice before. Never.

“
You aren’t. You can fight
this!”

“
Not forever,” Eric said,
his voice a croak. “I don’t just have lung cancer, Tim. Do you know
what mesothelioma is?”

Mesothelioma. That’s what
the nurse at MD Anderson called it. Not understanding, he shook his
head.

“
It’s cancer caused from
asbestos exposure—a particularly nasty kind that no one
survives.”

“
What?” Tim’s throat
constricted so tight it ached. “Of course they do. Why else would
you do chemo?”

“
I’ve been fighting for
time,” Eric said.

Tim shook his head. “The
nurse said you would make it through. She said you’d be the
exception to the rule.”

“
I already am,” Eric said.
“They told me nine months, maybe a year, and I’ve lasted more than
two.”

“
See? You’ve already proven
them wrong.”

Eric sat and studied him.
Tim knew this was one of those moments. Eric would either point out
the missing parts of the painting, or he would let Tim continue
believing the illusion. When Eric did speak, Tim almost wished he
hadn’t.

“
The chemo didn’t help. The
cancer barely responded, and I have been having… other problems.
They did some tests and—” Eric shook his head, reluctant to say the
words, tears spilling from his eyes. “They found a new tumor on my
prostate, which they don’t think is from the mesothelioma. I’m
falling apart! I’m trying not to, but I’m just—”

A sob broke from Tim’s
throat as he rushed to Eric’s side. Tim grabbed him, pulling him
close and holding him while they both cried. Eric felt so small, so
frail in Tim’s arms. “Don’t give up,” Tim said, over and over
again. “Please don’t give up. For me. Do it for me.”

“
I didn’t expect to meet
you,” Eric said, his head nestled against Tim’s chest. “I would
have given up a long time ago, but you keep asking me to stay. Had
you not come into my life—”

Eric didn’t finish the
sentence. Tim didn’t need him to. Maybe he was being selfish by
insisting Eric stay, but surely living longer was a good thing.
Eric was fighting just for him, a fact that filled Tim with love
and sorrow—a pairing he was used to. Tim had walked with these
emotions before, each taking one of his hands and leading him to
dark forests he once found frightening, but now were disturbingly
familiar.

* * * * *

Hope fills the heart of
those facing death. They dream of a place where time never runs
out, where the impossible can still happen, be it on this earth or
elsewhere. Perhaps that was why Eric slept so much now, one foot
already in a better place.

Summer had come, the
windows of Eric’s bedroom opened to let in fresh air so full of
life that Tim sometimes believed it could cure him, that Eric could
feed off the beautiful weather like a hummingbird did nectar. At
least then he would be eating. A week ago, Eric had been too tired
to get out of bed. Since then, Tim had been at his bedside,
carrying him to the restroom when needed or making him roll over
and change positions to avoid bedsores. When Eric wasn’t sleeping
they talked, although lately he had less and less to
say.

Tim grew tired of sitting
and staring and waiting, so he fetched the painting supplies he
kept in one of the spare rooms and started working. No longer was
he out of practice. Tim painted regularly, constantly encouraged by
Eric, although he still hadn’t found his own style. He didn’t let
that bother him. Instead he pushed on, letting come what may when
inspiration struck.

Today the light flooding
the room set him off. Edward Hopper would have loved it. Tim took
this light, put it on his canvas, and twisted it around Eric like a
blanket. Protecting him. Saving him.

“
Tim.” Eric’s voice was
dry, so Tim put down the brush to fetch the drinking glass from the
nightstand. Eric sipped from the straw and nodded at the canvas.
“What are you doing?”

“
Painting you.”

“
Like this?” Eric smiled or
grimaced. It was hard to tell. “You’re cruel.”

“
I promised I would paint
you,” Tim said.

“
That’s right.” Eric’s eyes
rolled around the room before coming back to him. “Make me a king,
surrounded by beautiful young men.”

“
I’ll make you an emperor
with no clothes,” Tim teased.

Eric chuckled before he
winced. “Time for more of those poppies, Dorothy.”