Chapter 15 - The Saturday Walter Finally Stopped Asking How Long
Winter arrived early in Indianapolis.
By December, Claire had a knitted blanket permanently draped across the sofa because she was always cold.
Walter came over every Saturday morning.
Not every day.
That had been Claire’s rule.
He followed it.
Sometimes he repaired something.
Sometimes he cooked eggs badly.
Sometimes they watched old game shows because Claire was too tired for conversation.
Derek and Claire’s divorce was moving toward final resolution, though several financial details remained unfinished.
The protective order remained in place.
Most of the separately moved marital money had been accounted for through negotiations, and Claire had independent access to funds for her care.
Derek sent one handwritten apology through Rebecca.
Claire read it once.
She placed it in a drawer.
She did not answer.
Her latest scans were mixed.
One liver lesion had shrunk.
Another area had grown.
The doctor recommended continuing treatment while it still offered enough benefit to justify the burden.
Claire agreed.
She no longer asked for a precise prediction.
Neither did Walter.
One Saturday he arrived carrying a grocery bag.
Claire saw peach preserves sticking out of the top.
She looked at him.
Walter stopped.
“Oh.”
For months neither had mentioned the jar that shattered the day he learned about her cancer.
He started to pull it from the bag.
“I can take it back.”
Claire laughed.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Put it in the fridge.”
He did.
Then he made toast.
They ate at the small kitchen table.
Walter talked about a neighbor’s broken snowblower.
Claire complained about hospital parking.
For fifteen minutes, cancer was present but not commanding the conversation.
After breakfast, Walter pulled on his work jacket.
“I’ll see you Tuesday?”
Claire shook her head.
“Thursday.”
His face changed immediately.
“Why? Did they move the appointment?”
“No.”
Claire smiled.
“I’m going with Jill Tuesday.”
Walter hesitated.
Months earlier, that would have hurt him.
Now he nodded.
“Okay.”
He walked to the door.
Claire watched him.
“Dad?”
He turned.
“I’m glad you found out.”
Walter’s face tightened.
“Me too.”
“Even like that.”
He understood.
They would both have rewritten the bedroom scene if they could.
But neither would rewrite the part that came after.
Walter opened the door.
Then he stopped.
There was something he had wanted to ask for weeks.
Claire could see it.
Instead he said, “Need anything before Thursday?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He left.
Claire stood at the window until his truck disappeared down the street.
On the kitchen counter sat the jar of peach preserves.
She opened it herself.
The sweetness was sharper than she remembered.
A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.
Walter had sent a photograph.
An old one.
Claire at twelve years old, standing beside her mother on a hiking trail, both of them laughing at something outside the frame.
Under it he had written:
Found this in the garage. Thought you’d want it.
Claire stared at her mother’s face.
For years, she had believed protecting Walter meant keeping him away from another death.
Now she understood that loving someone did not require sparing them the ending.
It required letting them be present for whatever life remained before it.
She saved the photograph.
Then she opened a blank message to her father.
She typed:
Tell me what Mom was laughing at.
Claire paused before sending it.
May you like
Not because she feared the answer.
Because for the first time since her diagnosis, she was curious about something that had nothing to do with how much time she had left.
