Part 6
Beth took his cane out first. “Then let’s get you inside before somebody goes home.”
The receptionist had his name on a note beside her keyboard. Beth’s call from the barn had been followed by Lena’s explanation of the emergency, and the surgical team had agreed to assess him late in the day. Wade apologized for missing the morning appointment, looking at the counter instead of the woman behind it.
She found his file and asked him to sit. Nothing in her manner suggested she was interested in making him pay for the inconvenience. He had prepared himself for a reprimand and found the ordinary kindness harder to meet.
There was weighing, a series of questions he had answered before, another examination, and imaging to complete what the surgeon needed. Beth carried his coat between rooms. Without it, the hospital band stayed visible on his wrist, and he stopped trying to turn the printed side inward.
In the waiting periods, he watched her write names and instructions in a little notebook. She had worked part of a shift, driven frightened to the park, and spent the afternoon getting him through appointments. Now she was checking that he had heard the same thing she had heard each time somebody explained the next step.
“You must have things to do,” he said.
“I’ve told work where I am. The boys are covered.”
“You shouldn’t have to arrange all that.”
She looked up from the notebook. “Would you like me to finish writing this number down?”
He said yes. Beth returned to the page, leaving him with the uncomfortable knowledge that she had answered the useful question and allowed the other one to pass.
The surgeon came in with the available results and moved a chair so Wade would not have to turn his neck. She asked what he understood about the cancer. He gave her the short version, the one he had been repeating to himself since the first appointment, and heard how much he had left out.
She did not soften the seriousness of it. Surgery would be demanding, particularly with his present weakness, and recovery would require help. There were further evaluations and risks to discuss before proceeding. No one in that room could promise what the months afterward would bring.
“But you still think there’s a reason to do it,” Wade said.
“I think it’s worth pursuing the option. I’d like us to make that decision with the information in front of us.”
He looked at Beth. She had lowered the notebook and was waiting, giving him room to ask the next question. He disliked how much he needed her there and how relieved he was that she had stayed.
“How much help?” he asked.
They talked about the first days at home, follow-up visits, and the things he would not be able to do alone. Wade asked about stairs because of the porch step he had let go unrepaired. He asked about getting out of bed because it was easier than asking whether his daughter would have to see him helpless.
The surgeon answered what she could and referred the practical planning to the staff who handled it every day. When a financial counselor came in, Wade reached automatically for his coat, as though the envelope inside it contained money instead of another appointment sheet.
She asked permission to review his coverage and the expenses he was worried about. He named one bill, then another, then stopped because he could hear how quickly the list was becoming an argument for leaving.
“Let’s separate what you’ve actually been quoted from what you’re expecting,” she said.
She wrote two columns. Some items required calls to his insurer. Others might qualify for hospital assistance; there were also programs that could help eligible patients with travel and support after surgery. She promised applications and checks, not that every expense would disappear.
Wade leaned forward to see the page. It was the first time anyone had shown him a list that contained something besides what he owed or might owe.
“I didn’t know there was somebody to ask about that.”
“That’s why they sent me in.”
Beth waited until the counselor had finished describing the next steps. Then she asked Wade whether he had spoken to anyone about assistance before deciding it would all land on her.
He rubbed at the edge of the wristband. “I thought they’d say there wasn’t any.”
The counselor turned a page and gave him time. Beth did not argue; she had heard the answer, and Wade had heard himself give it. He asked the counselor to leave the application information where he could take it home.
By the time they reached the truck, the color had begun to leave the sky. Beth set the notebook on the console and sat without starting the engine. Wade could smell a trace of Amos in the coat she had laid behind his seat, underneath the sharper smell of the clinic.
“I was afraid,” he said.
Beth looked at him. She did not tell him that everybody was afraid or that he would be all right, and that made it possible to go on.
“Of waking up and needing you for everything. You having to decide which part of your life to stop doing.” He worked his fingers around the cane handle. “I couldn’t see how to ask you for that.”
“So you drove off and let me find out you were missing.”
He nodded. There was no version of the morning he could give her that would make that part smaller.
“I’m sorry, Beth. For today. For making you hunt for me.”
She breathed out and rested her head against the seat for a moment. When she looked at him again, her eyes were wet, but her voice had steadied.
“Do you remember the goat you brought home in the truck? The one with three legs? And the hawks? Mom kept having to buy laundry baskets because you’d put something in the last one.”
“I remember.”
“You worked out the next day when it came. You got help when you didn’t know what to do. I wish you’d done a little of that for yourself before deciding what the rest of us could bear.”
Wade looked through the windshield at the hospital doors. People were still coming out carrying folders, coats, small bags of belongings. He had spent the morning trying to make one last visit before his own life grew complicated enough to involve everyone else.
Beth opened the notebook to the appointments. She held it where he could see, waiting while he read the surgeon’s name and the dates beneath it.
“I can’t do every hour myself,” she said. “We’ll need other people. And you’ll have to tell me when something hurts.”
He read the first date again. Then he took the notebook, set it on his knees, and asked her which morning she could drive him for the next evaluation.
Beth reached for her phone to check her shifts. Wade kept the page open while she did it.
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