but hismind remained as sharp as ever. Max had handled all Will's legal affairs since he arrived in Westchester—everything from house closings to incorporating his medical practice.
Max ranted about how much money Will would lose in penalties and taxes by prematurely emptying his pension funds, but when he learned the details of the trust, about how the contents would go to a stranger if Will were alive two years from now, he urged Will to have himself committed.
At times Will wondered if that truly might not be a bad idea. Usually those wonderings occurred when he was lying awake in the bed of the townhouse he'd be vacating in a week. When he considered that he'd soon be homeless and penniless, that he'd be leaving his country and traveling with a strange woman into the heart of a land where he knew only a smattering of the language, a worm of doubt and unease would begin wriggling through his gut. Maybe Max was right. Maybe the stress of having a terminal illness had unhinged him.
But Will managed to struggle through those moments. He'd made up his mind about this and he was going through with it: Will Burleigh was going to have a goddamn adventure before he died.
He went so far as to buy a laptop computer to keep a record of the trip. He backfilled to his first meeting with Maya, then vowed to keep a daily record.
Maybe if he didn't get back, his story would.
Finally, it was done: he had a few thousand in the bank for travel expenses, and the rest—half had gone to cancer research, and half lay in a trust that would go to Kelly upon his death, or to Maya Quennell if he was still alive two years from now. Only Max knew about the trusts.
As for the trip, he told Annie simply that he was going to Mexico, never hinting as to why, or with whom.
Then came the really hard part: telling Kelly.
“What's the matter with your voice, Daddy?” she said. They were lunching at Coming or Going, a little country French place in midtown. Kelly looked so much like her mother Will could almost believe he was sitting with Annie half a lifetime ago. “You sound hoarse.”
He did sound hoarse. Could it be . . . ?
No, the tumor couldn't have progressed that far already.
“Just a little cold,” he said, not wanting to worry her. “And maybe a lot of regret.”
“For what?”
“For not being a better father.”
He'd promised himself on the way in to the city that he wasn't going to get maudlin, but here he was, feeling bad about all those missed opportunities.
“Now please don't start that again,” Kelly said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “You're much too hard on yourself. Even when you weren't around in person, you were there in spirit. And it's not as if you were with another woman, or hanging out at a bar shooting pool and getting loaded. I always knew where you were, always knew you were doing good. You inspired me, Dad. If you hadn't, would I be in med school now? But the most important thing you gave to me is honesty. You never lied, never were a hypocrite. You always lived your values, Dad. That's incredibly precious; it's an example I'll try to live up to my entire life.”
Will felt a pressure in his chest, an unbearable tightness in his throat. He blinked back tears as he held up his hand.
“Stop,” he whispered. “You'll have me bawling like a newborn in a second.”
“Well, it's true. You have nothing to ask forgiveness for . . . except for not treating that tumor.”
He saw that Kelly was puddling up now. Will squeezed her hand. “Kelly, honey, we've been over—”
“I know, I know,” she said quickly, wiping her eyes with her napkin, “but I can't help feeling that you're leaving me instead of being taken away. It's . . . it's almost . . . selfish.”
Is it? Will wondered. Am I being selfish?
But it was his life, wasn't it? If he couldn't decide how his own life would end, what did he have? Was there a more fundamental human right?
He promised Kelly he'd keep in touch
Max ranted about how much money Will would lose in penalties and taxes by prematurely emptying his pension funds, but when he learned the details of the trust, about how the contents would go to a stranger if Will were alive two years from now, he urged Will to have himself committed.
At times Will wondered if that truly might not be a bad idea. Usually those wonderings occurred when he was lying awake in the bed of the townhouse he'd be vacating in a week. When he considered that he'd soon be homeless and penniless, that he'd be leaving his country and traveling with a strange woman into the heart of a land where he knew only a smattering of the language, a worm of doubt and unease would begin wriggling through his gut. Maybe Max was right. Maybe the stress of having a terminal illness had unhinged him.
But Will managed to struggle through those moments. He'd made up his mind about this and he was going through with it: Will Burleigh was going to have a goddamn adventure before he died.
He went so far as to buy a laptop computer to keep a record of the trip. He backfilled to his first meeting with Maya, then vowed to keep a daily record.
Maybe if he didn't get back, his story would.
Finally, it was done: he had a few thousand in the bank for travel expenses, and the rest—half had gone to cancer research, and half lay in a trust that would go to Kelly upon his death, or to Maya Quennell if he was still alive two years from now. Only Max knew about the trusts.
As for the trip, he told Annie simply that he was going to Mexico, never hinting as to why, or with whom.
Then came the really hard part: telling Kelly.
“What's the matter with your voice, Daddy?” she said. They were lunching at Coming or Going, a little country French place in midtown. Kelly looked so much like her mother Will could almost believe he was sitting with Annie half a lifetime ago. “You sound hoarse.”
He did sound hoarse. Could it be . . . ?
No, the tumor couldn't have progressed that far already.
“Just a little cold,” he said, not wanting to worry her. “And maybe a lot of regret.”
“For what?”
“For not being a better father.”
He'd promised himself on the way in to the city that he wasn't going to get maudlin, but here he was, feeling bad about all those missed opportunities.
“Now please don't start that again,” Kelly said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “You're much too hard on yourself. Even when you weren't around in person, you were there in spirit. And it's not as if you were with another woman, or hanging out at a bar shooting pool and getting loaded. I always knew where you were, always knew you were doing good. You inspired me, Dad. If you hadn't, would I be in med school now? But the most important thing you gave to me is honesty. You never lied, never were a hypocrite. You always lived your values, Dad. That's incredibly precious; it's an example I'll try to live up to my entire life.”
Will felt a pressure in his chest, an unbearable tightness in his throat. He blinked back tears as he held up his hand.
“Stop,” he whispered. “You'll have me bawling like a newborn in a second.”
“Well, it's true. You have nothing to ask forgiveness for . . . except for not treating that tumor.”
He saw that Kelly was puddling up now. Will squeezed her hand. “Kelly, honey, we've been over—”
“I know, I know,” she said quickly, wiping her eyes with her napkin, “but I can't help feeling that you're leaving me instead of being taken away. It's . . . it's almost . . . selfish.”
Is it? Will wondered. Am I being selfish?
But it was his life, wasn't it? If he couldn't decide how his own life would end, what did he have? Was there a more fundamental human right?
He promised Kelly he'd keep in touch
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