11. Inheritance

INHERITANCE

P ancreatic cancer.

Those two words fill my world with an ache so deep, I can't form a coherent thought.

The EMTs, Fred Cavanaugh and Tom Jenkins, allow me to ride in the ambulance for the two-hour ride to Billings. Tom works with a quiet efficiency, placing an IV into my uncle's hand and taping it securely in place. He hangs fluids, takes vitals, and scratches on a flowsheet.

"I'm sorry," he says after a prolonged silence. "You didn't know?"

I shake my head. "He didn't tell me."

Tom flicks his sandy blond bangs back from his freckled face and blows out a deep breath. "Well, it's not common knowledge. I don't think anyone really knows."

"You knew."

"Well, he had to tell us."

"How long?" How long has my uncle been dying? That's the question I want to ask. "When was he diagnosed?"

"A month or two at most. Maybe he was waiting to tell you in person?" Tom crinkles his nose, his brows pinching together.

"Maybe."

Would it change things? If I knew, would I have agreed to take over his practice one year out of residency? I planned on years, learning by his side. I'm not ready to practice alone.

The only reason I agreed was because I needed an excuse to leave Redlands. It was too easy to slip into an unhealthy relationship and even harder to leave it behind. My uncle gave me the perfect out because I sure as hell wasn't able to walk away on my own.

I wasted a year trying to establish myself as a new graduate, failing more often than not alongside a man who used his fists more than his heart.

My uncle's call saved my life, and the idea of working beside him fills me with pride. Never in a million years did I envision myself as a small-town doc, but he loves his job, and I've been excited to return to the town which filled my summers with love and cherished childhood memories.

Now?

Pancreatic cancer?

All cancers are bad, but none sweep into a person's life with the same speed and devastation as pancreatic cancer.

There's palliative treatment, but no cure, and once diagnosed, the relentless course of the disease can rarely be slowed. Some people live a few years, but most die within months. If I understand what Tom says, my uncle only found out a couple of months ago.

We don't have enough time.

The ambulance races down the small highway and soon pulls up outside St. Vincent's emergency department in Billings.

"Thank you," I say my goodbyes to Tom and Fred.

"Our pleasure," Tom says. "Listen, if you need anything, give us a call. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. Doc Bateman says nothing but good things about you. I look forward to working with you."

Fred shakes my hand. "Seriously, anything you need, you call us."

A lump in my throat is the only thing holding back a flood of tears. I will soon be working with these men, and I don't want them to see me break down. Perhaps they understand because they don't pressure me for more conversation. They jump inside the ambulance and wave goodbye.

The staff of St. Vincent's places my uncle on the HemeOnc ward for observation overnight. The doctors tell me he's dehydrated and attributes his fall and subsequent disorientation to that, but they're thorough and examine him for any injury to his head from the fall. They fully expect a short stay and have hopes he might be released in the morning.

Visiting hours end, and I make reservations at a local motel. As I snuggle under the scratchy covers, my thoughts turn to the soft flannel of Bert's twin bed and to the magnanimous stranger who saved my life and kissed me senseless.

When I arrive at the hospital the next morning, Uncle Pete is sitting up in bed, picking at the food on his breakfast tray.

"Uncle Pete!" I race through the door and give him a hug.

He reaches up, returning a much weaker hug. "Abigail! Honey, it's so good to see you."

Leaning back, I look him over, unsure what to say. My eyes brim with tears and my heart aches. "I was so scared."

He bites at his lower lip. "They told me what happened." His shaky fingers brush back a lock of hair and his eyes pinch. "I'm sorry, hun. I wanted to tell you myself. I didn't expect…"

"Tom told me."

Uncle Pete nods. "He's a smart kid, and dedicated." He pulls in a deep breath and blows it out in a rush.

"How advanced is it?"

He purses his lips. "Advanced enough."

"Tom mentioned hospice?"

"We're not quite there yet, but I expect it'll be soon."

I can't hold back the tears any longer.

"Hey," he says. "It's going to be okay."

"I just thought we'd have more time."

"I'm okay," he says. "I've found my peace, and Martha's been waiting long enough. It's time for me to join her."

He misses his wife. I can't fault him for that. Nearly eight years after my parents' deaths, the pain of their loss hits hard most days. He lost his wife, his soulmate, and maybe living without her hurts more than dying. At least he doesn't look scared confronting his death. Perhaps he truly is at peace with it, and if he is, then I will be too. Even if it makes my heart break.

"How was your drive?" he asks. "I thought you were supposed to get in last night?"

"I was."

"I worried about you on the roads and figured you'd stopped for the night."

I laugh. "Oh, Uncle Pete, do I have a story to tell you."

He scoots over, and I snuggle beside him. Telling him about my late-night adventures doesn't sound as scary in the comfort of his arms.

He gasps when I tell him about the moose and driving into the ditch. He barely believes me about the wolves or the overland hike. I don't get to tell him much about Drake because his team of doctors come in for rounds.

"Good news," Doctor Blount says. "We're cutting you loose."

"Oh, good," my uncle says. "I'm ready to go."

"We just have a bit of paperwork to take care of, and then you're cleared to go home."

When the team leaves, I kiss my uncle on the cheek. "Hey, I need to figure out how we're getting home." My Jeep is still sitting outside his house.

Briefly, I consider calling Tom, but he's probably working. Drake or Bert would be good choices, except I don't have either of their numbers. I thumb on my phone and search local car rentals. Hopefully, this won't hold up getting home.

After a bit of internet searching, I rent a car from a local rental agency. They make it easy and pick me up at the hospital. By the time I complete the required paperwork, my uncle is discharged. I meet him in his room and then walk with him while the nurse wheels him down to the hospital lobby. The whole way, I pay close attention to his balance, his stamina, everything really.

During the drive back, we talk about his wishes, both for end-of-life care and his funeral. The sobering discussion isn't easy, but he's thought about all the details. All I need to do is take care of a few loose ends.

"There's something else," he says.

"What's that?"

"It has to do with your inheritance."

"I don't need anything."

"I appreciate that, but this comes from your Aunt Martha's side of the family, and in many ways, from your mother as well."

"Really?"

An odd turn in the conversation, but I listen. I received a healthy inheritance from my parents. I invested most of the money in stocks, and the rest paid for medical school. I'm not rich, but I have comfortable reserves stashed away. Reserves that Scott thankfully never knew about. It never occurred to me to presume an inheritance from my aunt and uncle. It's one of those delicate topics not easily addressed.

"You're the last daughter in a long line of remarkable women."

I know a little of my family's legacy. One of my ancestors immigrated from Ireland during the potato blight, and after a few years, moved out west. I grew up with the stories about the women in my family making a home for themselves in the Wild West.

While he talks, I steal a glance at the odometer and try to gauge where I had my accident. I estimate I was five miles or less from town when I ran off the road.

My uncle coughs. "There's a trust which has passed from generation to generation. To avoid splitting the homestead, it passed through the firstborn daughters. Since Martha and I never had children, she intended for you to inherit the trust. On your thirtieth birthday, you'll gain control."

"What are you talking about? What homestead?"

He tugs on the shoulder strap of his seat belt and shifts to a more comfortable position. "You've been there. Martha and your mom took you when you came to visit."

I remember trips out of town. Long drives and even longer days playing in the eddies of a slow-moving river, learning to skip stones and fly fish. It never occurred to me to ask about who owned the land.

"We had fun. I remember hot summer days, swimming, and hiking. Mom would build a fire, and Aunt Martha brought stuff to make s'mores. We stayed past dark and watched shooting stars."

"That's the place."

"It would be fun to go back and explore."

He coughs again. "There's a lot to explore."

"Do you think there's enough space to build?" My childhood memories include a longish ride in the back of a car, but I can't remember how far from town the land might be.

"Abby," he says, his voice turning serious. "I don't think you understand."

"Understand, what?"

"It's more than a place to plop a house."

"Well, a few acres will be harder to maintain, but I'm sure I can handle it."

He laughs. "Honey, the parcel is over ten thousand acres. You're a landowner now, and there are things you need to know about that land."

"Excuse me?"