He never pretended the treatments were curing him. He simply refused to let illness become the largest presence in the room.
Whenever pain interrupted a conversation, he waited for it to pass, then resumed exactly where he had stopped.
Except once.
We were playing Scrabble when he tried to tell me about a teacher he once admired. His mouth opened, but the words would not come.
The illness had begun affecting his speech. The harder he struggled, the more trapped the sentence became.
Carl gripped the edge of the table.
I turned toward the window.
“Did I tell you what happened at work yesterday?”
He shook his head.
I launched into a ridiculous story about another volunteer accidentally locking herself inside the supply closet. I added increasingly absurd details until Carl’s shoulders relaxed.
By the time I finished, he was smiling.
“You did that on purpose,” he said softly.
“Did what?”
“Nothing.”
