Next Time

My brother’s hair is falling out. It’s the chemo.

“It just looks like a bad haircut,” I said. “Mom would believe that. She knows you’re cheap.”

Steve didn’t want to tell Mom he had cancer.

“I don’t want her to worry.”

“Just wear a hat when you see her next week.”

“I don’t wear hats,” he said. “And she knows when I’m lying.”

At brunch, Steve ordered chilaquiles and a mezcal-infused cinnamon coffee. We chatted about how to tell Mom. I said, “Tell her it’s a neoplasm. That sounds harmless.” When I told Mom that I had open-heart surgery last year, I called it a sternotomy.

“Or I could dodge her for a few months,” he said, which wasn’t a bad idea. We’re both accomplished avoiders. When he and his wife lived in Cleveland, they came to Chicago one weekend for a getaway without telling our parents they were in town. Their hotel caught fire, and the newspaper got a picture of him helping people out. When my parents saw his photo saving lives in the newspaper, they were equal parts proud and pissed off.

Steve told me about his cancer a few weeks before our brunch. He called me while I was in Australia. When I told him, he said, “Never mind, we can talk when you get back.” He never calls unannounced, so I knew something was up. I sat down on the balcony and stared out at the Tasman Sea, moving my glass of rosé to the side.

“What’s up?”

Steve and I don’t chat regularly. He’s seven years older than me. He was in high school when I peed in my pants during my first t-ball game. He was a medical school resident when I was partying my way across Europe.

When we both lived in Chicago fifteen years ago, we’d take Dad out for dinner once a month. We’d order martinis and brag about what we were up to. Dad would beam, saying he was pleased that we were such good brothers, that it meant so much to him to see his boys thrive. During his last few years, he mostly listened to us talk and smiled.

When I found out I had a leaking heart valve last year and needed surgery within a few weeks, Steve was one of the first people I told. I played it down, like it was no big thing. I remember exactly where I was when I called him, outside a hair salon where I was about to get a trim and some camo a few weeks before surgery. I wanted to look my best.

And now, halfway across the world, I was gutted by his news, and grateful that he wanted to tell me.

When we finished brunch we said goodbye and gave each other one of those two-pat man hugs. We’ve been doing those our whole lives. “Talk soon,” he said.

He told Mom about his diagnosis the following week, after he and his wife took her to the Milwaukee art museum. She accepted the news as well as any mother could, hopeful and afraid, stoic and saddened.

Steve and I have only gotten together once since then, at a downtown restaurant. It was early for dinner, and we were the only two in the place. He had trimmed his remaining hair tight, which looked much better. I ordered a smoky Manhattan; he had a mocktail.

I asked him how he was feeling. He asked me the same. We talked about work and the kids for a bit, then he got a work call, which went on longer than expected. Bored, I jotted down some thoughts. Writing about him felt like the right thing to do, but also selfish, like I was turning his pain into material.

We said goodbye on the street, gave each other a quick two-pat hug, but this time held on longer than we needed to.

After we let go, Steve said, “Let’s invite Josh and Adam to join us next time.” His son Josh had just moved back to town, and my son Adam lived nearby. They were a few years apart and hadn’t spent much time together. I said that sounded great, and we headed in opposite directions.

Tonight we were brothers, making up for lost time. Eating, bragging, doing a little work.

Next time, we’d bring the boys.

Who’s someone in your life you’d like to spend more time with?