Now, though, she clearly felt things had changed. Perhaps she expected me to want to pray, to want to make my peace with my maker.

“Maybe,” I said, but I’m sure we both knew it wasn’t going to happen.

It never rains but it pours.

Dealing with my cancer, of course, took a lot of my time. And Hollus’s visits were now taking up most of the rest of it. But I had other responsibilities, too. I’d arranged for the special exhibition at the ROM of fossils from the Burgess Shale, and although we’d had the grand opening months ago, I still had a lot of administrative work related to it.

Charles Walcott of the Smithsonian discovered the Burgess Shale fossils in 1909 in the Burgess Pass through British Columbia’s Rocky Mountains; he excavated there until 1917. Starting in 1975 and continuing for the next two decades, the ROM’s own Desmond Collins began an ongoing and extremely fruitful series of new Burgess Shale excavations, uncovering additional collecting fields and harvesting thousands of new specimens. In 1981, UNESCO named the Burgess Pass its eighty-sixth World Heritage site, in the same class as the pyramids of Egypt and the Grand Canyon.

The fossils date back to the middle Cambrian Period, 520 million years ago. The shale, which represents a mud slide from the Laurentian shelf that rapidly buried everything living on the sea floor, is so fine grained that it preserved impressions even of soft body parts. A huge diversity of lifeforms is recorded there, including many complex types that some paleontologists, including our own Jonesy, argue don’t fit into any modern group. They appeared, existed briefly, then died out, as if nature were trying out all sorts of different body plans to see which ones worked best.

Why had this “Cambrian explosion” of diversity occurred? Life had already existed on Earth for perhaps 3.5 billion years, but, during all that time, it had taken very simple forms. What had caused so much complexity, and so much variety, to suddenly appear?

Davidson and Cameron at CalTech and Peterson at UCLA have argued that the reason for the simplicity prior to the Cambrian explosion was, well, simple: until that time, fertilized cells were severely limited in the number of times they could divide; ten or so divisions seemed to be the maximum. And ten divisions yields just 1,024 cells, producing quite small, and quite unsophisticated, creatures.

But at the beginning of the Cambrian, that ten-division barrier was smashed by the development of a new type of cell, still seen in some living organisms; these cells could divide many more times and were used to define the morphological space — the fundamental body shape — of all sorts of new organisms. (Although Earth had been four billion years old when that happened, the same breakthrough — smashing the ten-division limit — apparently occurred on Hollus’s homeworld when it was just two billion years old; at that point life there also stopped spinning its wheels and started evolving in earnest.)

Earth’s Burgess Shale contains our direct ancestor Pikaia, the first animal with a notochord, from which the spinal column later evolved. Still, almost all the animal fossils from there are clearly invertebrates, and so a special exhibition of such fossils probably should have been organized by the ROM’s senior invertebrate paleontologist, Caleb Jones.

But Jonesy was set to retire in a few months — no one had yet remarked, to me at least, on the fact that the ROM was going to lose its two most senior paleontologists almost simultaneously — and I was the one who had the personal relationship with the people at the Smithsonian, where Walcott’s Burgess fossils had ended up before Canada had put laws in place protecting its antiquities. I also helped organize an ongoing series of public lectures to accompany the exhibition; most would be given by our own staff (including Jonesy), but we had also arranged for Stephen Jay Gould, whose book Wonderful Life is about the Burgess Shale fossils, to come up from Harvard and give a talk. The exhibition was proving to be a big moneymaker for the ROM; such shows always got us lots of free media coverage and so drew in the crowds.

I’d been excited about the exhibition when I’d first proposed it, and even more excited when it had been approved and the Smithsonian had come on board, agreeing to pool its fossils with ours for a joint show.

But now—

Now, with the cancer—

Now it was just an irritation, an inconvenience.

Yet another thing on my plate.

Yet another demand on my all-too-limited time.

Telling Ricky was the hardest.

You know, if I’d been like my dad — if I’d been content with a bachelor’s degree and a regular nine-to-five — things would have been different. I’d probably have fathered my first child in my early twenties — and so, by the time I was the age I am now, that child would be in his thirties, and maybe even have kids of his own.

But I wasn’t my dad.

I’d received my bachelor’s in 1968, when I was twenty-two.

And my master’s in 1970, when I was twenty-four.

And my Ph.D. when I was twenty-eight.

And then there was a postdoc at Berkeley.

And another at the University of Calgary.

And by that time I was thirty-four.

And making peanuts.

And, somehow, not meeting anyone.

And working late at the museum, night after night.

And then, before I knew it, I was forty and unmarried and without children.

Susan Kowalski and I had met at the University of Toronto’s Hart House in 1966; we’d both been in the Drama Club. I wasn’t an actor — but I had a fascination with theatrical lighting; I guess that’s one of the reasons I like museology. Susan had performed in plays, although I suppose, in retrospect, that she’d never been particularly skilled at it. I’d always thought she was fabulous, but the best notices she ever got in the Varsity were that she was “competent” as Nurse in Romeo and Juliet, and that she “adequately essayed” Jocasta in Oedipus Rex. Anyway, we’d dated for a time, but then I headed off to the States for grad school — she’d understood that I had to go away to continue my studies, that my dream depended on it.

I’d thought of her fondly over the years, but never imagined I’d see her again. But I ended up back in Toronto, and, with my mind always on the past and never enough on the future, I finally decided when the big four-o rolled around that I needed some financial advice if I was ever going to be able to retire, and who should the accountant I ended up seeing be but Susan. Her last name had become DeSantis, legacy of a brief, failed marriage a decade and a half ago. We rekindled the old relationship and tied the knot a year later. And although she was forty-one then, and there were risks, we decided to have a baby. We tried for five years. Susan got pregnant once in that time, but she miscarried.

And so, at last, we decided to adopt. But that took a couple of years, too. Still, finally, we did have a son. Richard Blaine Jericho was now six years old.

He would not be out of the house by the time his father died.

He would not even be out of grade school.

Susan sat him down on the couch, and I knelt down by him.

“Hey, sport,” I said. I took his little hand.

“Daddy.” He squirmed a bit and didn’t meet my eyes. Maybe he thought he was in trouble.

I was quiet for a few moments. I’d given a lot of thought to what I was going to say, but now the words I’d planned seemed completely inadequate.

“How you feelin’, sport?” I asked.

“ ’Kay.”

I glanced at Susan. “Well,” I said, “Daddy isn’t feeling so good.”

Ricky looked at me.

“In fact,” I said slowly, “Daddy’s pretty sick.” I let the words sink in.

We’d never lied to Ricky about anything. He knew he was adopted. We’d always told him that Santa Claus was just a story. And when he’d asked where babies came from, we’d told him that, too. Now, though, I wished we had perhaps taken a different route — that we hadn’t always come clean with him.