Page 195 of The Dixon Rule

“Mom,” I thunder, then take a breath when she flinches. I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.” My voice shakes. “Just tell me what he has, okay? Actually, forget it. Just take me up to see him. Where is he?”

I start marching to the elevator, but she grabs my hand, tugging me backward.

“Not yet,” she says quietly. “I need to prepare you.”

“Prepare me?” Fear pummels into me with a thousand times more force than the hit I took tonight. The bruise on my shoulder is nothing. A pinprick compared to the stab of agony I feel now. “How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

She leads me down the hall toward an empty bench, urging me to sit. She takes my hand, and her fingers are ice-cold against my skin.

“He has pancreatic cancer.”

I stare at her, not quite comprehending. “What? How?” I can’t stop the sarcasm. “You don’t suddenly come down with a case of pancreatic cancer—” Horror hitches my breath as it dawns on me. “How long have you known?”

“Six months.”

I don’t get scared often, so everything I’m feeling at the moment is foreign to me. And it’s beyond fear. It’s terror. It’s agony I’ve never known. It’s rage as I stare at my mother.

“Six months?” I push her hand off me, unable to fathom what she’s saying. How she could do this to me. “You knew about this for six months and didn’t say a word?”

“It was his decision.” Mom sounds tired. Defeated. “He didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want either of you to know.”

I suddenly remember my little sister. “Where’s Maryanne?”

“She’s upstairs in the waiting room with your aunt.”

“Has she seen him? Does she know what’s going on?”

“Yes. We told her this morning when we had to admit him.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to draw blood. The coppery flavor fills my mouth. “Why was he admitted? Does he need surgery?”

Mom shakes her head. “It’s inoperable.”

I swallow. “Okay. So, chemo? Radiation?”

“It’s untreatable.”

My forehead creases. “Is he dying?”

“Yes.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you—” I quickly stop when several heads swing in our direction. A nurse in green scrubs frowns at me as she walks past us.

I bury my face in my hands and release a silent scream. Then I lift my head and look at my mom. Helpless.

“What the hell is going on?” I sound defeated too now.

In a quiet voice, she describes everything they’ve been dealing with these past six months. It started with some bloating, then abdominal pain. A stomachache that seemed to come out of nowhere. They assumed the resulting loss of appetite was due to the pain. And, of course, eating and drinking less means weight loss. And I want to slap myself, because I noticed him getting thinner. Christ, I thought he was working out. He had let himself go these last few years, too busy with work to hit the gym or go golfing with me.

Here I was, thinking my dad’s looking good, congratulating him on the weight loss.

Jesus Christ.

My stupidity triggers a rush of frenetic laughter. Mom gives me a sharp look.

“I’m such an idiot,” I wheeze out, unable to stop laughing. “I thought he was losing weight because he was exercising. Meanwhile, he’s fucking dying of cancer.”

---