The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)
The Dixon Rule: Chapter 49

Helpless

I MAKE THE DRIVE TO VERMONT IN UNDER THREE HOURS. DAD ISN’T IN the small hospital outside of Heartsong. Mom told me to come to the bigger one in the city. She refused to give any other details, so I have no idea what the hell is going on. Was he in a car accident?

She doesn’t answer any of my calls for the three hours I’m in the car. I’m forced to sit behind the wheel in a state of total panic. The Briar football team is playing Thanksgiving weekend too, and I wish I had the forethought of swinging by the stadium and dragging Diana off the field so she could come with me. But this isn’t her family. Not her responsibility.

I’m a jittery mess by the time I park in the visitor lot in front of the hospital. Mom finally decides to acknowledge my existence, answering my last text to say she’ll meet me in the lobby.

The wind hisses past my ears as I hurry toward the entrance. It’s nippy out, so I shove my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie. I didn’t bring gloves. Or a coat. I just ran out of the rink with my keys and phone, leaving everything behind like an idiot.

I enter the lobby, searching, and when I see my mother’s familiar face, I stalk toward her. “What the hell? I’ve been calling you for three hours.”

“I’m sorry. We were talking to your father’s doctors.”

“About what? What’s going on?”

I notice the deep lines cutting into her features, digging around her mouth, wrinkling her eyes. She looks…old. Haggard. I think back to the last few months, the small arguments they were having, the moments of tension I caught between them. I examine her face now, and it hits me like a freight train. This wasn’t a car accident.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?” I say flatly.

“Yes.”

“What is it? What does he have?”

Mom bites her lip.

“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.”

Dying.

The word lingers in my head. It thuds inside it. Like a drum beat. Dying, dying, dying. My dad is dying.

Mom keeps talking. She says Dad went in for a checkup when the pain persisted. The doctors ran a bunch of tests, and then—surprise. Stage four pancreatic cancer. It’s metastasized. Spread beyond Dad’s pancreas.

“So what are we doing?” I ask hoarsely. “What can we do?”

“All we can do is manage the symptoms.” She reaches for my hand again. Our fingers are frozen. We’re like two ice cubes touching each other. “Sweetheart, we’re talking end-of-life care here. We don’t even have time to prep the house for home hospice, so he’ll be here until…” She trails off.

“Hospice?” I echo with a strangled groan. “It’s that serious?”

She nods.

How is this happening? And why is it happening to him? My father is the best man I know. He puts everyone else first. His kids. His wife. His employees. Even strangers he meets on the street.

Fuck cancer. Fuck this thing that’s trying to steal my dad. I refuse to believe there’s nothing that can be done.

“There has to be something,” I say out loud.

“There isn’t. It’s in his organs. It’s widespread.” She lets out a ragged breath. “The oncologist gave him a few days.”

I stare at her in shock. Anger rises up again.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us earlier?”

“Because he didn’t want to,” she maintains, her tone firm. “He didn’t want his kids to know that he was dying. He didn’t want you to treat him any differently. He didn’t—”

“No, I’ve heard enough.” I stand abruptly. “I want to go see my father.”