Reputation(104)

Feet shuffle behind me, and a tall, bearded, exhausted-looking doctor peeks into the room. He carries a clipboard, and his expression is guarded. “Miss Strasser?” he asks, glancing at my sister.

“Yes.” Kit straightens her spine.

“Dr. Stein.” He shakes Kit’s hand. Kit introduces him to the girls and me. Then he shifts awkwardly. “So. Your father.” He glances down at our dad, too, and his expression turns sober. “Something came up in the MRI we just ran. There’s a large mass in your pancreas, Mr. Manning.”

For a moment, I can only concentrate on details of the man’s face: the large pores on his nose, the gold accents on his glasses. Kit bursts out laughing. “Wait, what?”

“Cancer?” I ask quietly.

“Actually, yes. Not that we’ve had a chance to run any tests—but we did call around to other hospitals. Apparently, your father has been receiving pancreatic cancer treatment since January at Allegheny General? His oncologist team treated him with an on-site injector a few days ago—it helps increase white blood cells after strong chemotherapy, cuts down the risk of infection so a patient can go home instead of have to stay in the hospital?”

He says this like we’re supposed to know, but we all just stare at one another.

Kit smiles as if it’s a joke. “No. My father had a panic attack. He’s had a very difficult few weeks. It’s not cancer.”

“We think it’s likely that his incident in the police station was a side effect of the injector medication,” Dr. Stein explains. “It can cause lung issues, trouble breathing, and combined with stress . . .”

“Wait, wait.” I realize something. “Are you saying that our father received a strong dose of chemotherapy only a few days ago? When the hell would he have done that?”

“Right,” Kit says. “He was at Aldrich University. Dealing with the hack.” Then she looks at me. “Wasn’t he?”

But how would I know?

Dr. Stein lowers his clipboard and regards us with sympathy. “Sometimes, patients conceal their diagnosis and treatment as long as they can. They don’t want to be pitied, or to be taken less seriously at their job. Many feel their reputation would be affected if people found out they were going through something so debilitating.” He glances at our father in the bed. “Mr. Manning didn’t lose his hair. He looks thin, but not that thin. He probably thought he was hiding it well. Has he suffered any memory lapses lately? Mood swings?”

I just stare.

“I can understand that this is a shock,” Dr. Stein says. “But we’re in touch with his medical team from Allegheny, so at least we know what we’re dealing with. We’ll be back in the morning with our goal for what’s next—I was told that this round of treatment was to be your father’s last. I’m not sure the therapies have been very effective.”

And then, after giving us a long, heartfelt look, he’s gone, the door swishing closed.

The light in the room seems to have dimmed. All of us stare at one another. There are tears in Kit’s eyes, but I’m too numb to feel much of anything.

Kit looks at our father. “Cancer, Dad? And Allegheny? That isn’t even a good hospital!”

“It’s fine,” our father croaks. “They’re very nice to me there.”

It feels like he’s just shot a bullet though the room—all of us recoil. “So it’s true, then?” Kit says. “You were having treatments? And not telling us?”

“It seemed easier that way.”

“Are you serious?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want to be trouble.”

“What the hell, Dad?”

I place my hand on Kit’s arm to stop her. I understand why my father did what he did in not telling us about his illness. It’s the same reason I had to not tell my story, years ago. It’s easier not to be a burden. It’s easier for everyone not to know. Then, everyone would know.

Kit places her hands on the sides of her head. “I don’t believe this.” Then she looks rabidly at the group. “Does anyone else have a secret they’ve been keeping from me? Anyone? You’d better say it now. I can’t take much more than this.”

The room is silent. Even the A/C has clicked off. Suddenly, there’s a small, weak cry in the corner. Everyone whirls around to look at Aurora. She’s in her seat again, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her face has drained of color.

“What’s the matter?” Kit’s eyebrows shoot up.

Aurora glances desperately at Sienna. There’s that strange exchange between the two of them, and my skin starts to prickle. “Tell her,” Aurora pleads.

Alarm registers on Sienna’s face. She gives a slight shake of her head.

“Tell me what?” Kit asks, straightening, her tone verging on panic.

The girls watch one another. For a while, no one speaks—maybe no one even breathes. Finally, Aurora looks down and breathes in raggedly. “It was me,” she says softly, into her shirt.

“What?” Kit asks.

“It was me,” Aurora repeats. “I did it.”

“Aurora, stop it,” Sienna snaps. “Stop talking.”

Kit turns slowly so that she’s facing her daughters. “What are you talking about?” She whips back to Aurora. “What did you do?” She grabs the girl by the shoulders. “What did you do?”