Page 93 of Cruel Submission

“Mirabel.” He steps forward, then glances at my sister. “And you must be—”

“Debra,” I say. “My twin.”

His eyes move between us. Taking in the identical features, the matching bone structure, the way we stand with the same slight forward lean we inherited from Dad.

“Twin sister,” he says, like the word itself needs a moment to settle. “Your father never mentioned… I didn’t know.”

The quiet hurt in that sentence lands somewhere I wasn’t braced for. Not his hurt—Dad’s. The wound of Debra’s disappearance was something Dad carried privately, silently, the way he carried everything after Mom died. He never talked about it with strangers. Never talked about it with anyone, really, except me. And even then, only in fragments. Have they called back? Is there anything new? Don’t stop looking, Mira. The rest he swallowed whole, year after year, until it became part of him the way cancer becomes part of you—quietly, ruthlessly, cell by cell.

“How is he?” I ask, almost holding my breath. “You said he’s in intensive care?”

Dr. Klein nods. “He was admitted a day ago after collapsing.”

My stomach drops, then catches itself. “I see.”

“The attending team ran a full workup when he was admitted—CT, bloods, liver panel, the lot. We thought the treatment was working. His last exam showed that his markers were trending in the right direction for the first time in months.” He pauses. Sets the paper cup down on the counter, as though he needs both hands free for what comes next. “But his bloodwork came back showing severely elevated creatinine and bilirubin levels. His liver enzymes are through the roof—AST, ALT, GGT, all of them. The CT confirmed what we were worried about. There’s evidence of hepatic and renal compromise. Multi-organ involvement.”

I blink at him, trying to make sense of the medical jargon. “What does that mean?”

“His kidneys are struggling to filter properly, and his liver function has deteriorated significantly since his last panel,” Dr. Klein explains. “We moved him to the ICU within a few hours of admission. He’s on vasopressors to maintain his blood pressure, IV fluids, and they’ve started him on continuous renal monitoring. The ICU team is managing him around the clock.”

I hear myself breathing. Each inhale deliberate, mechanical.

“So he’s—” Debra’s voice is hesitant. “It’s bad?”

Dr. Klein doesn’t soften it. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected about him—he doesn’t coat the blade. “It’s bad. The organ function decline suggests his body is no longer tolerating the treatment. We’ve suspended the chemo and radiotherapy, because continuing it would accelerate the damage. But without it—” He stops. Lets the silence do the work.

Without it, the cancer has no opposition. With it, his organs fail. A door on either side, and both of them locked.

“We’re doing everything we can to stabilize him. The next forty-eight hours will tell us a great deal. If his kidneys respond to the supportive care and we see his creatinine start to come down, there’s a path forward. But I want to be honest with you both.” His eyes move between us. “You should prepare yourselves.”

I don’t know what my face does. I know what my body does—it goes very still, like when you need to lock your knees to keep standing.

“Can we see him?”

“He’s sleeping, but you’re welcome to go in. Room 312.” Dr. Klein hesitates, and I can tell the hesitation is professional, not personal. He’s weighing something. “Mirabel, I should mention… he’s not strong right now. Any stress could be catastrophic.”

Oh God.

What we’re about to do is definitely going to be stressful. But what choice do I have? My sister wants to see our dying father, and I’m certain he’ll want to see her, too.

“We’ll be gentle,” I say.

“I know you will.” He looks at Debra again. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

I nod and reach for my sister’s hand, and then lead her down the corridor. The door to Room 312 is closed, a thin strip of light visible beneath it. The nurse at the station told us to go ahead, that visiting hours are flexible on the oncology ward—because when you’re treating people who might be dying, nobody’s going to enforce a clock.

I look at Debra. She looks at me. I squeeze her hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is solid.

“Let’s go,” I say. I push the door open and lean my head inside.

The room is dim, blinds drawn, overhead light off, just the pale glow of the monitors casting everything in blue-green wash. There’s the soft mechanical rhythm of the machines, the IV drip counting out seconds in transparent drops, the distant murmur of the ward carrying on beyond these walls. Quiet in the way hospital rooms are when the person inside has stopped fighting wakefulness. Surrendered to it.

Dad lies in the bed, smaller than I remember. Every visit, he’s smaller. Like the disease is consuming him from the inside and leaving less each time. His hands rest on the blanket, papery and threaded with veins I don’t recognize from my childhood. Those hands used to carry me on his shoulders. Used to fix the chain on my bicycle. Used to hold the torch steady while Debra and I made shadow puppets on the bedroom wall, shrieking with laughter until Mom yelled up the stairs that it was past bedtime.

I step inside. Debra follows.

The sound she makes is so quiet I almost miss it. A small, cracked intake of breath—not a gasp, not a sob. Something more private than either. The sound of recognition, maybe. Or grief.