by Lisa Genova
“I dunno.”
“You know you don’t have HD now, even if you’re gene positive.”
“I know.”
“And you might be gene negative, so all this planning around you having HD someday might be a colossal waste of time.”
“I know.”
“Then come with me!” he says, smiling, trying to persuade her with his dimple. That usually works.
“It’s not that simple.”
“You know you could line up the subs if you wanted to.”
She shrugs out of instinct, feeling like a kid in trouble with her parents. When cornered, it’s better to say nothing.
“If you get the test results, and it’s positive, are you breaking up with me?”
“I don’t know.”
Maybe. Probably.
“Jesus. You don’t know if you’re coming with me on Monday. You don’t know if you’re moving with me in June. You don’t know if you’re going to find out your test results. You don’t know if you’re breaking up with me if you have the HD gene. What the fuck do you know, Katie?”
She doesn’t blame him for getting frustrated and mad at her, but she can’t stand it. She hangs her head and stares at her claddagh ring, imagining her lonely finger without it. She wants to shrug or say I don’t know again and avoid him. She’d like to avoid everything—her test results, thinking about June, watching her dad fidget and fall, thinking about HD, being a depressing source of anger and frustration for Felix. Maybe she should break up with him now. His life would be so much easier without her.
Sometimes it feels as if Huntington’s is the only thing she knows. Her head is filled with thoughts of nothing else. HD. HD. HD. She looks up at Felix, his brown eyes focused on her, waiting, wanting her, and she wants him, too. And then she’s struck in the heart with what she knows other than HD, the unavoidable truth and the courage to speak it.
“I love you.”
Felix softens. He hugs her and kisses her gently on the lips.
“I love you, too. I know what you’re going through is terrifying and unfair and really hard. But you have to go through it. Right now, you’re just standing still. You’re sinking in it. Let me hold your hand and go through it with you.”
Katie nods. “You’re right. I want to do that.”
Felix smiles. “Good. I love you if you do or don’t have the gene, but I’m not doing a long-distance relationship. I’m not interested in seeing you on FaceTime or Facebook. I want to be in this with you, in person. All or nothing.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, but at least I’m being clear on what I want. Can you get clear for me? For us?”
“It’s like you’re giving me an ultimatum.”
“I’m leaving in four months,” he says, his outstretched hand pointing out the cardboard boxes. “You don’t seem to grasp this. I feel like you’re deciding not to decide, and then the day will come, and I’ll go and you’ll stay because you never decided what to do.”
He’s right and he’s wrong. He knows her so well. She’s totally stuck. She can’t make any decisions. Does she get her results, or live not knowing her genetic fate? If she gets her results and she’s gene positive, does she break up with Felix or stay with him? Does she move to Portland with Felix against her dad’s wishes, abandoning her family in their time of need, or does she stay in Charlestown?
If she had to give an answer today, she’d honor her father and stay. Interestingly, if HD weren’t in the picture, her dad practically forbidding her to move with Felix might’ve pissed her off just enough to send her packing. But HD is smack dab in the center of the picture, and her dad’s influence gives her one more valid reason to pause, legitimizing her stagnation.
To be or not to be, that is the question. And so far, the answer has been radio silence. But she grasps that whatever she decides or doesn’t decide, Felix is moving in four short months. She grasps this every hour of the day.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do,” she says.
“About the test results?”
“For one thing.”
“I think you should find out.”
“You do? You didn’t even want me to do the testing.”
“Not knowing isn’t exactly sitting well with you. You’re living like you’ve been handed a death sentence.”
“I am?”
She didn’t think he noticed.
“Yeah. I think you need to be okay, really authentically okay with not knowing, or you need to find out.”
So true. But which one should she choose? That’s the million-dollar question. She spends hours every day internally arguing the pros and cons of either decision. Ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is power. Living in the moment is enlightened. Planning for the future is responsible. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. By the end of each day, the tally is either even on both sides or too dizzying to count, and she collapses into bed, exhausted from the effort.
“If it’s negative, would you move to Portland with me?”
Katie considers his question as if she’s working through a profound and sacred riddle. It’s a strange shift in perspective, imagining a gene-negative outcome, free of Huntington’s, when so many synapses in her brain have been devoted to practicing the opposite. Then there’s her father’s voice, the one she’s always trusted and tried her best to obey, telling her to stay. Staying in Charlestown. The idea feels like a noose pulled tight around her neck. Staying. She’s shackled to a future as predetermined as her risk of HD.
She looks into Felix’s eyes and sees an invitation to freedom. Freedom from Huntington’s, freedom from the smothering limitations of this neighborhood, freedom to love and grow into who she really is. If she’s gene negative, this is her chance. Sorry, Dad.
“Yeah,” she says. “I would.”
A wide, immensely excited smile spreads across Felix’s face. She feels excited, too, realizing what she just admitted aloud, but the thrill is quickly seasoned with fear and guilt. She told her dad she wouldn’t go. Leaving would break her mother’s heart. JJ and Meghan are gene positive. Who does she think she is, imagining her life gene negative? Why should she be granted such a freedom? Felix hugs her, unaware of the obstinate torment within her, and holds on to her shoulders.
“That’s progress! Excellent. Okay, so now we know what’s holding you back. What about if it’s positive?”
Felix’s hands suddenly feel unbearably heavy on her shoulders, pinning her down.
“I dunno,” she says, knowing.
“Okay; we can cross that bridge if we find ourselves on it. How about just coming with me to Portland this week? Think of it as a vacation.”
Katie presses her temples with her fingers. She’s got a screaming headache. She could use a vacation, an escape. But she could go all the way to Fiji, stay in a five-star hotel situated on a private beach, and she’d still be thinking about HD. There is no escape.
“I really can’t.”
“Fine.”
Felix rises abruptly and returns to the bookcase.
“You still want to watch a movie?”
“I don’t care.”
Katie watches him packing another box, not looking at her. From what he’s told her about his job, she imagines Felix as a powerful and effective manager at the office. Her refusal to see things his way must be making him crazy. But he doesn’t look like a man throwing a tantrum, taking his ball and leaving the playground because he didn’t get what he wanted. His shoulders are turned and slumped, his eyes downcast. Her heart tenses, her blood pulsing hard against her temples as she understands his face. He looks scared. In all her self-centered fear, it never occurred to her that he could be scared, too.
“I’m sorry, Felix. Will you be going out there again before June? Maybe I could come next time.”
Felix shrugs. A tast
e of her own medicine.
“I’m just not ready to go next week. I didn’t find any subs.”
He says nothing.
“Go pick an apartment without me. I trust you. I’ll love anything you love.”
June first is a Monday. Katie imagines waking up that morning, her books still displayed in her bookcase, her clothes still hanging in the closet, her suitcases not packed, kissing Felix good-bye as he leaves for Logan Airport, staying behind and standing still out of fear of being HD positive. She loves him, and he deserves a life that isn’t cursed with Huntington’s. But what if she doesn’t move, she doesn’t open her own yoga studio, she breaks up with Felix, and it turns out she’s HD negative?
She will have given up everything for nothing.
CHAPTER 28
Yaz stopped walking three days ago. Joe didn’t have to convince Rosie of anything. She agreed. It’s time. Rosie already said her good-bye. She knows this is the right thing to do, but she can’t bear to see it happen. Joe thanks God she has baby Joseph to keep her distracted, or she’d be an inconsolable mess.
“Who’s driving?” asks Katie.
“You do it,” says Meghan. “I don’t wanna go. It’s too sad.”
“Gimme the keys,” says Patrick. “I’ll drive. You and Katie stay here. Me and Dad’ll do the dirty work.”
Katie hands the keys to Patrick, and Joe leads the way to the front door, trying to pretend this conversation about driving had nothing to do with him. But he knows he’s the reason for every word, and despite his feigned ignorance, he feels shamed and helpless.
Two weeks ago, Joe was asked to turn in his service-issued weapon. Three days later, upon recommendation of the department physician, Rick informed him that they had to notify the Registry of Motor Vehicles that Joe was no longer medically fit to be behind the wheel. Rick then elaborated. If Joe were ever to get into a car accident and hurt someone, a scenario the physician and Rick apparently deemed imminent and likely, and the injured party were to find out that Joe has Huntington’s and the Boston Police Department knew about his illness, they’d be liable. Allowing Joe to drive, even off duty, would be inviting tragedy, a huge lawsuit, and a media shit storm. So, Rick notified the RMV before notifying Joe, and the state revoked his license to drive.
With no service weapon and no driver’s license, Joe didn’t need an interpreter to read the writing on the wall. He officially and unceremoniously quit his job four days ago. And then, as if in an act of solidarity, Yaz quit walking. It’s been a fuckin’ awful week.
Joe still has a license to carry and legally owns his personal handgun. But he suspects that this license, too, will go. Somewhere, someone has already yelled out Timber! and the tree is on its way down.
So Patrick is driving, and Joe and Yaz are in the passenger seat. It’s a short distance to the vet’s office in Somerville, but they’re in traffic and facing at least a half dozen lights, plenty of time for Joe to have a conversation with his son. Joe notices Patrick’s knuckles resting atop the steering wheel, cut up and pink, like raw steak. The intention to speak is there, but Joe still sits in heavy silence, patting Yaz’s head. It often takes tremendous internal work for Joe to initiate talking, yet another act in the three-ring circus that is HD. He imagines pushing a granite boulder up Bunker Hill, a grueling, painstaking, sweaty task, and he can only squeeze the first syllable of what he wants to say out his mouth after he’s reached the peak and gravity takes over the job. The damn rock is finally rolling downhill.
“What’s goin’ on with you, Pat?”
“Nothin’.”
“What’s with all the fightin’?”
Patrick shrugs. “Bar’s been rowdy.”
“Don’t you guys have bouncers?”
“Yeah. They’ve been outnumbered. I’m just givin’ ’em a hand.”
“Is that all there is to it?”
“Yeah.”
“We haven’t seen you in the mornin’ in a while.”
Patrick looks straight ahead and doesn’t acknowledge that anything has been said. Katy Perry is singing “Roar” on Kiss 108. The windows are steaming up. Having Huntington’s burns a ton of calories, and in doing so emits a lot of heat. Joe now fogs up every car he rides in. Patrick flicks on the wipers and turns the defroster setting to HIGH. The sounds of rushing air and Katy Perry fill the car. Joe feels himself sinking back into the cozy bed of silence, the conversation fading to black. He has to resist and keep talking, or else he’ll find himself back at the bottom of the hill, tasked with yet another boulder.
“Where you been stayin’?” Joe asks, rephrasing in the form of a direct question.
“Here and there.”
“You got a girlfriend?”
“Not really.”
“Then where you been sleepin’?”
“Mostly at this girl’s place.”
“This girl’s not your girlfriend.”
Patrick shrugs. “Not really.”
Joe shakes his head. “You using?”
“What?”
“Are you takin’ drugs?”
“Jesus, Dad. No.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Pat.”
“I’m not. I’m just drinkin’ with friends after work. No big deal.”
“Stay away from that shit, Pat. I mean it.”
“I don’t need this lecture, Dad. I’m not doin’ drugs.”
“Your poor mother has enough to worry about.”
“Don’t worry about me. It’s all good.”
The wipers and defroster aren’t making enough of a difference. Patrick leans forward and wipes the windshield with his hand, creating a complex web of wet finger streaks on the glass amid the fog. Joe watches Patrick drive, trying to figure out whether he believes his son. He can’t get a bead on him. Even sitting right next to him, at arm’s distance, it feels as if Patrick is miles away. And still running.
Joe can’t really blame him. Patrick’s a young man with plenty to run from—the impossible truth of what’s going to happen to his father, his brother, and Meghan; the 50 percent chance that it could happen to him, Katie, and baby Joseph; feeling anything real with this girl he’s sleeping with; pulling her innocent life into this horrific nightmare; feeling anything real with anyone.
“There it is,” says Joe, pointing. “Right there.”
Patrick pulls into the parking lot and gets out. They’re here. Patrick is standing in front of the car, hands stuffed inside his coat pockets, appearing blurry through the watery, fogged windshield, waiting. Joe cradles Yaz in his arms and kisses his soft, matted head, wishing there were more to do before going through with this. Joe wraps a green fleece blanket neatly around Yaz’s frail body. He takes his index finger to the steamed passenger door window and writes.
Yaz was here.
Then he kisses Yaz again and opens the door.
BACK HOME, JOE is sitting in his living room chair, drinking his fifth Budweiser, strapping on a comfortable buzz. Yaz’s dog bed is empty but for the small discoloration where he used to sleep, and it’s surreal that he’s no longer here. Gone. Just like that. Joe presses his shirtsleeve against his eyes, mopping up his tears.
He’s watching the evening news. They’re in the middle of the sports, recounting the Bruins’ pitiful loss last night to the Canucks, when Stacey O’Hara cuts in with breaking news.
An unidentified white male walked into the lobby of Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital in Charlestown just after five o’clock, carrying a black backpack; it was seized and found to contain a fully loaded semiautomatic weapon. The unidentified male then shot off several rounds with another gun he had hidden in his coat, wounding one Boston police officer before being restrained and taken into custody. The gunman’s motives are unclear. The officer was taken to Massachusetts General Hospital. His condition is not yet known. We’ll bring you more details as this stor
y unfolds.
An electric jolt shoots through Joe’s numb brain. He texts Tommy, then Donny. He stares at his phone, his heart pounding in his tight throat, waiting forever. He runs down the list of everyone else. Rosie and Colleen are upstairs with the baby. But what if Colleen dropped by work today for a visit with her coworkers to show off baby Joseph? He texts Colleen.
Where r u?
He texts Rosie.
Where r u?
The news continues, moving on to the weather. Motherfuckers. It’s cold outside. End of story. Go back to Spaulding. Which officer? What’s his status?
Joe’s attention goes back and forth between the blue map of Massachusetts on the TV screen and the screen of his phone, neither communicating a fuckin’ useful thing. Officer in trouble. Joe can hear the heart-stopping sound of those three radioed words inside his head, but it’s an auditory memory from another day. Officer in trouble. Joe should’ve been there. He should be out there instead of sitting in his living-room chair, still wearing yesterday’s T-shirt and sweatpants, a passive witness to the aftermath on TV. A waste of friggin’ oxygen.
Joe’s phone dings. A text from Colleen.
We’re upstairs. Rosie and Joey are napping.
Joe texts her back.
K. Thx.
Joe’s phone dings again. It’s Tommy.
I’m OK. Sean shot in stomach. In surgery at the General.
Fuck. Joe throws his phone across the room, knocking a porcelain angel off the end table. It lies on the floor, beheaded. Joe’s eyes then wander to the left of the body, landing on Yaz’s empty dog bed. And then it’s all too much for him. Rosie’s broken angel, their dead dog, his fellow officer shot and fighting for his life, Joe sitting in the living room, unable to do a damn thing about any of it.
He gets up and marches into the kitchen, and he’s stopped cold in front of Yaz’s dog dishes on the floor, still full of food and water. They need to be emptied and washed, and then what? Thrown away? Joe can’t do it.
He turns and faces what remains of the wall that separates the kitchen from the girls’ old bedroom. He began the renovation project three days ago, the same day Yaz stopped walking. At first it felt good to replace one job with another, but almost immediately he found he had no enthusiasm for it, and instead he parked himself in his chair in front of the TV, consenting without resistance to the very life he’d dreaded. So the wall is partially demolished, pissing Rosie off every time she walks in or out of the kitchen, mocking Joe during breakfast and supper.
