by Julie Clark
“It didn’t come up because you compartmentalize your life. Me on one side, everyone else on the other. And it’s getting lonely over here.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
His voice is low. “No, Paige. I’m tired.”
I press my fingers over my eyes and snap. “I’m tired too. I’m tired of being badgered. By you, by Rose, by my mother. Why can’t anyone accept no for an answer? No, I’m not ready to move in with you. No, I don’t want a relationship with my father, and I sure as hell don’t want Miles to have one. I have a PhD from Johns Hopkins, for fuck’s sake. I’m capable of making decisions for myself and my child.”
“No one’s questioning your ability to make decisions,” he says. He starts to say something else, but stops himself, leaning his head back on his seat instead, exhaling hard. “I can’t keep having this argument, or smiling through whatever scraps you want to throw my way. We had a nice time tonight. I like Jackie and Aaron. But it’s always this way. I get a taste of what it could be like to be a family. But then we’re right back here—me pushing you to let me into your life and you strong-arming me out of it.” He looks at me. “So I’m going to give you what you want: space. You can do whatever you want with it. I’m going to use it to sort through whether I want to keep putting myself through this.”
I can feel the emotions stirring. Betrayal, disappointment, resentment, fear. A potent cocktail I know all too well. “I guess I’ll let you get to it then.” I shove open the car door and slam it behind me, striding across the lawn toward the house without looking back. I don’t hear him pull away from the curb, but when I look out the dining room window, he’s gone.
HUNTINGTON’S DISEASE
* * *
The Huntington’s gene is found on chromosome four. It’s an autosomal dominant gene, meaning only one parent needs the gene in order for it to be passed on to offspring. These are the statistics:
• Huntington’s disease affects approximately thirty thousand people in the United States.
• Approximately 150,000 individuals live with a 50 percent risk of inheriting the disease.
• 1 to 3 percent of cases are sporadic, meaning an individual develops the disease with no family history.
• The disease ranges anywhere from ten to thirty years in duration.
• Adult onset usually begins in middle age, though it can happen later.
• Early onset begins in childhood or adolescence. The duration for early onset is usually shorter, only ten to fifteen years.
• Predictive testing* can determine whether an individual has inherited the gene. One hundred percent of individuals with the Huntington’s disease gene will develop the disease at some point in their lives.
* * *
* Genetic testing for Huntington’s disease is prohibited for children under the age of eighteen, as the child may not fully comprehend the implications of testing. However, a child under the age of eighteen who presents with early-onset symptoms may be tested to confirm a diagnosis of early-onset Huntington’s disease.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
I lie on my back and stare up through the leaves of a tree to the blue sky above it, a light wind caressing my arms. Damp earth seeps through the blanket I’ve spread on the grass, but I don’t care. I only want to float in this space of silence and not think of anything.
Rose collapses on the blanket next to me and tosses an empty water bottle into her bag. Across the field, Mikey runs laps with his soccer team, while Miles and Josh play on a climbing structure nearby.
“Please don’t start in on me today. I don’t have a lot to spare right now, Rose.”
She sighs. “Then you’re going to hate me even more because I have to tell you something.”
I roll onto my side and sit up.
“Dad’s got cancer.”
“Right.” I sweep my hair off my forehead. “Remember when he thought he had Parkinson’s? Turned out he was just drinking too much coffee. Did Dr. Google diagnose him again?”
“It’s pancreatic cancer,” she says. “He’s got six months, tops. That’s why he came home.”
The ground seems to shift beneath me, my confidence wavering. “And of course, Mom’s going to drop everything and take care of him. Forget about the years he left her to do everything alone.”
“He needs us now.” Rose hugs her arms across her chest and looks toward the field where Mikey plays.
“He ditched us for most of our lives, Rose. Where was he when we needed him? Why should I care now, just because he’s sick? He made his choice when he walked out.”
Rose flinches, and I regret my words. Despite everything Dad’s done, she still loves him. And I love her. “I’m sorry.”
Pancreatic cancer is a horrible disease. It’s swift and brutal. I try to remind myself that it’s a fitting end for someone who could leave us so quickly and cruelly, but uncertainty begins to take root. My father has always been a loose end for me, a tether to the anger and resentment I’ve carried since childhood.
If what Rose says is true, my loose end is about to be cut away. I try to imagine what it will feel like, to live in a world where my father doesn’t exist. “How’s Mom?”
“She’s devastated,” Rose says. “She’s waited forever for him to come back. And now that he has . . .”
I stare across the grass, toward the playground. Kids jump from the climbing wall, dance across a suspended bridge, swing from the bars, travel down the slide on their stomachs.
So many times I’ve imagined what it would feel like to find out my father died. A car accident, a heart attack—it never occurred to me he might come home to die, that watching him waste away would be his final gift to us.
“This changes everything,” she says. “I know you. You pretend to have this heart of steel, but not even you could turn your back on this.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” I say. “In fact, it makes it even more clear.”
“How can you sit there and deny him the opportunity to know you and Miles?”
Since Liam and I broke up, I’ve been numb. Under normal circumstances, I would have jumped into this argument with both feet. But I feel as if I’ve just returned from war—weary, battle-worn, battered.
Rose continues. “When you had Miles, you talked about the importance of extended family. How you wanted all of us to have a role in raising him.” She points to herself. “I’ve done my part. I love that child like he’s one of my own, and I can’t stand the thought of his missing out on knowing the only grandfather he’s ever going to have.” Her lashes grow wet with tears. “Dad doesn’t have a lot of time left. Someday you’re going to wake up and realize you had a choice in this, and you chose wrong.”
I let her words hang in the air, the sound of a tennis ball hitting a racket from somewhere behind us. “You deal with Dad by giving him chances. Again and again. But that’s not me.” I pick some grass and let it fall through my fingers. “I don’t trust people to do what they say they’re going to do. Dad taught me that.”
“And look how well that’s turned out for you.”
She’s trying to bait me. I turn to her and pull my knees against my chest. “I think it’s served me well. I never wanted Miles to know the pain you and I felt. Liam was the only man I ever let close to him, but he walked away too. I protect myself so that when these things happen, they don’t destroy me. Now Dad’s going to die and . . .” I trail off, unsure how that sentence ends.
“And?” Rose prompts.
I shrug. “I lost him a long time ago.”
I look across the field and see Mikey ambling toward us, sweaty from practice. My phone buzzes: a text from Liam. I freeze, stuck between anger and yearning. But when I open it, the message is brief. I dropped off some of your stuff at your house. My key is on the kitchen table, along with your spare car key.
I hold my phone up so Rose can read it. “You say I’m closed off, that I don’t let people in. This is why.” I sta
nd, brushing the grass from my jeans. “We’ll see you at Josh’s party on Saturday.” As Mikey passes me, I pull him into a loose hug.
He slips out of my grip and says, “See you later, Aunt Paige.”
Rose’s eyes meet mine, and for once, she has nothing to say.
MUTATION
* * *
A mutation is a permanent change in the DNA sequence. Some mutations are inherited, while others are acquired during our lifetime, direct results of our environment and our experiences. Events—both mundane and traumatic—can cause a mutation.
Cancer is a specific kind of mutation that occurs in concert with another gene malfunction. Meaning, we all have some cancer cells in our bodies, but they never grow or develop because other genes suppress them. In order for a cancer mutation to take hold, a silent genetic breakdown has to have already occurred. I think about how long ago this breakdown began for my father. Did it start when he left us the first time, a single cell mutating as he packed his bags and slipped away in the middle of the night? I would imagine abandoning your family must leave some kind of biological mark.
My mother used to always tell Rose and me, “You reap what you sow.” But it was my father she should have said that to. He was careless about everything—physically and emotionally. He moved through life believing he could outrun the consequences of his choices. He may be able to convince Rose to forgive him, or my mother to remain devoted, but this just proves biology is smarter than we are. Be it several days or several decades, biology doesn’t forget. Everything catches up to us eventually.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
I’m dishing out slices of cake in the kitchen when Rose careens through the open back door and grabs a few plates, carrying them out into the crowd of kids. “Sit down at the table, and I’ll serve you,” she calls over requests for corner pieces or the frosted number ten in the center of the cake.
Liam decided not to come. “He thought it would be best,” Rose said when we arrived.
I nodded and unhooked his key from my key ring. “Can you give him this next time you see him?” My voice was cold as I slid the key onto the hall table and made my way toward the backyard, trying not to think about how I’d just relinquished my final link to Liam.
Now I hear the front door open and close and my mother’s voice calling, “Hello? Anyone home?”
“In here,” I say. It’s unlike my mom to show up to a grandchild’s birthday party so late, but she’s been off her game lately because of Dad. When I turn, I stop short. Behind my mother, carrying a long rectangular gift that can only be another LEGO set, stands my father. I study his face, looking for signs of the cancer that’s eating away at him. His skin looks papery thin, and his coloring is chalky. His hair, which used to be dark and wavy like mine, has thinned and is now the color of dingy white laundry.
“Hello, Peanut,” he says.
Peanut. The name he used interchangeably for Rose and me when we were kids. When I was younger, I treasured the times he’d use it for me. I’d feel like I’d done something right, that I had somehow been chosen. When Rose got the name, I’d ignore her for hours, jealous she had to come along and steal him from me. It wasn’t until I was older that I started to wonder if he called us Peanut because he couldn’t remember which of us liked school and which preferred to collect hair ribbons.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, turning back toward the cake, dragging the knife through it.
“Aren’t you going to give your father a hug?” my mom asks. “You haven’t seen him in a while.”
I freeze.
“Don’t worry about it, Beth,” my dad says before I can answer. He walks into the yard, where Rose takes the gift and hugs him. My mother huffs past, leaving me to finish the cake on my own.
—
After the last of the cake has been served, I wipe down the counters, avoiding the backyard and the prospect of falling into small talk with Dad or getting a scolding from Mom.
Rose comes into the kitchen.
“You can’t hide in here forever,” she says.
“I’m not hiding; I’m cleaning. You should thank me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Mom said you refused to say hello to Dad.”
“I said hello. Mom just found it insufficient, expecting me to throw myself into his arms and forgive him for all the horrible things he put us through, simply because he’s got cancer.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
I toss the sponge into the sink. “I think we should go.” Miles has had his cake; we can leave with minimal arguing.
“Stop,” she says. “I’m sorry. Come outside.” She pulls my arm, and I let her lead me into the backyard, where a swarm of kids are running off their sugar high. My parents stand next to the back fence, my mother’s arms wrapped around Miles, who’s in conversation with my dad.
In three strides I’m in front of them. “What’s going on?”
Miles looks at me, alarmed by my tone of voice, and I smile at him, though I’m anything but calm. “Why don’t you go and play,” I tell him. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.”
Miles runs off, and my mother says, “Really, Paige. That was unnecessary.”
I round on her. “I’ve made my wishes clear.”
Before we can get into it, my dad holds up his hand. “Beth,” he says. “I’ve got this. Go help Rose.”
She gives me a warning look before walking away.
“Why’d you come back, Dad?”
“I’m dying. I want to be near my family.”
I think about all he’s missed, the times he could have shown up—to birthdays, Rose’s wedding, the births of his grandchildren. Of all the times he could have stood up for us or wiped away our tears. And now he’s returned to collect the few pennies he’s invested, not nearly enough to carry him to the end of his life.
“I know I’ve made mistakes in the past,” he says. “I want to know you and Rose better. I want to know my grandchildren.”
I watch Miles chase a soccer ball across the yard, Josh right behind him.
“He looks like you at that age,” my father says.
“Please don’t,” I say.
He nods. “I know I don’t deserve anything. Not after the years I strung you girls along.”
I pause to look at him, wondering if I heard him right. It’s easy to say the right things when there isn’t enough time to do anything different. “So why come back?”
He keeps his eyes on Miles and says, “When you know you’re going to die, things simplify. All of a sudden, I knew where I needed to be. I knew what I needed to do. I want to use these months to make things right with your mother, you, and Rose.”
He faces me again, and I look into his eyes, the exact same shade of blue as mine, though they’re watery, tinged yellow with age. Or sickness. “The problem is that while you’ve cleared your conscience, we’re still stuck with the memories. The years you didn’t show up. The years you promised to stay and then left again while we slept. What the hell are we supposed to do with those memories, Dad?”
Parents are starting to arrive to pick up their kids. Goodbyes are being said, and I want to make my exit. “I’m sorry you’re dying. It’s a vicious disease, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Even you.” I turn away and call, “Let’s go, Miles!”
Miles runs toward me, and when he reaches us, my father says to him, “It was nice to meet you.”
Miles smiles. “You too.”
I look back and forth between the two of them—the man who fractured my heart and the boy who put it back together again.
Behind us, the kitchen door opens, and I know my mother is watching our departure. But I don’t turn around. I guide Miles out of the party, fighting the urge to run. I know it’s futile. The only way to keep my father away from Miles would require me to isolate him from the rest of my family.
And I could never do that to him.
THE SCORPION AND THE FROG
* * *
A
Fable
Once there was a scorpion who needed to cross a river. He asked the frog for help. “Please,” the scorpion said. “Can you carry me on your back across the river?”
The frog said, “No. You’re a scorpion and you’ll sting me.”
“I won’t,” the scorpion promised. “I will be forever grateful.”
“No,” said the frog. “I don’t believe you.”
After much argument and assurances that the scorpion would control himself, be on his best behavior, and would be indebted to the frog for the rest of his life, the frog agreed.
Halfway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog. As they were both drowning, the frog said, “Why did you do this? Now we’re both going to die.”
And the scorpion replied, “I’m a scorpion. I don’t know any other way to be.”
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
“We’ve got a problem with Scott’s oxytocin levels,” Bruno says, dropping a pile of reports on my desk as he enters our office.
“What kind of a problem?” I ask, sifting through them.
Bruno sits at his desk and puts his feet up. “Look for yourself.”
I flip the pages until I get to the lab report. I scan the numbers, and when I reach the line measuring oxytocin levels, I see a red +0.02%. I quickly read through the rest of the report, comparing his last blood draw with earlier ones. Everything else is the same. The only variance is his oxytocin levels.
“This is a lab error,” I say.
“You’d better hope it is,” he says. “Or we’re fucked.”
I read the report again. Oxytocin production is a biological response to the birth of your own offspring. You can either produce it or you can’t. You can’t grow it like a muscle.
“I guess it’s no longer an IRB violation to send Jenna back. Get her scheduled,” I tell him.
