Not Quickly Broken

by Cronk, LN

  That’s what I was banking on.

  ~ ~ ~

  I WENT TO a doctor. I showed her my results and she ran another test.

  I hadn’t misinterpreted anything.

  ~ ~ ~

  I STILL DIDN’T tell Charlotte. If I hadn’t wanted to worry her before I got tested, I certainly didn’t want to worry her now. I wasn’t sure exactly when I was going to tell her, but unless I started becoming symptomatic or something, I didn’t plan on letting her know until at least after she had her master’s degree.

  Charlotte and I, of course, talked every day on the phone. After I got the test results back, she asked me several times if I was sure I was okay.

  “You sound funny,” she said worriedly.

  “I’m just really tired,” I said. “I’ve got a big research project due next week and it’s taking a lot of time.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “Actually,” I admitted, “yeah. I need for you to stay there this weekend instead of coming down here. I really need to get this thing done.”

  There was a long pause . . . we had gotten together every single weekend since she’d moved.

  “You don’t want me to come down?”

  “I just need to concentrate on this right now and get it over with,” I explained.

  “Okay,” she said reluctantly.

  “I’ll come up there next weekend,” I promised.

  “Okay,” she said again.

  I could tell that she was none too happy, but I was hugely relieved . . . I just couldn’t bear to see her right now and think about what the future held for her.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was taking a class called Neurogenic Communicative Disorders and every Friday we were required to observe actual sessions with practicing speech pathologists. There are a lot of neurological problems that can impact speech and swallowing that require speech therapy. Stroke . . . traumatic brain injury . . . Parkinson’s . . . Alzheimer’s . . .

  The Friday after I received my own diagnosis I was scheduled to go to an outpatient clinic across the street from the hospital. Wanna take one big, fat guess what was wrong with the first patient we were supposed to observe?

  The speech pathologist was named Becky Pettigrew and before she brought him in, she explained to us all about the patient she would be seeing. His name, she said, was Erik Laszlo and he had given permission for us to observe their session. Becky explained to us that Erik had Huntington’s disease and then proceeded to tell us all about the wonderful things that patients with this disease had to look forward to.

  Although Erik’s speech was definitely impacted by the disease, Becky explained that one of the main reasons she was working with Erik was to improve his ability to swallow.

  “Unfortunately,” Becky said, just before Erik came in, “choking is not an uncommon cause of death in a Huntington’s patient.”

  She called for Erik and he walked in with the gait of a drunk. Becky helped him sit in a chair and she introduced each one of us to him and thanked him for allowing us to observe their session.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, except that it sounded long and drawn out, like this: Yooouuuurrrreee weelllccoooommme.

  Erik was writhing as he sat, his limbs flailing away from his body in random movements. His body kept sliding down the chair – as if it was slippery and gravity was pulling him toward the floor. Every now and then he’d make a great effort and heave himself back up into a sitting position, only to start writhing and slipping again.

  “How are you doing?” Becky asked him with a smile.

  He smiled back.

  “Good,” he said. Ggggooooooood. “How are you doing?” Hhhoooooow arrrre yooouuuu ddooooooing?

  “Good,” she nodded.

  He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and then his other hand brushed up against his ear. An arm shot out above his head like he was raising his hand to answer a question at school. He slipped down a few more inches and then began struggling to sit up again.

  “Good.” Ggggooooooooood.

  I sat and watched as a string of saliva edged out of the corner of his mouth. He thrust his arm straight to his side and his foot kicked forward.

  This is me, I thought to myself. I’m looking at myself in the future.

  ~ ~ ~

  ALTHOUGH I COULDN’T surprise Charlotte by telling her that I had tested negative for Huntington’s, in early May I did manage to surprise her in a different way. I waited until we were out to dinner at a restaurant (figuring she was less likely to blow up and make a scene there). I was hoping that by the time we got home, she’d be over it.

  “I got a vasectomy,” I announced as soon as the waitress had set down our salads and left.

  She stared at me for a moment, fork frozen in midair.

  “You what?” she finally asked, setting down her fork.

  “I don’t think it’s good for you to be on the pill for so long,” I shrugged casually, picking up my own fork. “I wanted you to be able to get off of it.”

  “What are you talking about?” she cried. “I’ve only been on it for two years!”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging again. “I read something about how it can cause blood clots and stuff and I just don’t think you need to be on it.”

  She looked at me for another moment.

  “Don’t you think we should have talked about this first?” she asked in a low voice.

  “We did talk about it,” I reminded her, stabbing a tomato. “We said that if I decided not to get tested then I’d get a vasectomy so that we wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  “But last time we talked,” she said, looking at me earnestly, “you still hadn’t decided anything.”

  “Well, I’ve decided now,” I told her. I took the tomato off the end of my fork and chewed while she stared at me.

  “You’re not going to get tested?” she finally asked in a quiet voice.

  “No,” I said, swallowing and looking her straight in the eyes. “I decided that I don’t want to know.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I STRUGGLED FOR the entire rest of the semester to come to grips with the fact that I was carrying the dominant gene for Huntington’s disease. I was more miserable than ever being away from Charlotte, and when I did see her, she seemed distant to me. Maybe it was me who was distant from her, but – for whatever reason – that was when the two of us started drifting apart.

  I did terrible in my classes, but I was going to have to retake so many hours once I got to Chicago anyway that it didn’t really matter. I guess it also didn’t really matter that (for the first time in my life) I had a lousy season in baseball. I wasn’t the starting pitcher . . . I didn’t set any records . . . we didn’t win any conference championships . . . the coach didn’t cry when I told him that I wasn’t coming back.

  By the end of the semester, however, I did feel as if I had a pretty decent handle on my diagnosis. For one thing, I felt great physically. I had absolutely zero symptoms and it was hard to believe that one day I was going to. For another thing, I blew Charlotte off on another weekend and went home to see Chase. He had moved in with mom by this point, even though he was still doing pretty good physically. His attitude was even better.

  “I’m not gonna spend what time I do have being miserable,” he informed me. “I’m going to enjoy every good moment that I’ve got.”

  I thought about sharing my secret with Chase, but it wasn’t going to be as easy for him to enjoy his own good moments if he was busy worrying about me. In the end I decided against telling him, but seeing him made me appreciate his attitude and realize that he had a good point. I was healthy and well right now (and could be for years), so I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to let Huntington’s disease ruin things any more than it needed to.

  I had hoped that once I relocated to Chicago with Charlotte that I’d feel better about the way things were between us, too, but Tanner helped me move all of my stuff up there and after
I got settled in, I didn’t feel better about things at all.

  Charlotte was super busy with graduate school, taking a full load of summer classes, and it seemed like she barely had any time for me at all. She didn’t seem to have time for anything else either because the apartment was a disaster, there was a stack of unopened mail on the counter in the kitchen, and I noticed that the oil in her car hadn’t been changed since December.

  “You should have got it changed three thousand miles ago,” I chided as soon as I discovered that.

  “I’ve been busy!” she cried.

  I shook my head in disgust at her and rolled my eyes.

  “Look,” she said, “what if I take yours today and you get the oil changed for me while I’m gone.”

  “Fine,” I said, grudgingly.

  “Come on, Jordan,” she said, stepping closer and putting some extra sweetness in her voice. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

  I gave her a kiss and she went on her way, but I didn’t put a lot of stock in her promise. That was another thing she hadn’t had a lot of time for since I’d arrived.

  I went and got the oil changed in her car because I didn’t have anything else to do. That was one of the reasons she had also suggested that I tackle the dishes and the pile of unopened mail on the kitchen counter . . . because I “didn’t have anything else to do”. Changing the oil in the car was one thing and I did the dishes because I wasn’t going to have anything to eat off of unless I did, but I hated going through mail and paying bills and stuff and Charlotte knew it. Plus, it wasn’t my fault that she hadn’t kept up with things and had let it grow into such an insurmountable task. Even though I’d been in school and playing baseball, I had managed to keep up with all the bills and stuff down on my end, so it didn’t seem fair that Charlotte couldn’t have managed to do the same on hers.

  I let the pile of mail sit and it grew . . . just like my resentment.

  One evening I was pleased when Charlotte came home from school rather early. She usually managed to stay gone until nine or ten o’clock every night, but on this day she was home before five. My pleasant surprise quickly disappeared when she informed me that we were “going out” with some friends of hers.

  “I don’t want to go out with a bunch of people I don’t know,” I protested.

  “If you’ll come meet them,” she argued, “then you will know them.”

  I sighed . . . it was hard to argue with that logic.

  At the restaurant, Charlotte introduced me to her friends and I nodded politely.

  “Hey,” a guy she had introduced to me as Elias said, touching her on the shoulder. “You want the usual?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Charlotte nodded.

  “Whatda you want?” he asked, looking at me.

  “Water.”

  Elias nodded and turned around and ordered a beer for Charlotte and a water for me. I glared at the back of his head.

  I didn’t care if she had a beer, but I didn’t like the way he touched her shoulder. I didn’t like the fact that he knew what her “usual” was. And I didn’t like the fact that for the past few months the two of them had obviously gone out drinking together . . . while I’d been home all by myself, doing my dishes and paying my bills (not to mention coming to grips with certain other things).

  When Elias set my water down in front of me I thanked him, but I also hitched my chair closer to Charlotte’s and gave him a look that dared him to get her her next drink, and – for the rest of the evening – Elias went out of his way pretending that he wasn’t paying any attention to Charlotte at all.

  Not surprisingly, Charlotte was in her element – surrounded by friends, laughing, talking. It was obvious that she was popular, just like she’d been in high school.

  “And then,” Charlotte said, finishing up what turned out to be a very inappropriate story, “the guy goes, ‘Well, take her fishin’ with you next time . . . it’ll save you a whole lotta money!”

  Everybody burst out laughing at the crass joke she had just made and I shot her a look which she ignored. Then I looked at Elias. He was laughing along with everyone else, but seemed especially pleased with Charlotte. When he finally took his eyes off of her and saw me glaring at him again, he looked away from us both.

  After dinner Elias invited everyone over to his house and Charlotte accepted without even asking me what I wanted to do. Everybody piled into their cars and took off. We got separated from the group on the Dan Ryan Expressway, but Charlotte knew the way.

  “You’ve been to his house before?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve been over there a few times.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re all in the same program,” she reminded me. “We work on a lot of stuff together.”

  I didn’t like it.

  I didn’t like it one bit.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE NEXT MORNING as she dashed out the door, Charlotte informed me that she was probably going to be late that night.

  “How late?”

  “Nine or ten,” she answered.

  “Again?”

  “We’re working on a big project,” she said.

  “You’re always working on a big project,” I complained.

  “Well, excuse me for having so much to do.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You don’t need to make me feel guilty just because I have a lot of work to do,” Charlotte said, angrily.

  “You haven’t had any time for me since I moved up here,” I complained.

  “We spent the whole evening together last night!”

  “Yeah, with all your friends . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Look, Jordan,” she said, “I’m not going to quit seeing my friends just because you’re here.”

  “So, you’re gonna choose them over me.”

  “I’m not choosing anybody over you!” she said. “But, yeah. I’ve made some friends and I don’t really think it’s fair for you to come up here and start demanding all of my time.”

  “I’m not demanding all of your time!” I cried. “I’d like some of your time, but apparently I can’t even get that!”

  “Listen,” she said, “I can’t stand here and talk about this anymore. I’m supposed to meet someone in twenty minutes and if I don’t leave now I’m not gonna make it.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Who, what?”

  “Who are you supposed to meet?”

  “Elias.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What are you meeting him for?” I asked, aware of how accusatory I sounded.

  “He’s gonna show me how to install the drivers that I need for the new software we have to use.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What is your problem?”

  I stared at her for a moment.

  “Go,” I said, waving my hand at her. “Go install your stupid drivers.”

  She stared right back at me, and then turned on her heel and went out the door.

  I changed into my workout clothes. I had joined the Y as soon as I’d arrived in Chicago, but the weather was cool for June and I decided that I would go for a jog along the shore of Lake Michigan. I was just getting ready to leave the bedroom when my phone sounded off, letting me know that I had a video chat request. There was only one person that could be from.

  I sat down on the bed as I answered it.

  “Hey, Lilybear.”

  “Hey, Jordy,” Lily said. “Did you get your toad yet?”

  “My what?”

  “Your toad!” she said. “I sent you an origimmy toad.”

  “Origami,” I heard David correct her.

  “That’s what I said!” she insisted, shooting David an annoyed glance and then looking back at the camera. “I made it for you!”

  “You made me an origami toad?”

  “Yeah!” she nodded. “We made ’em in art class and Mommy mail
ed it to you and it’s not a frog.”

  “It’s not a frog,” I repeated.

  “No,” she confirmed, shaking her head. “Everybody else made a frog, but I made a toad.”

  “And you sent it to me?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Awwww,” I said. “Thank you. I can’t wait to get it.”

  “It jumps,” she said.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah! You just push its butt down and it’ll jump. Hey, Jordan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I gotta go pee.”

  “Well, by all means,” I said.

  “And then I have to go read.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Tell me when you get your toad!”

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you. Good bye.”

  “Bye!”

  I went back out into the kitchen and sorted through the stack of mail just enough to verify that there was nothing from Lily (and that I was probably going to have to break down and go through it soon or our power was going to get turned off or something).

  I changed my mind about going for a run, changed my clothes again, and instead went to the library of my new school. Once there, I found several origami books in the elementary education section of the library and I pulled them off of the shelf and headed to the circulation desk.

  “Can I help you?” a work study student behind the counter asked me.

  “I’d like to check these out please,” I said, sliding the books toward her.

  “Do you have your ID?”

  “Uhhhh, no,” I stammered. “I don’t actually start classes until fall.”

  “You’re not a student yet?”