Finding Cassidy

by Laura Langston

  “Can I help you find someone?”

  Pulling my attention back, I stared at the doctor in front of me. It was him. I recognized his voice. He had shaggy brown hair and high cheekbones. He was young—too young to be handing out death sentences.

  “I…um…I’m looking for my dad. Frank MacLaughlin.”

  “I’m sorry.” Smiling, he extended his hand. “You must be Cassidy. I’m Doctor Braithwaite.”

  Reluctantly, I shook it. Because I was so blond, strangers rarely made the connection between my parents and me. And Dr. Braithwaite’s surprise was obvious, which was disturbing. I figured the doctor should recognize me by the look of sheer terror on my face. I felt it—frozen in place like a scary Halloween mask.

  “You can go in,” he said. “It won’t be long now. A few hours and your father will be discharged.”

  Moving from my hiding place, I gazed into the room. There was one bed, and it was empty. Instead, my parents sat in two chairs by its foot. They leaned into each other, their heads curving together like two halves of one heart.

  I felt like an intruder.

  I must have made a noise, or maybe they just sensed me, because they looked up simultaneously. Mom shot out of her chair. “Cassidy, darling, what are you doing out of school?” She hurried over, gave me a hug. I smelled the familiar scent of her Joy perfume, felt the scratch of her earring across my cheek. Last night’s messiness was gone; she was pulled together this morning in a long black skirt and a peacock blue shawl blouse. She eased me forward. I perched on the edge of the bed and stared at Dad.

  His red hair looked like a blast of mini fireworks against the pale hospital wall. A gash below his eye slid down his cheek and rearranged his freckles. He gave me his usual lopsided grin. “Hey, babe, how’s it going?”

  Like nothing was wrong. Typical Dad. I pointed to the wound. “It must have been quite a fall if you needed stitches.” There had to be more than a dozen there.

  “It’s no big deal. I’m fine.” His finger did its usual tap, tap, tap against his thigh.

  Yeah, right. “I heard what the doctor said. That the odds are not favourable.”

  His eyes clouded but his smile stayed firmly in place. “Like I told your mother, there’s no point getting worked up. There’s still another test to come in.” “And mistakes are made all the time,” Mom added. “Look how often you read about doctors amputating the wrong limb or even operating on the wrong person. If they can do that, they can mess up test results too.”

  I stared from one to the other. “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? You could have told me when your doctor ordered tests last month!”

  They exchanged uneasy glances. “It was nothing for you to worry about,” Dad said.

  “That’s right,” Mom agreed. “You had that math test to write and that ridiculously horrible cold to fight off. We didn’t want to add to your stress.”

  I was about to argue, but a skinny orderly who looked like he could use a good meal himself delivered a brown tray crowded with a bunch of plastic-covered domes. “Let’s see what we have here.” Mom removed the tray tops.

  She and Dad peered down, exclaiming over Scotch broth, tuna fish on brown, tapioca pudding. “At least they didn’t give me the low-fat lunch,” Dad joked.

  He wanted me to laugh. I couldn’t. “How many tests have come back positive for Huntington’s?”

  Another shared glance. “That doesn’t matter,” Dad said.

  Mom grabbed his hand, linked her fingers through his. “Like your dad said, we can’t be sure of anything yet.”

  “Tell me how many!”

  Dad’s Adam’s apple moved up and down a few times. “Two so far.” He dropped Mom’s hand and pushed his tray away.

  “But three times lucky!” Mom held up crossed fingers. Her smile was forced.

  Two tests already showed Huntington’s. Instinctively I knew what the third test would show. I’d bet money my parents did, too. They didn’t want to admit it, that’s all. “It’s genetic,” I said softly. “I have a 50–50 chance of getting it.”

  Dad opened his mouth. “I—” He stopped, gazed at Mom. Wordlessly, she looked back. Something passed between them. It didn’t surprise me. They did their silent-communication thing all the time. It drove me nuts.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Mom told me.

  “Well, then, I’ll wait here until we get that third test back,” I said.

  “No.” My parents spoke in unison.

  I crossed my arms. “I want to talk to the doctor.”

  “You need to go back to school,” Mom insisted.

  “Don’t shut me out!”

  “Calm down, Cassidy.” Dad glanced at the door. “Lower your voice.”

  “I deserve to know what’s going on!”

  A weighty silence hung between us. “Of course you do.” Dad picked up the tuna sandwich, stared at it, put it back down again. “I’ll tell you what, Cass. You go back to school, get through the day, and tonight we’ll tell you everything we know. How’s that?”

  I looked at Mom. “You guys promise?”

  “We promise,” they said.

  That was the thing about my parents, I thought as I said goodbye and made my way to the elevator. They could shut me out with a single glance, but they always kept their promises.

  THREE

  Ostriches are the only birds that stick their heads in the sand. They are not trying to hide from stuff. They are looking for water.

  Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

  There was a bad accident on the highway going back to town; traffic was snarled. I pulled into the school lot as the lunch bell rang. Not bad timing, I reflected as I went inside. School finished at two o’clock on Friday, and Jason had a spare after lunch; I planned to grab him and leave. At my locker, I talked briefly with Jasmine, who detailed the homework assignment for English and gave me a few helpful tips on where I could find the information I needed to complete it. Jason appeared as we finished up.

  “Can I buy you lunch?” I asked.

  He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Nice offer, but Mike’s got a chemistry exam at one and he’s stuck on something. I promised I’d help him.” Leaning against my locker, he asked, “How’s your dad?”

  Not trusting myself to speak, I simply shook my head. One careful look at my face and Jason said, “I’ll tell Mike he’s on his own.”

  We left my car at school and took Jason’s instead. After grabbing fast food at the local drive-through, we headed up Mount Tolmie, where we sat on a bench overlooking the city. The wind had picked up; the forecaster was predicting a storm. I zipped up my jacket and watched Jason rummage through the bag of food.

  He pressed a burger into my hand.

  “Eat,” he said.

  “I can’t eat at a time like this.” I’d managed to disclose a few details of what Dad faced while we waited in line for our food, but whenever I went into specifics, I got overwhelmed.

  “You have to,” said Jason the practical. “Grease coats the brain cells. Makes it easier to think.”

  This is why I’d fallen for Jason. Because even though he was bossy-stubborn and a party animal, he was one of the few truly decent guys left on the planet. Plus he was a year older, and way more mature than guys my own age.

  He bit into his burger. When I made no move to unwrap mine, he jiggled my wrist. “Eat,” he ordered again.

  At least if I ate, I wouldn’t have to talk. Operating on autopilot, I managed to choke down half the burger. When I offered the rest to Jason, he polished it off before attacking his french fries.

  I sat and watched the bushtits swoop and dive on the wind. The sight took me back to my trip to Mexico with Grandpa Hunt. I’d been ten. We’d seen the unusual black-eared bushtit there. Grandpa had indulged me something ridiculous when he was alive. Called me his precious jewel. Taken me on so many bird-watching trips that I could now boast a list of 642 different species viewed. A lot of them I c
ouldn’t even remember anymore.

  “I think this is the quietest you’ve been in nine months,” Jason teased. He handed me a cup of coffee.

  Normally I’d be all over a comment like that. Instead I took the warm cup, cradled it between my palms and stared out over the cityscape. He was right. I didn’t do quiet—not willingly. This afternoon, however, it appeared quiet was doing me.

  I was not, in more ways than one, the easiest girl Jason had ever dated. Aside from the fact that I was a year younger, I was blunt and opinionated. I wasn’t big on his party scene, and he wasn’t big on the fact that I hoarded my virginity like a prize.

  Now I had to tell him I was a walking time bomb on two legs.

  “You need to wait for that last test, Cass.” He stuffed the wrappers back in the bag. “There’s always a chance the other two were wrong.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Doctors make mistakes.”

  I was still quiet.

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “They get lots of false positives. Mom told me once.”

  How would his mother know? She cut hair for a living.

  “Your dad’s healthy. I’d bet money on it.”

  I turned to face him. Our knees touched. It was such a normal, comforting thing, touch. “It’s genetic,” I managed to whisper. “If Dad has it, there’s a 50–50 chance I have it too.”

  He whistled. “Holy shit.” He set my coffee aside and pulled me close. I inhaled the clean, citrus scent of him and fought back tears.

  “There’s a blood test I can take.” My words were muffled by the folds of his coat. “I read about it online last night.”

  “When will you know about the third test?”

  “Tonight.” I pulled away and retrieved my coffee. “Can we get together later, after your shift at Finnelli’s?”

  “Max is having a party. I was hoping you’d come.”

  Great. “I’m not exactly in a party mood.” Parties were loud and smoky, and I always ended up with a headache the next day, whether I drank or not.

  “You need the distraction,” Jason said. “Some good music, some positive energy.”

  A new life. “We could go somewhere and talk,” I suggested tentatively. “Just the two of us.” I sounded like a whiny, pathetic baby, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to make sense of things.

  “We can talk at the party. Cass, look, it’s just—” Jason flicked his hair off his face. “You don’t know anything for sure yet. And even if your dad has it, you probably don’t. Sitting at home worrying is useless.”

  He was right about that.

  “Meet me in the parking lot at Finnelli’s about 9:15? Please?”

  It wouldn’t kill me to go to Max’s. And Jason was right—it would be a distraction. “Okay.” I squeezed his arm. “Thanks for ditching Mike and having lunch with me.”

  He kissed my forehead. “I care about you, Cass. I’m here for you.”

  I studied his face over the rim of my coffee cup. What if I had Huntington’s? I wondered. Would Jason be there for me then?

  It was after three by the time Jason dropped me at my car and I headed home. Rain splattered the windshield as I pulled in beside Mom’s Lexus. Dashing inside, I caught sight of Dad through the study window. He was on the phone, and laughing. That was a good sign.

  When I headed into the kitchen, the smell of garlic and spices hit my nose. Spaghetti sauce. My favourite. There was something on top of the microwave, too. I dropped my knapsack, tossed my coat down and went to check. Warm butter tart squares. Another good sign. Mom baked only when there was something to celebrate.

  “Damned contact lenses,” Mom said, walking into the kitchen. “I swear I’m allergic to them.” She rubbed her eyes, hurried to the fridge, bent down to remove lettuce and radishes. “How was your afternoon, baby?”

  Mom couldn’t fool me. She’d been crying. And that was a rare thing. Mom was tough. We sometimes joked that she should have gone into politics, not Dad.

  “I…” My saliva had dried up, it took forever to form words. “I saw Dad laughing as I came in the door. I figured it was good news.”

  She unfolded herself from the floor, shut the fridge and turned. My heart practically stopped at the look of grief on her face.

  “The test came back positive, didn’t it?”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. She nodded.

  “How bad?”

  She flapped her hand in front of her face and shook her head. “Not now,” she whispered, her chin wobbling with emotion. “Give me a little time here, okay?”

  “Sure.” My own tears floated just below the surface. Another minute with Mom and they’d gush all over the place. I grabbed my knapsack and bolted for my room.

  Tabitha had taken her usual spot in the middle of my bed’s pillow pile. I shoved her aside and flopped onto my back. Seconds later she pounced onto my belly, stretched into a white Sphinx-like position and began her throaty purr. I ran my hand through her thick, white fur, played absently with the collar around her neck and cried.

  Dad, the calm centre, the rock of our family, had Huntington’s chorea. He was going to die, and we would be lost, lost, lost without him. This was bad on a scale I couldn’t begin to understand.

  A gust of wind rattled my bedroom window; boughs of the Douglas fir scraped the glass. Tabitha turned her head toward the sound but didn’t seem overly concerned. She continued to purr. Her tiny body vibrated with the movement; she was warm and comforting against my stomach.

  If Dad had it, I could have it too.

  My eyes fell on the photo on my nightstand. Prissy, Yvonne, Jasmine and I falling all over each other and being silly at Witty’s Lagoon last summer. Brynna had taken the shot. We’d had so much fun that day. We had fun every day. We shopped, we tanned, we ate out. We shopped some more.

  How would they react to my news?

  I studied their faces, looking for a clue. Nothing. Even though we’d been friends for over three years, they really didn’t know my parents.

  Not the way Quinn did.

  Quinn wanted me to call her. I could. She’d be sympathetic—I knew that. But Quinn had crossed a line with me. She’d never apologized or taken responsibility for her actions, and if I opened the door to our friendship, she’d think everything was back to normal.

  It wasn’t.

  Nothing would ever be normal again.

  I heard voices coming from the kitchen. Dad’s deep bass, followed by Mom’s laugh. Plucking Tabitha off my stomach, I put her back in the position of honour among my pillows. She gave me a malevolent stare. “Keep the bed warm,” I told her.

  “You’re just in time to set the table,” Mom said when I appeared in the doorway. I was relieved to see her mixing rigatoni and meat sauce in the large green pasta bowl, to see Dad cutting garlic bread at the counter. Everything looked so normal that for a minute I pretended it was. But then Dad carried the bread to the table and I saw his hand shake and everything piled in on me again.

  He had Huntingon’s chorea. He really had it.

  We sat down and dished out food. Salad, pasta, bread. Rain beat against the patio doors. Mom made a comment about the storm. Dad answered her.

  Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I said, “Mom told me about the test.”

  Dad’s fork stopped halfway to his lips. “I’m lucky. The doctor says I’m only in the early to intermediate stage.” He shoved his pasta into his mouth.

  Early to intermediate. I tried to remember what I’d read, but all I could think of was that Huntington’s was going to kill him. And it might kill me, too. Listlessly I pushed a noodle around my plate.

  “I have some incapacity, but I’m still fully functional,” he added.

  For now, I thought bleakly. But how long till he couldn’t work…till dementia…till hospitalization…till he was gone?

  “And the fact that it’s come on later than normal may be a good sign too,” he added.

  A good sign. Fully functional. This was
Dad the politician spinning the news. It’s genetic. Put a good spin on that.

  “We’re going to fight this, Cassidy.” Mom’s eyes blazed; she waved her fork in the air. “We’ll consult with specialists. Apparently there’s an institute in California doing amazing work. And scientists in New Zealand are pursuing neural stem cell research that looks positive, too.”

  “That’s right.” Dad began quoting statistics like he was giving a speech down at city hall.

  All I could think about was that this was the guy who had taught me to tie my shoes, who had broken the rules and let me stay up late any time there was a bird show on TV. The guy who got out in the community and did so many good things. He didn’t deserve this!

  But neither did I.

  “It’s genetic,” I interrupted. And then I felt guilty. I was years away from a possible death sentence, when Dad was staring his in the eye. Still I couldn’t hold back. “There’s a 50–50 chance I could have it. I want to be tested.”

  “Cass, I…” But Mom wasn’t looking at me. Instead she gazed at Dad; he looked back. They were lost in that special place they shared. The rest of the world could have been wallpaper.

  “We talked to the doctor about that,” Dad said. “The doctor recommends you wait until you’re nineteen.” I’d read about that online, too. Even if I tested positive, the disease could lie dormant for up to twenty years. The experts all agreed it wasn’t fair to test children, the theory being that if the test came out positive, they’d spend the next twenty years worrying instead of living. But twenty years from now, I’d be thirty-six. I thought of Jason. I could have three kids by then. I could pass it on without knowing!

  “You can give your permission for me to be tested earlier,” I said. “Then I’ll know one way or another if I carry the gene. I can make plans.”

  Plans like Preparing to Die.

  Mom’s face tightened. She chewed her garlic bread and stared out the window.