A Drop in the Ocean

by Jenni Ogden

  I nodded. I was incapable of speech.

  “Seems like your dad and me have a lot in common.”

  I found my voice. “What do you mean; did you get a girl pregnant?”

  Tom laughed. “No, I had a much more powerful reason to keep my genes from straying.”

  “Oh, your vasectomy.”

  “Believe me, long before I was permitted to have that, I was the safe sex poster boy.”

  I felt stupidly relieved. “How are you like Dad then?”

  “We’re both passionate about the sea, and we both love you more than life itself.”

  Did he say that? I felt dizzy. I closed my eyes and felt the warm breeze on my face and breathed in the salt air. “You love me?” I whispered.

  Tom took my hand again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I love you, you must know that, but it won’t work, us staying together. Anna, love, I’m sorry.”

  I could hear the desolation in his voice and I closed my eyes again. Don’t take it back, please don’t take it back. I don’t know if I pleaded out loud or if it was just in my head.

  “That’s why I wanted to tell you about Dad’s death, so you’d understand.”

  “Understand what?” I heard my voice far away.

  “I know you’ve probably seen or at least heard about deaths like Dad’s, but this is my dad, this is me. I need you to understand why I can’t ever let you go through what Mum has had to go through.”

  “But you probably don’t even have the gene,” I almost shouted.

  “Anna, I got tested before Dad died. I had all the counseling and I got tested. I got the results just before I came back here.”

  “Oh no, please no.”

  “I know. I’ve had time to get used to it. I always thought I had it anyway, but I guess I had some hope. It was harder than I thought.”

  “Why did you change your mind? You said you would never get tested,” I croaked.

  “For you. For us. I wanted us to be together, and I decided it was worth the coin toss.”

  “If you had tested negative, you would have let me stay?”

  “I would have asked you to marry me,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve had a lucky escape.” A smile traced his lips and I threw myself at him, knocking him flat.

  “We still can. Please, Tom. You probably have years before you get it. Don’t do this to me.” I wanted to pound my fists on his chest. “There’ll be a cure for Huntington’s symptoms by the time you get any, I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope so.”

  He eased me off him and I rolled over onto the sand and lay there, frustration and helplessness marshaling in my aching head.

  “Now that I know you,” Tom said, his finger smoothing the crease between my eyes, “I believe a cure will happen one day. Before, all that research didn’t seem real. Go back to Boston, Anna, and take up the cause again. It might not be in time for me, but if it helps Beth or Zac …”

  “Oh, no, Hilary has it too.” I heard my wail as the agony of what I’d done, pushing Tom to get tested, hit me in the gut.

  “Easy, Anna. Hilary hasn’t been tested. She’s even more determined now not to flip the coin.”

  “She can’t have it; not her too. That would be so unfair.”

  “There’s no harm in a bit of magical thinking, even if you’re a researcher.” Tom grinned at me. Then his smile faded. “If Hilary’s lucky, there will be someone else’s Beth or Zac out there to save.”

  He pulled himself into a sitting position, and sat there, still as only he could be still. Then I saw what he’d already seen, the head of a turtle at the edge of the water. I watched him, watching the sea he loved so much, and as if he felt my gaze, he turned his head and smiled down at me, still lying on the sand. “It’s time, Anna, time for you to go back to the real world. I love you, and that’s why nothing will change my mind.”

  MY LAST THREE DAYS WENT PAST IN A DAZE. I TOLD PAT, and asked her to explain to everyone why I didn’t want a farewell party. Tom and I talked some more, but not about us. I didn’t try again to change him. The day I left I asked him not to come to the wharf and say goodbye. He was upset, and Pat too. “It’s what we do for our own,” she said. “Then we know they’ll come back.”

  That’s why I didn’t want him there.

  I couldn’t stop the others, and I tried to be strong and hugged each of them—Basil, Violet, Chloe, and little Danny. “And another hug from Bill,” Violet said. “He went off with Tom.”

  Pat held me tight and promised to visit me in Boston. I knew she would. Then I walked up the gangplank and waved as Jack and Nick, without their usual banter and shouting, backed out, and turned and pointed towards Gladstone and Boston and away forever from Turtle Island.

  I heard the screaming motor before I saw them, the two dark figures on the dinghy doing their crazy circles around the lagoon. Then I saw Tom dive in and disappear for minutes before he surfaced, a giant turtle in his arms. Bill was struggling to get the rope around the turtle’s flippers so he could secure it while it was measured. Jack was standing next to me and I pointed towards the dinghy. “They can’t manage with only two men.”

  “Shall we go over and see, girl?” Jack said, already waving at Nick in the wheelhouse. Our boat made a wide turn and puttered towards the dinghy. Bill had got the turtle fastened and was measuring it by the time we came close, and Nick cut the engine. Tom turned in the water, and I saw his grin flash. He swam over to us and pulled himself up on the ladder on the side of our boat. Not right up, but just far enough so our lips could meet when I bent down.

  “Goodbye my turtle whisperer,” I whispered.

  “Goodbye my sweet Anna,” he said.

  EPILOGUE

  Today is my seventy-fifth birthday. Turtle Island is blessedly little changed from that day in 2009 when I celebrated my fiftieth birthday. The same can’t be said for the rest of the world, but that’s another story.

  Tom lives in Pat’s house now. She sold it to him when she left, fifteen years ago, on the understanding that she could stay with him any time. We often coordinated our visits over the years, although I usually stayed much longer than she. Pat isn’t here for my birthday; she died two years ago, at the grand old age of eighty-eight. Her house has changed little except for ramps replacing the steps onto the deck, widened doorways, and a sit-down shower instead of a bath. Tom has a satellite dish on the roof that connects him, via fast speed broadband, to me when I am in Boston, and to the rest of the world.

  Many of my old island friends are here for this grand occasion. The cabins once owned by Violet and Bill, and now run by their daughter and her partner, are full. Violet and Bill are here, of course, delighted to spend time with their new grandson, the only baby to be born on the island since Hamish. Jack delivered me to the island two days ago, and is staying for my party. He often comes over with his son, who now skippers the boat. Diane and Ben, still passionate about diving, posted a lovely letter written on their boat somewhere in the Bahamas, and even George, still living at Dry Acres Artists’ Community and rather forgetful these days, sent me a card. Basil will be missing. He died peacefully in his cyclone-proof house a few years ago.

  And of course Kirsty and Hamish are here. Hamish is twenty-five and a beautiful young man. His career choice was difficult—marine biology or medicine? In the end he chose medicine, but now that he is a qualified doctor he has decided to go further. He begins a PhD in genetic engineering in Boston later this year. I’ll expect regular visits from him when he can wrench himself away from MIT. This morning when he gave me a birthday kiss before leaving for a dive with the incumbent turtle tagger, he reminded me of my father, perhaps because my happiest and saddest memories of Dad are of him in a wetsuit. There is no genetic reason why Hamish should resemble Dad, of course, but as the grandson of my heart I think he has rearranged my memories of my father in some mysterious way.

  I can see Tom now, rolling along the beach, his face aglow with the pleasure of his regular morning stroll. His
wheelchair resembles a 4WD with its wide wheels, designed for sand and beach-rock hopping. It also clips securely to the rear of his amphibious boat and allows him, even when alone, to putter out over the reef edge when the tide is high. Once there, he falls backwards over the side of the boat and is again in his element, floating over the wonders below, his contorted movements vanquished and his twisted body young and perfect again.

  Tom feels he has been lucky. His Huntington’s symptoms didn’t become a problem until he was in his early fifties, and by then there were medications that dramatically reduced the psychiatric symptoms without side effects. I tell myself that without the basic research I and so many other researchers spent so much of our time on, these cutting-edge drugs might not have been developed.

  I used to blame myself for manipulating Tom into having the genetic test all those years ago, torturing myself with the thought that if he hadn’t, he would have had many more years of hope. But he insisted that it was his decision alone, and that it proved to be the best option.

  “Living in hope soon becomes a burden,” he told me. “Once I knew, every day without the disease was a gift.”

  Hilary has continued to resist being tested, and still shows no symptoms. Before Beth and Zac had children of their own, they each underwent testing—with joyful results. Chances are higher now that Hilary is therefore free too.

  Last night Tom and I strolled on the beach at high tide, me still walking unaided and strong, and Tom in his wheelchair. Lit by a full moon we watched, spellbound, as a turtle lumbered up the sand to lay her eggs. I was not expecting to see nesting turtles this late in the season, but Tom recognized her as Eve, the very first turtle I saw laying so long ago. She is likely the same age as me, but rather more fertile.

  My work for the past twenty-five years has been as a medical practitioner in a community medical center where I have patients from babies to the very old. But my interest in working with Huntington’s families has led to the opening of a specialist clinic staffed by therapists, genetic counselors, and social workers, as well as doctors, a sort of one-stop shop for families who harbor genetic conditions. I take my turn there two afternoons each week, offering a genetic counseling and testing service.

  I try to keep up with the latest discoveries in Huntington’s research, and it has been wonderful to be a part of the movement to eradicate the Huntington’s gene from the human race. Even the Catholic Church has succumbed to the pressure of Huntington’s Action groups, reluctantly permitting genetic testing and IVF for those of their flock who potentially carry the gene. Contraception is still frowned upon, but the Pope can’t see through bedroom walls. Within another generation, in most countries, Huntington’s will be a disease of the past. The genetic engineering research that Hamish wants to become part of has made enormous strides as a result of the pioneering work on Huntington’s disease, and is already making a difference to many disorders.

  All this has been too late to save Tom, but I’ve learned to live with that. On my twice-yearly visits to Turtle Island, I warm myself with his contentment, and that has long been more than enough.

  Francesca was over here for breakfast earlier. She’ll be staying for a few days before setting off on a group 4WD tour up Cape York to the tip of Australia. Fran has already outlived the Professor by fifteen years, and although she forgave him, and was convinced he had given up his philandering, I always felt angry on her behalf. My hard-earned ability to stand back and let those I cared about live according to their own wishes stretched me to the limit when it came to Fran. At least I managed to keep my feelings to myself. Since her husband’s death, Fran has blossomed, and in the end has lived the life she always deserved. My mother also continues to be an inspiration to me, even though she is long gone, Magnus following her within a year. Until her death I spent many holidays on Shetland, although they came to Turtle Island only twice.

  I sometimes wonder if I would have been happier if I had had my way and inveigled Tom into letting me live with him. When I am here I am often certain this is true, but then remember that Tom didn’t choose it. As my father’s daughter, I could have applied for Australian citizenship and joined a medical practice in Brisbane or Sydney. But it would have been cheating. The alternative, in the end, was the better choice for me as well as for Tom.

  This evening we will have my party. It is to be in the turtle tagger’s house, which is exactly the same as it used to be, even down to the same couches. Everyone on the island is invited, including any campers in Jeff’s campground. Jeff will certainly be there. I’ll sit on the deck, my old hand holding Tom’s, and enjoy the young people dancing and flirting. We’ll drink a toast to Morrie’s memory, and remember our last day with him—the day he swallowed the pills that legally allowed him to slip peacefully out of this world.

  Together we will share a joint, also legal now for medicinal purposes, and the only medication that calms Tom’s body. He believes it has held his cognitive decline at bay as well, and perhaps he is right. I no longer think double blind scientific drug trials are the Holy Grail. I know that he self-tests his cognitive abilities monthly using a specially designed computer program, and that when his scores decline to a point he has already had programmed into his computer he will not procrastinate. Tom always knew his mind. I have offered to help him but my turtle whisperer gently declined my offer. My last act of love will be to stand back when he takes his final ride out over the reef edge and falls backwards into his beloved sea.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  After reading this novel you may be interested in finding out more about two of the central topics raised: the conservation of marine turtles and Huntington’s disease. I can only cover a few details about each, of course, but this may stimulate you to seek out more detailed information, easy to find on the Internet, and perhaps add your donation to any one of the many charitable bodies dedicated to one or other of these important causes.

  MARINE TURTLE CONSERVATION

  Although the green turtle (Chelonia mydas) and loggerhead turtle (Caretta caretta) featured in this novel nested on Australian beaches, these species, as well as the hawkesbill turtle (Eretmochelys imbricata), the olive ridley turtle (Lepidochelys olivacea), and the giant leatherback turtle (Dermochelys coriacea) occur worldwide throughout the tropical and temperate seas. The flatback turtle (Natator depressus) is restricted to the tropical areas of the continental shelf of Australia, southern Irian Jaya, and southern Papua New Guinea. Marine turtles throughout the world, including in Australia and the USA, are in urgent need of protection. All are endangered, with the hawkesbill and leatherback being critically endangered.

  Marine turtles come from an ancient lineage of terrestrial reptiles, and as they adapted to life in the ocean they developed paddle-like limbs. They have an acute sense of smell but not of taste, well-developed eyes with color vision, and hearing that is restricted to very low frequencies. Like terrestrial reptiles, they must surface to breathe, and they lay their eggs on land. Green turtles are herbivores and graze on sea grasses, algae, and seaweed, and the other species of turtle eat soft sea animals like sponges, shrimp, squid, jellyfish, and crabs. Copulation occurs in the sea. Every two or three years the female turtles return to the beach they were born on, or a nearby beach, to nest multiple times in one season, laying large clutches (60–80 plus) of soft white round eggs the size of ping-pong balls. When the hatchlings emerge, those that safely reach the ocean are often not seen again in the sea until they are about dinner-plate size. Their feeding grounds may be a long way from their breeding beach, and indeed is often in the waters of a different country. When they are mature at 20 or 30 years, they migrate vast distances to return to the beach where they were born to lay their own eggs. For successful incubation the eggs must be buried in ventilated, low salinity, high humidity nest sites that are not subjected to flooding or erosion and have a temperature range of 25–33°C. Both the sex of the hatchlings and the length of incubation is determined by the nest temperature. Once
the eggs are laid, they are on their own, and the tiny baby turtles have to make their own way down the beach to the sea and into the vast ocean without any assistance from their parents.

  These ancient behaviors make turtles vulnerable to numerous man-made dangers: increased mortality through marine debris, oil pollution, and boat strikes; habitat loss; predation of eggs by feral animals; noise and light pollution at nesting sites; vehicles and houses on nesting beaches; and tourist disturbance during nesting. Although most countries now protect marine turtles, in some countries, including Australia, an exception is made for their harvest by indigenous peoples, and if this is not controlled, this too can have an effect. The illegal trade in turtle shell and turtle meat is also a major problem. Of course the natural predators of the turtle also continue to threaten the species: bird and feral animal attacks on the hatchlings as they make their way to the sea, and shark attacks of the adults once at sea.

  Watching a mother turtle preparing her nest and laying her eggs is a wonderful experience, as is observing a nestful of baby turtles explode out of the sand and toddle down to the lighter sea, hopefully avoiding being picked off by seabirds. If you do get a chance to visit a turtle nesting beach, take care not to disturb the nesting mother—avoid shining lights or making a noise, and sit well behind her so she is unable to see you. Never buy turtle shell trinkets, and of course never eat turtle meat or turtle soup. These illegal activities should be reported. Join campaigns against marine and beach pollution, and if you can, donate to an appropriate research body or conservation society in your country, or a country you are visiting.

  HUNTINGTON’S DISEASE

  Huntington’s disease (HD) is at the center of one of the most remarkable stories of discovery in medical history. In 1872 George Huntington, a North American general practitioner, published the first unambiguous description of the unrelenting neurodegenerative disorder in The Medical and Surgical Reporter. The title of his article was simply “On Chorea,” referring to the strange involuntary contorted movements made by people with HD. His description of this type of chorea as a specific hereditary disorder became quickly and widely accepted. Careful pedigrees of generations of HD families around the world have since confirmed his theory by documenting that 50 percent of the children of a parent with HD will develop HD if they live long enough. That is, HD is an autosomal dominant hereditary disorder.