Rules for 50/50 Chances

by Kate McGovern

  “The Land of Sweets,” I write back. In response, he sends three question marks.

  “Nutcracker. When in doubt about where I am between late November and January…”

  “I see,” he replies. “So when am I coming to see it?”

  A lump catches in my throat. Somehow, dinner at Caleb’s house—with his entire family—didn’t seem like as big a deal as letting him watch me dance.

  I write back: “Um, I don’t know. Never?”

  “Come on. Let me see what’s taking up all your damn time.”

  So this teenage male actually wants to sit through the entire Nutcracker, for me? Seriously? I could try explaining that my Dewdrop solo is only about five minutes long, and the rest of the time I doubt he’ll even be able to spot me in the crowd. But I don’t.

  Instead I say, “Well, if you insist.”

  “I insist. I also insist on hanging out with you at your next available time slot.”

  Eloise pops her head into the dressing room. “We’re breaking for notes in five.”

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking my phone quickly into my bag, but not quick enough to evade Eloise’s eagle eye.

  “Ooh,” she says. “Are you keeping secrets?”

  “Um, no.”

  She wrinkles her nose at me. “You’re a bad liar, you know. And if you’re lying about it, it must be someone interesting. Like a boy.” Her freckled face lights up. “Am I right?”

  “Trust me, it’s no one interesting,” I say, tossing a leg warmer at her. “Didn’t you say we have notes now?” I throw my New England Youth Ballet sweatshirt over my leotard and head for the door.

  * * *

  My next available time slot is Monday afternoon, when we have no rehearsal, mercifully. My whole body aches, and even though all I really want to do on my day off is come home from school and sit in front of the television, alternating ice and heat on every muscle group in my body, I tell Caleb he can come over. Everyone’s out of the house, at least for the next couple of hours, so I won’t have to do any awkward introductions.

  When he arrives, Caleb surveys our house closely, taking stock of the stair lift we had installed for Mom last year. He hovers by the mantel, too, picking up each framed photograph and staring at my childhood face. He holds up a picture of our old dog, Lionel (named for the toy train company, of course).

  “This guy’s not around anymore?” I shake my head. Lionel died when I was twelve, shortly after Mom’s diagnosis. It was a bad year. “You didn’t get another dog after him?” Caleb asks.

  “Losing a dog is supposedly good practice for losing other things you love. My parents didn’t think I needed more practice with that.”

  Caleb regards me quizzically, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Then (when he’s probably determined that he’s not going to figure me out) he turns his attention to the train set, which my father has dutifully set up in the living room in preparation for the holiday season.

  “These yours?” He smirks at me.

  “Hey, girls can play with trains, you know. Go ahead, give it a try. You know you want to.” He kneels by the control switch and flicks it on. The train eases forward. Caleb toots the horn once and increases the speed, clearly enjoying himself. He watches the train shuffle around the track a few times. “Okay, this is pretty cool. I’m not gonna lie.”

  “It’s my mom’s. My dad gave it to her for Christmas years ago.”

  “That’s awesome. Way cooler present than my dad has ever given my mom.” He brings the train to a gradual halt when it comes back around to the mini-station platform.

  “My mom loves trains. We’re train people.”

  “Train people?”

  “It’s a thing, trust me.” My mother always said there were two kinds of people in the world: plane people and train people. Plane people are focused on the destination and train people love the journey. When I was ten, she told me she was going to make me a train person if it was the last thing she did.

  “I’ll show you my mom’s map of the world according to train people later. If you’re nice. Snack?”

  * * *

  Predictably, it appears that neither of the able-bodied adults in my house has gone grocery shopping in ages, so the best I can offer Caleb is toast. I stuff two pieces of thick white bread into the toaster and turn the dial to medium. Gram leaves it on dark all the time—the woman loves to get in a few carcinogens with her breakfast.

  “Your mom’s?” he asks, nodding at the extensive collection of medications on the countertop, divvied up in a large pillbox organized by the days of the week.

  The drugs cover anxiety, depression, motor control, the list goes on. They take the edge off the symptoms, but that’s about it. “Just a little preview of my possible future.”

  “Why do you have to be like that?” Caleb leans against the kitchen counter like he lives here, his arms and ankles crossed. “Why are you so sure you’re going to get it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, suddenly defensive. “It’s just easier to plan for the worst.”

  “Is it?”

  I don’t answer. “No offense, but HD is way worse than sickle cell. Just FYI.”

  Caleb laughs again, throwing his head back and bellowing up toward the ceiling. He laughs with his whole body.

  “Okay, so you’re competitive,” he says, pulling himself together. “Maybe I disagree. I say sickle cell is worse because you’re sick your whole life. What do you say to that?”

  “Oh, you want to do this?” I put my hands on my hips and get up in his face like I’m about to pick a fight. “To that I say, fine, but you don’t die from it.”

  “You can, actually,” he says, suddenly serious. “Not as much anymore, but it used to limit life expectancy quite a lot. It still can in some cases.”

  Now I feel like a jerk. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t realize that.”

  He gives me a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Anyway. Fine, I’ll give you that sickle cell isn’t as universally fatal as Huntington’s, so from that perspective, you’re right. Huntington’s is worse. But that doesn’t mean it’s the worst of the worst. What about Tay-Sachs?”

  He has a point. Tay-Sachs actually does give Huntington’s a run for its money in the battle for the worst genetic luck. Watching your kid get sick and die—and potentially one kid after another—is probably worse than watching a parent get sick and die. At least, that’s what parents always say. But Tay-Sachs is recessive. Genetically speaking, it’s a less vicious mutation.

  “Tay-Sachs is bad,” I allow. “But consider the odds of actually getting it: only a twenty-five percent chance even if both your parents are carriers. I’d argue that a dominant mutation trumps a recessive one every time.”

  “Oh, so there’s a hierarchy here? That’s what you’re saying?” Caleb takes a step closer to me. We’re standing so close that he has to crane his neck down to look me in the eye.

  I work hard to maintain a serious face. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “You’re very strict, you know,” Caleb says. We’re both cracking up by now. For a split second I think he might try to kiss me, but then the toaster pings. I duck away quickly and drop the slices on a polka-dotted dessert plate.

  “I see you’re still in ballet mode,” he observes, and I realize that I’m moving between flat feet and tiptoes, stretching out my calves, while I search the refrigerator for butter. I do it so naturally that I don’t even notice.

  Caleb pulls up a stool at the kitchen island. If he thinks the toast is a lame snack—which, having seen his parents’ kitchen, I’m quite certain he does—he doesn’t let on. “So how are your infamous Nutcracker rehearsals going, anyway?”

  I let out a big sigh. “They’re fine. Exhausting. The music is beautiful, though. Tchaikovsky and all.”

  “Sure. My man Pyotr. He’s all right,” Caleb says. “Did you get my ticket yet?”

  I search his face for signs that he’s kidding. I don’t want to take him
at his word, get him a ticket, and then have him feel obligated to come.

  “You really, really do not have to come see it. I am being totally serious. Really.”

  “Really, I am being serious when I say I want to. I want to see what you do. I’ll bring my sisters—they’ll be even more obsessed with you than they already are.”

  “Um, why are your sisters obsessed with me, again?”

  “Because they think you’re super cool and you’re a dancer and you were actually nice to them when you came over. Just take it as a compliment.”

  The toast is still soft in the middle, not quite toasted enough, and it shreds as I butter it. I leave some ant-like crumbs stuck in the tub of allegedly spreadable butter. Then I hold a jar of raspberry Smucker’s in the air and Caleb gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Okay,” I say, layering the toast with jam. “We open next Friday, so how about over the weekend?” I slide the plate across the island and he takes a slice of toast. “I’ll leave tickets for you guys at the box office on Saturday. For the matinee.”

  “Excellent. We’ll be looking forward to it,” he says, grinning. “Thanks for the snack, by the way.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure a little soggy white toast is just what you were craving.”

  “Hey, whatever works. I just didn’t realize ballet dancers were so big on the simple carbs.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. It’s true that white bread soaked in high-fructose corn syrup isn’t exactly my standard daily snack, but I don’t eat like the stereotypical ballet dancer either. We burn a ton of calories dancing. I can’t imagine not loading up on food.

  “I pretty much eat whatever I want,” I tell him. “I get quite the workout, so … you know.”

  “Yeah, for sure,” he says. “Not trying to give you a complex! You look—I mean—you’re … perfect.”

  The word hangs there for a moment, neither of us sure what to say next. “I mean, your body is … Never mind.” He glances around, looking desperate to change the subject. “Where are your folks, anyway?”

  “Doctor’s appointment, doctor’s appointment, work.”

  “Who’s the second doctor’s appointment in that equation?”

  “That would be my grandmother. She’s with my mom.”

  I can see him putting two and two together in his head, piecing together the finer details of my family tree and probably guessing at how our illness fits in. We’re both quiet for a minute. I watch him, picking at the crumbs left scattered on his plate.

  After a moment, he bites a crumb off his index finger and dusts his hands off. “Have I been nice enough to see that train map?”

  * * *

  In my mom’s office, we stand in front of the map in silence. I can feel Caleb taking it in. Before this moment, Lena was the only person outside of our family who knew about my mother’s train thing.

  Finally, he says, “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you were train people.”

  He listens carefully while I explain the whole thing, running his eyes along the different train routes and moving closer to look at the pictures tacked next to the map.

  “I wish I could take them all,” I say.

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. I’d just like to be able to tell her what they’re really like, you know? Since she can’t see them for herself.” I trace my fingers along one of the American routes out of Chicago, heading west—the Zephyr, to San Francisco. “This one’s supposed to be the most beautiful ride in the country.”

  “You should do it,” Caleb says. He reaches up and puts his hand against the map, his fingers brushing mine, tracing the same route.

  Then, like the jackass that I am, I pull my hand away reflexively. “Should we watch a movie or something?” I ask, before anything else can happen.

  * * *

  An hour later, we’re midway through one of my all-time favorites, Evil Under the Sun. Caleb teased me a little when I showed him my collection of old mystery movies, but he didn’t refuse the Agatha Christie classic, either. I’ve seen this movie probably a hundred times—like all the Agatha Christies starring her famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but I’d forgotten—or never noticed—how the only people in the whole movie who aren’t white are nameless, faceless, generally shoeless, and generally serving the white people. Sitting next to Caleb on the couch, it makes me cringe.

  Car doors slam in the driveway, and my father’s muffled voice floats up the front walk. He must’ve met up with Mom and Gram at the doctor’s appointment. Dad likes to check in with Dr. Howard whenever he can, and his work schedule is pretty flexible. He didn’t choose real estate because it was a decent business to be in while simultaneously caring for one’s ailing wife, but it’s worked out all right.

  I silently curse myself for losing track of time. No choice but to make the introductions now. It occurs to me that my family might be surprised to find me at home, alone, with a guy. I’ve never done that before. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only person they’ve ever seen me sitting with on the couch is Lena. Caleb and I aren’t touching, but I shift an inch or two farther away from him just as the door pushes open.

  “Ro—” Dad starts to call, before seeing us there.

  “Hi, guys,” I say, sitting up and leaning over the back of the couch. “How was the doctor?”

  “Fine,” Dad and Gram say simultaneously—always their answer to that question.

  Mom interjects, sounding agitated. “Bad, bad, bad. Dr. Howard is an asshole.”

  “El, give the guy a break. You like Dr. Howard. We all like Dr. Howard,” says Dad in a matter-of-fact tone. I appreciate that he doesn’t talk down to her, even when she’s having a bad moment.

  “Asshole. He’s an asshole,” Mom repeats. Dad sighs, and looks at Caleb expectantly.

  “Oh, this is Caleb,” I say, noticing a momentary look of recognition on Gram’s face at the mention of his name. “He’s my friend from the rare genes walk.”

  Caleb approaches my family, still clustered by the doorway, with his hand outstretched. Dad takes it.

  “Caleb, nice to meet you.”

  “That’s my dad, David, and my mom, Ellen, and my grandmother, Alice.”

  “Nice to meet all of you. Sorry to surprise you.”

  Dad’s eyes flicker over at me for the briefest moment, then shift back to Caleb. “No, no problem at all. Always pleased to know that Rose has real, live friends. She doesn’t always play well with others.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Listen, I’m going to get dinner started. Caleb, will you join us?”

  I look from my father to Caleb and back again. Caleb gives me what I think is a little smirk. “I’d love to. Let me just call my folks and let them know.”

  * * *

  When Dad said he was going to “get dinner started,” he should really have said he was going to “heat up leftover Chinese food from last night.”

  “This isn’t my father’s finest culinary moment,” I tell Caleb, thinking back to the multicourse homemade meal I ate at his house, as we sit down to slightly soggy scallion pancakes and pork lo mein.

  “Hey, it works for me.”

  Caleb is sitting directly across from my mother, who looks at him intently, raising a piece of scallion pancake to her lips with a quivering hand.

  “So, Caleb,” Dad starts, a little awkwardly, “what, ah … so, you’re involved in the Rare Genes Project?”

  “Dad.” I shoot him a dirty look. He may as well just bust out with “So, what’s wrong with you and your relatives?”

  “No, no, it’s fine, Mr. Levenson,” Caleb interjects.

  “God, that makes me feel like an old man. Call me Dave, I beg you,” Dad says. “This is Cambridge, anyway. Come on.”

  Caleb smiles. He has dimples in places I haven’t noticed before. “Fair enough … Dave. Sickle cell runs in my family. I don’t have the disease, but my mom and sisters do.”

  “I s
ee. That’s difficult. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. There are a lot better treatments now than there were when my mother was a kid, so that’s good.”

  Dad nods, chewing on a spring roll. “Good, good. I thought they’d made quite a bit of progress with that.”

  “Caleb’s dad works at Mass General. He’s a neonatologist,” I say, desperate to get off the subject of Caleb’s sick family.

  “That’s something, isn’t it? Ellen—Rose’s mom, I mean—sees a specialist at Mass General.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Caleb says, turning to me. “What doctor does your mom see there?”

  Mom pipes up across the table. “Talking about me like I’m not here is rude.”

  “Ellen—” Gram cuts in, sensing, like I am, that Mom’s about to lose it.

  “You’re all talking about me like I’m not here.”

  “No one’s talking about you like you’re not here, El,” says Dad. “We all know you’re here.”

  “Who’s the black kid?” Mom asks, staring at Caleb. “You’re black.”

  “Mom,” I interject, “don’t be…”

  “He’s black.”

  Dad stammers something that sounds like an attempt at an apology to Caleb, but it comes out like he has a wad of Kleenex shoved in his mouth.

  “It’s okay,” Caleb says. “It’s just an observation.” Then he looks right at Mom and smiles like he’s having a casual conversation with a normal person. “You are correct. I am black.”

  “Black!” Mom goes on. “Black, black, black. Rose’s boyfriend is black. Rose has jungle fever!”

  “Mom!” I stand up, throwing my napkin down on the table. “Stop it! Stop!”

  She laughs, this eerie, empty laugh that comes out sometimes now when she’s worked up. It doesn’t even sound like her. I’m frankly surprised she can conjure the phrase “jungle fever” at all these days. I wonder where that one was locked away. I glance over at Caleb, who’s twirling his fork in a strand of lo mein.

  “Rose, it’s all right,” Gram says quietly, looking to my father as if he’s somehow going to rein in the situation.