A chill ran through my body.
“Kate, your father has a terrible disease. At the moment, he’s having trouble controlling his movements and his speech.” Mum recited the words as if she’d written them down. “However, in time, he’ll lose the ability to control them entirely. His memory is affected. He is going to require constant care and supervision.”
My eyes widened. What? My father was going to—
“Dad’s going to go … to lose his mind?”
The room fell silent. No one answered me.
“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s not going to be able to control what he does, how he speaks, what stays in his mind and what doesn’t. Isn’t that kind of the definition of the concept?”
I was on my feet now, shouting. Why was I so angry? I tried to slow my breathing, calm my heart rate, but my body ignored me.
“How could you have let this happen? You’re not old enough to be—to be just having this happen. And you left. You left us!” I jabbed my finger toward him, stabbing the air in front of his face. I was yelling so loudly I was sure the neighbours could hear.
“Kate, calm down.” Mum shook her head. Dad didn’t say a word, just kept up his full-body sobs as he cried, tears for a life he would never lead.
Shaking, I nervously backed my way over to the couch.
“So. Okay. How does this work? Why are we only hearing about this now?” I slowly lowered my body, letting the pillows support me as I felt the will to move drain from my limbs. Take in the facts, Kate. Gather information. Process. Breathe.
“It started more than a year and a half ago. Small signs, at first. Nothing you or I really noticed, like involuntary movements of his body, depression and slurred speech.” Mum’s forehead creased. “Or, if we did notice, we blamed it on his drinking.”
“It’s why I was drinking.” Dad raised his head to look at me, his tears momentarily subsided. “A … addiction is a common trait when you have H … Hunting …”
“But you left,” I cut him off.
“He did, yes,” Mum said. “He knew something was wrong, so he went to get some tests done. He found out he had the disease, but didn’t want us to have to deal with—this. The next day, he sold his car to pay for treatment at a care centre, which is where he’s been living the past year.”
“So, you just didn’t tell us? And decided to come back to ruin my graduation?”
Another awkward silence panned out as Dad glanced sheepishly at Mum, then back to his hands that were quietly writhing away, clenching and unclenching in his lap.
“I c … couldn’t afford the treatment anymore,” Dad said. “I wanted to see you graduate. But I had—I had a few drinks.”
Fact check: My dad was back, and he was sick. Real sick. Drinking was a part of the problem. A disease was destroying his brain.
I felt removed from the situation, like I was watching the news. This sort of thing didn’t happen. Not to normal people like me.
“Couldn’t drinking deplete your brain cells? What were you thinking?”
Dad started to cry again, a new wave of tears, and I brought my hands to the bridge of my nose. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? He was sick, and he was my father. And I was hardly being understanding.
“Are you—okay?” I tried again, even though it was clear he wasn’t. No one answered. There was nothing even remotely okay about this.
We sat there in silence for a few moments, me leaning back in my chair in shock, Mum stroking tiny round circles on Dad’s back as he shook some more.
In books, people say that bad news can make you look older. I hadn’t really seen evidence of that before, but looking at my parents, I could definitely see the toll of time wearing on their faces and bodies: slumped shoulders, crushed foreheads, tired eyes. My middle-aged parents had become old.
“Katie, I’m sorry.” Dad raised his head and looked at me. His blue eyes were surrounded by fiery-red streaks from the tears he’d shed, little spidery veins of sadness.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Th … there’s more.”
I clutched the edge of my seat, my fingernails digging deep into the creamy suede material. What else could there possibly be? What could possibly be worse than a disease that was going to make him half a man?
“I’m … I’m going to die.”
The words ricocheted through my body.
Die.
My dad was going to die.
“He doesn’t mean in the ‘everyone-is-going-to-die-one-day’ way, sweetie, he means—”
“Mum, I know what he means.” I snapped my lips together.
“H … how long?”
“Prognosis is good. About fifteen to twenty years.” Mum stared at her nails, unable to make eye contact.
“Wow.” I thought about all the things that would happen in the next fifteen to twenty years. I’d move out. I’d have a tour management career. I’d get married. I’d have children. They’d grow up, and Dad would be there for some of it, but not all of it. One day, my dad was going to die, and my kids may not ever have known him except as a distant memory.
One day, I was going to have to face the world alone.
Without him.
Even more without him than I’d been for the last three-hundred and seventy-something days.
“This is just—it’s a lot to take in.” I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
I stood from my seat and crossed the room, hovering over him with my arms extended in an awkward sort of way while Mum, reluctant to leave his side, extended one of her hands to my shoulder.
I felt myself still as time slowed down. My hand was on Dad’s shoulder, and he wasn’t hugging me back. It was surreal, this moment, seeing the drool as it pooled in the corner of my father’s lip. Was this really happening?
“How sweet.” I heard Dave before I saw him. He’d walked in the door without knocking. For the first time ever, I wished he were a tiny bit less familiar with my home.
“Hi.” I quickly disentangled myself from our embrace and smoothed down my shirt, before walking to Dave’s side. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and handed me a weighted plastic bag.
“I bought ice cream,” he smiled, “but only for three.” The last sentence was directed with a cool gaze in Dad’s direction. I elbowed Dave in the ribs. Couldn’t he see that my father was upset?
“Deb, do you need me to remove any unwanted guests?” Dave took a step towards my parents. His knuckles were fisted, white bones showing through. Mum shook her head, no.
“Can you help me pop these in the freezer?” I grabbed the plastic bag from Dave’s hands and walked to the kitchen. He followed.
The second we were alone, he cornered me against the bench, his arms on either side of mine so my body pressed hard up against his.
“Now I can give you a proper hello,” he whispered in my ear and started nibbling against it.
“Dave.” I sighed, and gave him a nudge. He ignored me, pressing closer still.
“Dave. Seriously.” This time I gave him a shove, and he stumbled backward. I pushed away from the bench and opened the freezer to put the ice cream in.
“What’s your problem?” His arms were folded and his face was grim.
“Dave, it’s Dad,” I whispered. “He’s sick.” Even as I said it, the words seemed surreal. How did I describe an illness I barely knew anything about myself?
“Like, a sick idiot who ruined graduation?” I punched Dave on the shoulder. How could he be so tactless when I was trying to tell him something important?
“Stop being such a shit,” I hissed. “He has a disease. Something starting with H.” The actual name escaped me. I hadn’t heard of it before today. There was no “day” or “month” to honour it, like there was with cancer or MS.
This disease was going to steal my father from me—and it wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard of.
“What sort of disease?”
“It affects everything. He’s going to
lose control of his speech, his movement—and then he’s going to die.” I felt tears well in my eyes and forced them back. Dave put his arms around me and I collapsed into him. I breathed in his cologne as he stroked my hair.
“How long?”
“Mum said maybe fifteen to twenty years? He’s going to die,” I repeated the words, with little to no inflection. I was removed from myself, from this scene.
“You’ll be okay.”
His words were of no direct comfort to me, but feeling his arms take my weight and support my body helped. I stood there for a moment, losing myself in him, and let my thoughts fly. I was angry Dad hadn’t told us, furious he’d run away, and devastated about the whole situation. I’d never felt so many emotions before: mad, upset, protective, confused, and hurt. Was this normal? To feel everything, all at once?
“I have to go back out there.” I forced out the words. I pulled back to look at Dave’s face, his pale skin, his electric-green eyes … he looked so steady, so sure. I wanted to stay in his arms forever.
“We’ll go together.”
Dave placed his hand on the small of my back and led me back into the living room where my parents waited.
“Kate told me.” Dave walked over to the couch. “And I’m sorry, man. That’s really rough.” He stretched his arm out and took Dad’s hand, pumping twice before joining me on the opposite couch. Dad’s forehead creased up.
“Paul.” Dad nodded slowly.
“You’ve met Dave, dear, that’s Kate’s boyfriend.”
“Dave,” Dad repeated, stretching the word out on his tongue.
Everything my parents had said became somehow more real. Dad had met Dave before, many times. And yet, here he was, acting like he was being introduced to a total stranger. Memory loss.
Wow.
“Dude, you like, came to some of our concerts.”
I gave a sharp kick to Dave’s ankle.
“Kate, I know you must have a lot of questions,” Mum said. “So feel free to ask us anything, anytime. I’m still—I’m still trying to take it all in myself.”
“O … okay.” I’d never stuttered so much in my life.
“And there is something else we need to tell you, dear.”
“Deb, not now. Give ‘er a rest,” Dad interjected, his voice sounding ever more weary with each passing word.
“What? Tell me.” My fingers clenched into tiny fists. “What could possibly be worse than what you’ve already said?” I felt Dave place his arm protectively around my shoulders.
“Maybe we should wait.” Mum eyed Dave’s hand.
“Anything you have to say, you can say in front of him.” I shook my head. “He’s family. You know that.” Dave and I locked eyes, and he gave me a special little smile.
“Kate, it’s not a good time.” Mum’s voice was shrill. My heart was beating like a jackhammer, thud-thud-thud, over and over in double-time.
“If you don’t tell me now, I’ll Google it. I’ll just search the disease and see what I can find. We both will.”
Silence. Dave took my hand in his, clasping his other hand around it so I was protected entirely within his palms. Mum and Dad looked at each other, her lips pursed, his still loose.
“The disease your father has …” Mum paused. I nodded at her. Go on.
Just tell me. Get it over with.
“It’s hereditary.”
I struggled to breathe as Dave’s fingers slowly unlaced themselves from mine.
Chapter Three
WHEN YOUR whole world falls apart, there’s not a lot you can do about it. When I found out my dad was going to lose all body control, and Mum told me the same thing might happen to me, I did what any normal person would do.
I walked up the stairs, all zombie-like, and shut myself in my ridiculously neat room. I got into my largest T-shirt. I cracked open my emergency packet of Tim Tams and mixed a bottle of cola with some hideous cheap vodka.
Then, it was horror-movie therapy time. Tarantino, Rodriguez … I rented them all online then watched them, back-to-back, like a junkie. I started to close my eyes once, and then quickly pinched my arm, forcing them back open again.
After two am, I switched from cola to Red Bull to keep the adrenalin pumping through my system. Slash, slash, slash. Stab, stab, stab. All this pain on screen, blood, gore and guts, distracting and enveloping me with its all-encompassing hideousness.
I had to stay awake. I couldn’t fall asleep.
You never fall asleep in dreams.
I woke to a piercing shriek, undignified, contrasting and loud. I managed to narrow one eye open into a squint. Light blasted from under my curtains and I saw my room: the boxy shape of my desk, my laptop, the plastic wrapping from the Tim Tams.
I identified the phone on my desk next to the computer as the nearest noise source I could control, and pressed “cancel” on the incoming call. Stacey could ring back another time. My laptop was right next to my phone, so I grabbed it and slammed the lid shut. I had no idea how long the intro music to Planet Horror had been looping, but judging from the way the tune continued in my head even after I turned it off, I’d be willing to guess a long bloody time.
“Kate, honey? It’s time to get up.”
Mum’s voice was outside the door. I rolled my eyes. Why on earth would I want to get up? I didn’t have school to go to, and I—
The previous night’s events came flooding through my mind like a highlights reel on a DVD. Dad had a terrible disease. He was going to lose his ability to speak and move, and be normal. He’d need permanent care. He was going to die. And, oh yeah, it was hereditary. So there was a chance I’d end up with it, too.
I groaned and threw my head back down on my pillow. Happy end of high school to me.
“Kate? You go on tour in two days. You need to get up and pack. Have you finished packing?”
I looked around my room, surveying the half-filled suitcase. Was “kind of” a good enough answer?
“Katie, I’m coming in if you don’t reply soon.”
Mum’s definition of the word “soon” appeared to be approximately ten seconds, as that was how long she waited before bursting through the door, concern etched all over her face in her worried eyes, and thin lips. She sat down next to me on the bed, the crinkle of plastic wrappers celebrating under her feet.
“You know, chocolate is never going to solve your problems.” Mum picked up the rubbish and placed it in the empty trashcan next to the bed. “I would have thought you, of all people, would know that.”
“Mu-u-um,” I groaned. “You know I don’t care about that stuff.”
“I’ve told you before, you’re beautiful now, but in your early twenties … the weight just starts piling on, if you’re not careful.” She tutted and shook her head.
“What does my weight matter if I’m going to die?”
“Oh, Kate.” Mum wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me loosely across her lap. “There’s only a fifty per cent chance of that.”
“So, it’s like flipping a coin?”
“More or less.” She sighed and pulled away, studying me. “I know you’ve got a lot of thinking to do, but you’re about to go on tour with the boy you really like—don’t let this stop you. Your dad is going to be here when you return.”
“He’s moving back in?”
Mum nodded, a movement so minute it was almost imperceptible.
“He left, and you’re just letting him back?”
“He left to protect us from what was happening to him.” I leaned in closer to hear her speak. “And he—he’s been through so much by himself. We have to be there for him, now.” There was no anger, just hurt in her eyes.
“So, now what? Now we need to live with it?” I bit my lip. He was still my dad; I didn’t mean to sound so bitchy, but ... I didn’t know how I felt, about any of it. “I just don’t think it’s going to be as easy as ‘He moves in, we start playing happy families.’”
“We won’t. It won’t be. It’s goi
ng to be a big adjustment for all of us.”
I picked at a thread on my bedspread. The black-and-white print was done in William-Morris style, one of my favourites.
“If I have it, when will it kick in?” My voice was tiny.
“It typically hits you when you reach middle-age, so it could be years yet. Dad actually got it quite late. Legally, you can be tested for the disease once you reach eighteen. I’ve booked you a specialised counselling appointment for tomorrow, so you can ask an expert some questions before you go on tour. Normally there’s a wait list, but I told them about your special situation, and they squeezed you in.”
My mind was stuck on her first sentence. Typically. The average person.
But what about the not-so-average person? What about the one in a million?
“Is there any chance it could kick in … next year? Or the year after?”
I was frightened. I concentrated on biting my bottom lip, so hard I could feel my bottom teeth on the other side of it.
“Kate …”
“It’s not fair,” I protested. I pressed my hands to my face. “It’s just not fair.”
“The chance of the gene developing while you’re so young is very slim. Besides, you haven’t even taken the test yet.” Mum rubbed my back. She smelled like fresh soap and clean linen—normal mother smells. Not mother-who-is-married-to-a-diseased-man smells. “Let’s talk about this when you get back.”
I let her comfort me. It felt like a dream.
“Fifty per cent, huh?”
Mum nodded.
Fifty per cent.
They weren’t the worst odds I’d ever heard.
I stood up and scrambled through the papers and books piled neatly on my desk, letting them float softly to the floor as I searched for the coin I knew would be there. I picked it up, balancing it precariously on the back of my hand.
“Heads or tails?” I asked her.
“Kate.” Mum shook her head, stood up, and walked to the door.
“Heads or tails,” I insisted, raising my hand.
“That isn’t a fair test.”
“Heads, tails, or leave me alone.”
Mum’s eyes glistened, just for a second, and I thought about what a horrible person I was being. Then my instincts kicked back in. This was about my future.
The Problem With Crazy Page 3