The Problem With Crazy

by Lauren McKellar

  “I’m—I’m hopping out, now.” I bit my lip when our laughter finally evaporated into shallow gasps for air. “Can you …?”

  “Of course.” I saw something flash in Lachlan’s eyes. My stomach tingled, or was it slightly lower down? I wanted to see that flash again, so I swum closer, until his face was so close to mine I could see the droplets on his forehead, the way his hair was slicked to his head.

  I parted my lips slightly. It was all I could do not to wrap my legs around him. He lifted one hand and pressed a finger to my lips. It was shrivelled and wet.

  “I’ll turn around now.” He turned his back and put his hands over his eyes for good measure.

  I trod my way to the edge of the pool until I felt the slimy surface of mud and rock beneath my feet.

  “Ew!” I shrieked as my foot slipped deeper into the mud. “This is so gross.”

  “I know,” Lachlan said, hands still clamped firmly over his eyes. I waded out of the pool and ran over to my clothes, struggling to get them on.

  Once I was dressed, I felt almost more exposed than before. My hair was a mess, and I was sure the water had washed off whatever foundation I’d had left on. I wasn’t one of those Victoria’s Secret model-types who looked hot when they were wet. I felt even more naked than I had in the water.

  “Your turn,” I sang in a voice that wasn’t nearly as confident as I felt. I turned my back to him and studied the leafy floor. No covering my eyes this time.

  “’Kay,” he said, and I tried to ignore the sound of water slapping against his skin and imagining what it would look like if I turned around.

  I wasn’t going to. There were a million reasons why we wouldn’t work, such as the whole Huntington’s thing. And if he were into me, wouldn’t he have made a move while I was naked in the pool with him?

  Wouldn’t that have been the perfect time?

  “Kate?” Lachlan interrupted my internal struggle.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you have fun?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled. If nothing else, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard.

  “Would you do it again?”

  I paused. Would I do it again? I didn’t know. Probably not. How could anything ever be better than this perfect moment here?

  “No.”

  “Okay.” I heard him step closer to me, his feet squelching against the mulch underneath, the light of his phone illuminating my feet. “But it was a new experience worth trying.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I CALLED and made my neurologist appointment a few days later, needing to make progress with the testing process. My voice scratched when I booked, as if I was on a bad line. It didn’t help that I’d seen an article about Dave dating Lee Collins’s girlfriend (now, presumably ex-girlfriend) in the newspaper and I hadn’t heard from Johnny or Lachlan regarding new shifts at the café.

  Not that it mattered, of course. Lachlan and I were just mates, and mates didn’t stress when they hadn’t heard from each other in two days. Or two days, twelve hours and eighteen minutes.

  Did they?

  Maybe that’s why I found myself pulling into the lot at Sideways later that week, Dad by my side. I opened the door to the café and quickly ushered him to a table in the corner, trying to create as little fuss as possible. The place was busy today, the three pm caffeine-addicted crowd settling in. I prayed Dad wouldn’t do anything to embarrass me.

  I walked up to the counter to order and was surprised to be met by Johnny instead of Lachlan.

  “Hey, where’s Lachlan?”

  Cringe. Could I be more obvious?

  “He took the afternoon off.” Johnny nodded at the crowded room before him. “Of all the days though, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Oh, just a milkshake and a flat white, please.”

  “No problem-o,” he said, quickly pressing a few buttons on the machine to no doubt keep the orders coming. “Put that money away. We can do staff drinks.” He gave me a wink, and I smiled back.

  “So, speaking of, I never heard from you about another shift, and I …”

  “Oh! Of course, yeah, right, I forgot to call you.” Johnny slapped his forehead. “Sorry, mate, I’ve been flat-out here. But could you come in? Like, next Tuesday?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s fine. What time?” I felt like an idiot. He’d just been busy, and now he probably thought I’d hunted him down in his place of work to find out more. What was wrong with me?

  Oh, yeah, that’s right. Potential Huntington’s disease.

  “Maybe from ten till close? You can shift with me, Lach is off again,” he said. “Now go sit down, I’ll bring these out when they’re ready.”

  I smiled my thanks and headed back to the table where I pulled out the chair across from Dad. Just the two of us. Having a drink.

  Leslie would be proud.

  “So, what’d you get up to yesterday?” I asked brightly. Dad didn’t so much as make eye contact with me. He kept his gaze glued to the table in front of him where he was playing with a saltshaker, tipping it from side to side in his hand. He’d tilt left, and all the tiny white crystals would slide down the glass tube. He’d tilt right and they’d fly that way, stopping when he covered the holes on top with his palm to prevent spillage. Then he’d lose control, drop the shaker, or his arm would jerk out again.

  Process and repeat.

  “Dad?” I spoke a little louder in case he couldn’t hear me over the salt.

  Nothing.

  Side to side.

  Palm to tube.

  “We’re supposed to be trying.” I spoke the words quietly, and slumped back in my seat. At least I’d given it a shot. Ten points for me at my next counselling session.

  “Trying?”

  Of course. That he heard.

  “Trying to act normal.” He put the saltshaker down.

  I studied my father, his thinning dark hair that glinted auburn in the warm afternoon sun. Wasn’t it obvious? What other way would we be trying to act?

  “This is normal.” He slurred just the slightest bit when he spoke, but the words were coherent, at least. I finally understood that saying about being grateful for small mercies.

  “Okay, so how was your day yesterday?” I tried again.

  Silence.

  He picked up the saltshaker and started twisting and turning it again, humming a tune under his breath. I shook my head, ever so slightly. How could I try when he acted like this? In and out, like washing blowing on the line, like one of those bobbing birds that reach for the water. Now you see him, now you don’t.

  “Here we go.” Johnny approached our table with the sort of speed no man carrying two drinks should find possible. He placed the milkshake in front of me and the coffee in front of Dad. I saw Dad’s eyes light up, and I quickly switched the drinks around. No way was I having a revisit of the spilt hot drink experience here, in a public place. Not a chance.

  “Thanks.” I smiled up at Johnny and ripped open a packet of sugar, letting the contents fall into my drink. “It was nice of you to give them to us free.”

  “For my new star employee? Anything.” Johnny clapped my back lightly, tilting his head to the side.

  “Y … you work,” Dad said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” Johnny and I answered in unison.

  “What about-boy?” Dad’s eyes widened, and I felt my heart sink. No, no, no. Please don’t say anything about him, not in front of Johnny, not in my place of work, and not in that frustrating stunted voice.

  “Which boy?” Johnny rested an arm on the back of Dad’s chair, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Oh, he just means Lachlan.” I rushed the words together. I had a high pitch to my voice, like I was trying to counteract Dad’s lower one. “We saw him here on our first visit, and Dad was quite impressed with …” I trailed off, and scanned the room, searching for something, an answer to the end of my sentence.

  “His art?” Johnny asked, righ
t at the same time as I said “the coffee.” Thanks, brain, for finally kicking in.

  Wait.

  The art?

  “He does all this?” I turned my head to look at the wall behind me, the wall of amazing, intricate images that had first drawn me to the place. Lachlan had done this?

  There were frames of all different shapes and sizes, black-and-white pictures inside. One captured a frail hand, the veins etched deep, and lines of age and worry marked clearly. Then there was one of a ship, each tiny plank of timber knotted out in such detail I wanted to touch it, to learn more.

  Something clicked in my head. The boy on the ground, notebook in hand, ready to capture the experience of smoking for the first time. These pictures were his way of capturing the firsts.

  All of them.

  I pushed back my seat and stood up to get a closer look. It was amazing, the fine lines that all weaved together—tiny complexities creating a simple whole. All this work was beautiful.

  “He’s good, huh?” Johnny came to stand by my side, arms folded across his chest.

  “He’s—” I stopped. Good wasn’t even the word. His pictures made me want to curl myself up and try to fit inside them, to move from this heartbreaking world to his beautiful one. “—breathtaking.” I finally finished. It was, it really was.

  “Does he sell these?”

  “Yeah, when people are buying.” Johnny nodded. “No one really knows about it, you know? He needs, like, a launch or something.”

  “People should know about these,” I said, because they should. I reached out a hand and traced the feathers of a bird. Every frond was displayed. Amazing. “I organised a tour once. A launch can’t be that hard.” If high-school-educated me could do that, surely Johnny, who had opened a business with his brother, could sort out a simple launch.

  “You think?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “You’d just need a guest list of customers and media, plus maybe some art elites or bloggers, a bit of catering, some entertainment and you’d be set.” Just like in music. It was crazy how easily the answer came to me.

  “Great! How about in six weeks? Is that enough time?” Johnny’s eyes were excited. I couldn’t help but catch his enthusiasm, giving him a small grin in return. He’d be good at this. Hell, if I managed to organise a band tour with an absentee father and potential Huntington’s in my genes, he’d be great.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’d be fine.” I nodded, glancing back to our table.

  Dad unscrewed the silver cap from the saltshaker and poured all the tiny white granules into his milkshake. My jaw clenched.

  “One second.” I held up my index finger and darted back to the table, hoping Johnny hadn’t seen. I couldn’t even leave Dad alone for five minutes without him embarrassing me. I guess I was just lucky he hadn’t tried to sample my coffee.

  “Dad, what are you doing?” I whispered, my eyes wide. I hoped they conveyed my hidden message of stop it, now.

  “Sugar.” Dad nodded.

  “It’s a milkshake. It doesn’t need any.”

  “Does.”

  “No it doesn’t.”

  “Yes. Does.”

  I pressed my eyes shut for a moment. It was like arguing with a two-year-old.

  “Well, it’s a saltshaker. It’s not going to work,” I tried.

  “Sugar.”

  “No, it’s salt.” I tried to take the empty glass bottle from his tight grip, but he snatched his hand out of the way. I glanced back at Johnny, to see if he’d noticed what was going on. Thankfully, he was still staring at the art, no doubt focusing on the launch he was about to plan.

  “Sugar!” Dad yelled, and raised his arm behind his head. It all happened in slow motion: the word from Dad’s mouth, Johnny turning around, shoulders mid shrug, Dad’s hand behind his head, half the customers in the store turning to face him. Then came the big one.

  His arm sprung forward and he let the saltshaker fly, sending it sailing across the room till it collided with the wall right next to one of Lachlan’s brilliant pieces of art, shattering into hundreds of thousands of tiny pieces on the polished concrete floor.

  Now it wasn’t just the half the café with their eyes on us.

  It was all of them.

  I felt my face turn bright red and I pressed my lips together, determined not to give in to the side of me that wanted to crumple up into a little ball and cry. I should never have brought him here. Not to my place of work, a place that mattered. In my desire to get answers, I’d jeopardised the only thing I had going for myself.

  I turned back to the table and watched Dad, who now had his mouth firmly latched onto his straw, oblivious to the stares and the no doubt extra-salty taste. He was sucking it all up.

  “I’ll go get a dustpan,” I said to no one in particular and ran behind the counter to where I knew the cleaning supplies were kept. I pulled the pan and broom out from under the shelf and ran back around the counter to the broken shaker where Johnny was standing guard.

  “I got it.” Johnny put his hand gently on mine. It was only then I noticed how much it was trembling.

  “I’m fine.” I wrenched my arm away and dropped to the floor, sweeping the bits of broken glass into the pan and trying to ignore the everything that was building inside me. Sad, embarrassed, hurt, angry, ashamed … there was a whirlpool of emotion stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat, just dying to spew out.

  I blinked, trying to see through the thin veil of tears lacing my eyes. Every time I swept a shard of broken glass into the dustpan, a piece that was already inside fell out. It only made my sweeps more furious, harder, faster, which of course resulted in more falling to the floor.

  “Kate.” Johnny knelt beside me. His voice was soft and steady, like he was talking to a child. I heard parts of the tone I’d been using with Dad in him. I froze in place, staring into his pale eyes that were locked on me.

  “I got this.” He took the dustpan and broom from my hands. I curled my fingers. If I didn’t have that to hold on to, what did I have left?

  I stood back up, unfurling every notch in my spine like I was in some sort of yoga class. A few eyes still glanced surreptitiously in our direction, but most were focused back on their own conversations and coffees.

  I walked over to the table where Dad was taking giant, noisy slurps from his milkshake, sucking air up the red-striped straw.

  “We’re leaving.” I grabbed the glass from in front of him and took it, along with my so far untouched coffee, over to the counter.

  “Thanks for that.” Johnny moved past me on his way to tip the glass pieces in the bin.

  “I …”

  I’m sorry?

  I guess I shouldn’t come in for work again?

  I can’t fix this.

  I don’t have anything to say.

  “Cool, so I’ll see you next week. And start working on that art launch; Lach is going to be so excited.”

  I blinked, and stared at him. My forehead creased, the teensiest bit. Then common sense snapped back in and I nodded my goodbye, and walked out of there as quickly as I could.

  Johnny didn’t fire me. I still had a job. Somehow, through all the confusion, he’d thought I was going to plan the launch for Lach, not him.

  At least it meant I could get out of looking after Dad.

  We walked to the car, and I felt a little spring in my step. I had purpose again. I had an event I could plan. Something I could organise and do, all on my own. Something to make the neurologist appointment less of a focus for me.

  Something I could do for Lachlan over the next week to avoid being inside my head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I FELT like life was on hold. Waiting till I had another shift. Waiting to see Lachlan. Waiting to find out if I had Huntington’s disease.

  I wanted to know. I liked to read the last page of the book first, just to ensure there were no nasty surprises waiting for me in the wings. Once I made up my mind to get tested, once Mum sort of said it w
ould be a good idea, there was no stopping me.

  The worst part about it was the avoiding, though. Trying not to get too excited about anything, keeping all emotions under wraps and distancing myself from the present. I couldn’t afford to be there any more.

  I’d gone to the neurologist appointment and it scared me. Petrified me, in fact. It was all big machines, impersonal service, lie here, look that way, we’ll take that credit card, thanks.

  The whole thing had felt surreal. Like it was happening to someone else.

  More than once I’d wondered if this was all worth it. If I should go through it at all, keep seeing my counselor, visit a psychiatrist and get a blood test.

  That thought only ever lasted for a second.

  I needed to know.

  I had to know.

  “Kate. Focus.” Stacey nudged me in the ribs and I snapped my gaze from somewhere out the floor-to-ceiling window and pretended to concentrate solely on the activity at hand. The activity at hand, mind you, was helping Stacey pick out the most appropriate shade of lipstick to match her dress—hardly what I'd call a task requiring 100 per cent brainpower.

  Mum had the day off and was with Dad at the lake for a picnic lunch. She’d encouraged me to spend time doing “normal teenage girl things” while they did “normal adult couple things.”

  I’d spent the morning working on a few ideas for the launch, creating the perfect guest list, researching a theme and an exhibition name. I’d even gone so far as to get the names and contact numbers for the local art reviewers in the area.

  Then I’d thought about Lachlan and his art. Lachlan … and why I just couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Why was I so attracted to him? And would he want to be with me once he knew I could have Huntington’s?

  That was why I hadn’t mentioned him to Stacey. Until I knew the results of the test, I didn’t want to get too excited about anything.