The Problem With Crazy

by Lauren McKellar

  Dad before Huntington’s. Mum. Stacey.

  Instead, all I saw was the crazy guy next to me who was about to take our lives in some crazy suicide pact and—

  “I don’t want to die,” I yelled. My chest heaved in an almighty sob, a desperate gasp for air. Bile jumped in my throat. I felt the car jerk and move and I screamed, my chest still shuddering, my heart racing as my neck snapped back and then my chin slammed forward, crashing against my chest with such force my teeth grated together.

  I felt removed from the situation, like I wasn’t really there. Pain shot through my neck, severe pain, not the slow, escaping kind I’d caused before with the stick.

  This pain was hard and fast and different.

  Why, though?

  Why aren’t I dead?

  I pried one eye open, then the other, and saw we were back in the turning bay. The gearbox said we were in reverse.

  He’d reversed. When the car had gotten close, Lachlan had reversed us back into the safety of the turning bay. The jerk of motion wasn’t the other car hitting us. It was his abrupt driving.

  I wasn’t dead. I was alive!

  And I was furious.

  “You idiot.” I slapped him across the face. His tanned cheek was now marred with my big, red handprint.

  I jumped out of the car and ran to his side, yanked open the door and grabbed onto the lapels of his shirt. I pulled him out of the vehicle, so he was standing there next to me where I could see his body was giving off tiny trembles, like he was freaking out too.

  “You crazy, stupid, insane, dickhead!” Each word was accentuated with a punch to his arm, his chest, his stomach. I was still kind of crying, weird gulps and shudders, but I couldn’t stop. He just took it, accepted the pummelling, while I yelled and screamed and ranted.

  “We could have died.”

  A very small voice came from his lips. “I wanted to make you realise you didn’t want to.” My eyes widened further and I gave him a sharp kick to the shins. This he couldn’t just take; he stumbled back and gave a sharp intake of breath.

  “You could have killed us, you idiot.” I clapped my hands to my face. “I wasn’t serious. I would never do something like that.”

  As the words came out of my mouth, I realised they were true. I couldn’t kill myself. Huntington’s or no.

  “I saw you under the tree.” Lachlan’s voice was wavering. He sounded upset, and I wondered if he’d been just as shit-scared as I had. “You were hurting yourself.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Your arm.” He grabbed my elbow before I could protest and held it out under the streetlight in front of us. Dried blood ran in lines from several spots, scratches that raked from my shoulder to my wrist.

  I blinked, surprised. I’d known I was after the release, but I hadn’t catalogued the damage I was doing. I thought back to the other times: kicking the fence, punching the wall. Was I capable of a lot more than I’d realised?

  The pain hadn’t felt enough.

  “You hurt yourself.” Lachlan’s voice was definitely trembling now. “That’s a sign of someone who is seriously crying out for help. I wanted you to realise how important it is to live.” He didn’t let go of my arm, still holding it delicately in his grasp. “But this was not the way to go about it and—Kate, I’m so sorry.”

  I looked up at him and saw nothing but misery in his eyes. The streetlight highlighted the line of his jaw, and the tiny stubble glistening there. What he had done was so far from okay.

  But was it so different from what I’d been doing to myself?

  If you were numb to the pain of the blood you were drawing, would you have been numb to the reality of death?

  Lachlan took his other hand and raised it to my face, gently tracing along my cheek. He stepped in closer to me, still holding my arm, running his hand up it so lightly it gave me goosebumps.

  What was I doing? This guy was crazy. In the past four days he’d kissed me, run away, and nearly drove me into a head-on collision.

  He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. My chest was rising and falling, still at the speed of a freight train, and I couldn’t take my eyes from his lips.

  “I can’t stay away,” Lachlan whispered. “You’re just—you’re everything.”

  I was acutely aware of the lack of space between us as he cupped my head in his hand again. I melted into it, welcoming his touch. This time, I closed the gap to him and pressed my lips against his. At first he just stood there, a little taken aback, then he welcomed me, parting his lips and dampening them with mine.

  He moved his hand from my face to the back of my head, the grip on my arm roaming to my back. He pulled me against him so our bodies were melded together, the impact of his chest against mine giving me chills.

  He sucked on my bottom lip and I moaned, feeling the ache all over my body. I ran my hand up his arms, over his broad shoulders to the nape of his neck.

  My heart was pounding as adrenaline coursed through my veins from the passion of the moment, a heated contrast against the stark fear of the moment before.

  He took a step forward and pushed me up against the cool car door, pressing his hot body against mine until there was no space between us. I found myself writhing beneath him, thrusting my hips forward. I could feel him hard through his thin denim. I wanted him, so badly.

  “Kate …” He groaned, and I felt his hot breath on my cheek, his hands gripping my hair.

  “Don’t,” I whispered.

  “Don’t?” He pulled back. I saw the confusion in his eyes.

  “Please don’t stop,” I said in my smallest voice. He answered my question with a fierce kiss, his hands running up my sides and lingering on the spot where my bra ran under my arm. I grabbed one of his hands and pressed it closer to my chest, desperate to feel his touch.

  I was lost in the moment, in him, and in me, so much so that I’d stopped paying attention to the occasional car flying past. It was just Lachlan and I, and life, glorious, addictive life.

  Or, it was.

  Until the siren. Then it was us, life and an unimpressed policeman.

  “Step away from the car.”

  I jumped and ducked to the side, the crackling static of the megaphone making me jump. Blue-and-red lights flashed from a car that had pulled over into the turning bay.

  Lachlan moved away from me and stood up straight. He didn’t let go of my hand, though, not for a second.

  “Well, this is a little embarrassing,” he muttered, and I suppressed a giggle.

  “What are you doing?” A middle-aged, round policeman with a very red face stepped out of the car and walked toward us, arms folded across his chest.

  “We’re sorry, sir.” Lachlan ducked his head like he was bowing. It only made me want to laugh more.

  “This is not an appropriate place to be n-necking.” The officer spat the word out, as if it offended him. His face was fifty shades of red. “You could have been killed.”

  “We’re sorry,” I repeated. A tiny waver shook my voice. I couldn’t do it. How could I keep a straight face?

  “It won’t happen again,” Lachlan chimed in.

  “Well, move along now, or I’ll fine you for obstructing a safety lane.” He nodded toward the car, and I scrambled around to the passenger side as quick as I could.

  “Thanks, Officer,” Lachlan said as he hopped in the car next to me, the picture of contrition.

  “Just move it.” The man shook his head and walked back to his car. He placed one hand on the door handle, and then turned back to us, like he’d just remembered something of great import. “And remember,” his voice blared over the megaphone. Lachlan and I froze. “If it’s not on, it’s not on.”

  I widened my eyes across the vehicle at Lachlan. He slammed his door shut.

  Laughter erupted from deep within me. We completely lost it. “Did he … did he just say that?” I wheezed.

  “He … he did.” Lachlan grinned. We laughed and laughed and laughed, till tear
s were coming out of our eyes and our sides were hurting. At one point, I was doubled over, hugging my knees and slapping my thighs in hilarity. Everything about the day was so very obscure. We laughed all the way home.

  I felt different, somehow—like maybe I could handle this thing after all. And Lachlan never let go of my hand.

  Not even once.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE HOUSE was eerily quiet as I clicked the coffee machine on and waited for it to heat up. Odd, I thought, glancing at the clock that read seven am. Usually Mum was up and racing around the house, getting ready for work by now.

  I grabbed some milk from the fridge. It was brandished with a yellow post-it note: Call me.

  Huh? But Mum had to be home. Where else would she be?

  I placed the milk carton down on the bench and took the thinly carpeted stairs, two at a time, to my parents’ bedroom. I gingerly knocked on their closed white bedroom door, third on the right, my knuckles barely rapping the surface.

  “Mu-um, time to get up,” I sang out in the cheeriest tone I could muster. I think it fell somewhere in between Ursula, the evil octopus from The Little Mermaid, and Morticia Adams.

  Silence.

  “Mum?” This time, I slowly turned the handle and peered into the dark of my parents’ room.

  The bedspread was thrown back, crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed, and sheets were knotted across the mattress. The dresser drawers were open, a T-shirt hanging suicidally from the corner of one, and the curtains were drawn tight. Not a skerrick of light entered the room, aside from where I’d opened the door.

  “What the hell?” I whispered.

  This was bad. Really bad.

  I’d never known Mum to leave the house without making her bed, without letting the light into her room, without leaving it so tidy you could have had a house inspection in her absence.

  When had she left? Where did she go? And where was Dad?

  I swallowed as a sick feeling settled in my stomach, rolling around as heavy as a bowling ball.

  Something had happened to Dad and, somehow, in my blissful post-Lachlan sleep, I had dozed right through it.

  I flew down the stairs and snatched my mobile up off the counter where I had left it. I hit “favourites” and clicked on Mum’s number, biting my lip as I waited the eternity it took to connect, as it slowly rang that obnoxious repetitive tone.

  It rang out and I tried again, muttering the words “Come on, come on, come on,” and pacing back and forth, like it would actually have some effect.

  “Kate, I can’t talk.” Mum’s voice was short, like she was doing a million other things. Knowing Mum, she probably was.

  “Where are you? Is everything okay?”

  “Your father is sick. They think it might be pneumonia. We’re at the hospital, down in Sydney, next to the counselling centre. They flew us there from Lakes early this morning after your dad—after your dad …”

  “Mum?”

  “Sorry, Kate. He’s just really sick. And if it’s pneumonia, with his condition …” She didn’t have to say anything else. My heart froze.

  “You didn’t wake me up?” I was five years old again, bottom lip atremble.

  “It all happened so quickly, my love. Everything’s fine, he’s getting the best medical care, and—”

  “I’m coming, okay?”

  “Kate, you don’t have to do this. Stay there—”

  I ended the call and raced back up the stairs, throwing on the outfit I’d worn the day before, running a brush through my hair to make sure that, if I had to go to work straight from the hospital, it would be okay.

  Okay. Like that word was relevant anymore. Dad had pneumonia. I flashed my mind back to the things Leslie had said about people with Huntington’s.

  Potential causes of death: Injuries caused by falls. Pneumonia.

  My heart beat at double speed, thumping deep in my throat so I could hear and feel it resonating throughout my body. I threw an elastic band around my hair, pulling it off my face, and grabbed my phone and handbag as I raced out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind me.

  I turned the key in the ignition and drove, trying desperately to stay within the speed limit and not think about the worst possible outcome for the hour it took me to reach the hospital. It was hard to shut out the noise in my head.

  I had my psychiatrist’s appointment scheduled the next day, too. And after that, the blood test, which meant another four weeks and I’d know my fate. Whether I could have the Huntington’s gene, too. Whether one day, I could wake up, my health having gone from sniffles to downright pneumonia overnight, and having my life hanging in the balance, too.

  Please don’t die. Please don’t die.

  I slammed my car in the first available spot and jogged up the lawn, through the doorway of the big, white reception area. A woman sat behind a desk, prim and proper, her hair pulled back in a stark bun.

  “I’m here for my dad, Paul, Paul Tomlinson,” I told the receptionist. My breath was coming short and shallow, tiny gasps that racked my chest.

  “Just breathe, dear.” The woman clicked away on her computer for so long I almost wanted to jump the counter and type the name in for her.

  “He’s in emergency. No visitors.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You can wait in the café, though, just down the hall to the left, it is.”

  “I’m his daughter.”

  “I don’t make the rules, dear.” She shook her head. “You might be able to see him, but he probably needs the doctor’s full attention right now. It’s just how it is.”

  “Where would my mother be, then?”

  The receptionist flashed me a smug smile. “I don’t know, dear. Is she a patient, too?”

  I slammed my fist on the counter and stormed off, racing towards the lift. I’d follow the signs to emergency and just find him there. Surely, they’d be more sympathetic once they saw me in person.

  When I rounded fifty corners and took thousands of stairs, I reached emergency and ran straight up to the counter there, noting that out of the twelve people in the room sitting on chairs, none of them was my father or mother.

  “I’m here about Paul—Paul Tomlinson,” I gasped to the nurse behind the counter. She smiled at me, checking the piece of paper in front of her.

  “Are you immediate family, dear?” Her red hair was frizzed around her face. She reminded me of a slightly less in-control version of Leslie.

  I nodded. “He’s my dad.”

  “Your father is being transferred to the wards as we speak. I spoke to your mum just minutes ago.” She smiled. Her droopy cheeks shook as she waddled closer to the counter.

  “Will I be able to see him?”

  “Absolutely. Just sit down and I’ll call you when.” She gestured to the couches on the side of the room and I walked over to them, shoulders slumped.

  After the seconds ticked by and turned to minutes, I finally heard my name called and the receptionist gave me a little piece of paper with a room number on it. I took it from her hand, trying to control my shaking, and walked out of the office down a long, narrow corridor.

  Room 401.

  Four-oh-one.

  He had a room. He wasn’t dying. They wouldn’t put him in a room if he were going to cark it. It was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

  I opened the door to the room and feasted my eyes on every last detail. There was Dad, hooked up to an IV and a drip, tubes running in and out of his body. His eyes were closed, a five o’clock shadow on his chin, and his hair stuck to his head, like he’d been sweating, or caught in the rain. He was in a white hospital gown, and his face was drained of colour.

  My heart was doing the pounding thing again and my knees felt weak.

  “Kate,” Mum spoke, a quiet voice shaking with worry. Her eyes never left his thin frame. She hovered near him, clutching his hand tightly in hers.

  “Is he okay?” I asked. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, either.

 
“He’s very sick.” Mum squeezed again, her nails gouging into his wrist. I couldn’t blame her. Anything to get some feeling back into his body.

  “Is he going to … die?”

  The words hung between us, big buckets of space swallowing them up until they weren’t even our words any more. They weren’t words Mum was prepared to answer.

  “Good afternoon.” A lady in scrubs entered the room, giving us both a quick nod. “I’ll just do a few quick checks.” She looked at the machines attached to my father, comparing them to the little scribbles of writing on a clipboard she’d taken from the end of Dad’s bed.

  No, not Dad’s bed. The bed Dad was in. The bed he would soon be leaving.

  “Is he going to be okay?” My voice was trembling, even though I tried to steady it. The nurse looked over at me, past the clipboard.

  “It doesn’t look to be pneumonia. He has a bad case of the flu, yes, but at the moment things are looking good.”

  “But he’s unconscious,” I said, pointing to his still figure on the bed.

  “Sleeping.” The nurse shook her head. “I didn’t mean to panic you. Even the flu is very serious for someone with a disease like his.” She placed the clipboard back at the end of the bed. “Keeping him here is mainly for observation and prevention. We’re trying to make sure his condition doesn’t worsen. You did the right thing, coming in. Much better safe than sorry.”

  “Okay.” I sank numbly into a white plastic chair next to the hospital bed. Dad’s breathing was laboured, varying in speed from rapid staccato gasps to long, drawn out inhales. With his eyes shut, his skin so pale, cheeks so drawn, he didn’t look at all like my father. It was easier to believe this stranger was the man who had Huntington’s, not the guy who’d demanded a beer or thrown a saltshaker at a wall. The guys who had been alive, three-dimensional, were too similar to my dad, and too full of life to be hospital-bed sick.

  This guy was nothing but a shell.

  I pursed my lips, thinking how one day this could be me. I thought of Lachlan, who had kissed me anyway, and his close relationship with Johnny, despite how hard it must be.

  I scooted my chair closer and rested my hand on Dad’s arm, for the first time in more than a year.