The Problem With Crazy

by Lauren McKellar

  Lachlan knew every one of my dirty, selfish secrets. But he was still here.

  I had an appointment with a psychiatrist later today, then a blood test to see if I had Huntington’s. But there was still a chance it would be negative.

  There was a half-naked boy in my bed. There was a half-naked boy in my bed!

  “Lachlan, will you …” I bit my lip. Nerves washed over my body.

  “Will I?”

  “Will you have dinner with me, and my family tonight? It might be in Sydney; I don’t know if Dad will be out. After my test.” I rushed the words. I just wanted him to be a part of my life, to help me through—and I wanted to help him through, too.

  Huntington’s or not.

  “I’d love that.” Lachlan smiled, those damned dimples lighting up again, and I couldn’t help but smile back. This beautiful boy—how did he break through my walls?

  “Katie, Breakfast,” Mum called from downstairs.

  “Go,” I whispered to Lachlan, my eyes darting toward the window.

  “Kate!” His eyes were harrowed.

  “What?”

  “My clothes.”

  Oh.

  I flipped up my quilt and found his shirt and jeans under the sheets. I felt the square imprint of his art notepad in his jeans pocket as I rushed them over to him, and then turned my back to him while he changed. Somehow, even though I’d seen him walking around in a pair of jocks, it seemed polite.

  Seconds later, his warm hands laced around my waist, linking in front of my stomach.

  “Good luck today,” he whispered, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks.” I smiled. We stood there like that, bodies close, all smiles for a few minutes, till eventually he unlocked his hands and turned to the window.

  “Message me after your appointment?” he asked, one hand on the window frame.

  “Done.” I nodded. I ran to the window, even though it was sappy as hell, and watched as he climbed down the tree, anxious to make sure he didn’t fall. When he got to the lawn, he looked back up at me and gave me a wink, those dimples highlighted as he darted to his motorbike, parked just down the street.

  I felt tingles rush through my body, replaced by a sense of—of nothing. No stress, no impending doom, no worry about what everybody else would think—just nothing.

  Was this what it felt like to be normal again?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  AFTER LACHLAN left, I couldn’t stop smiling. I ate breakfast with Mum at the kitchen counter, a grin plastered over my face.

  Next, I threw myself into the planning of the art launch to compensate, determined to make the night perfect. I’d gotten most of the RSVPs back and, to my surprise and delight, most of them had said yes, even the local media and art buyers I’d invited. I was excited, looking forward to everything about the event—and that was the weirdest part. It had been so long since I’d actually looked forward to something, been excited about having an event in the future that was important, that I felt a renewed sense of energy.

  The energy was enough to keep me going in the car, all the way to the psychiatrist’s appointment—even when Dave’s song came blasting onto the radio a second time, and I got a text from Michael.

  He recorded it without me. I’ve left the band, for what it’s worth. You know I wouldn’t have let it happen if I’d known. Michael x

  The thought was sweet. At least someone could see what a jerk Dave was being. Sure, it still felt like I’d been stabbed, with a severe and rusty knife. It still felt like everyone was pointing and laughing at me, like the drivers of the cars I overtook on the freeway were all turning their heads and grinning, realising I was the one the song was about, the one who was apparently going crazy.

  But I’m not.

  I pulled into an unfamiliar parking lot and walked inside a small red brick building, confidence adding lightness to my step.

  “Kate Tomlinson,” I told the receptionist. Her hair was pulled back so tight it looked like it was stretching her eyes, ever so slightly, and her lips were pursed in a strict no-nonsense kind of way.

  But even she couldn’t dampen my spirits. Lachlan had spent the night in my bed. He’d made me feel worthwhile, like maybe the way I was handling things with Dad wasn’t so bad, after all. Any worries I’d had about him not liking me were clearly unfounded, especially after the song incident.

  All I needed was one tiny you-don’t-have-Huntington’s test result, some more time with Lachlan in my bed, and everything would be fine.

  “Ms Tomlinson?”

  I looked up. Apparently, this was the one doctor’s surgery that ran on time. Standing to my left was a short man with grey tufts of hair bordering his ears, thin-rimmed glasses and glittering eyes. He wore a pale blue shirt, finely pressed, and tight pants that were the sort of too high that reminded me of a bad 80s film about nerds and revenge.

  “Yes.” I smiled.

  “Come through.” He gestured with his clipboard to a doorway behind him, and I followed.

  This room was painted white, a giant image of a waterfall framed on the furthest wall. The desk was spotless, with a darkened computer screen, and two stray pens the only things marring the otherwise clutter-free surface. A window was behind the monitor, but the blinds were drawn and shut.

  It couldn’t have been more different from Leslie’s if it had tried.

  “Okay, Kate.” The doctor rested back in his chair, as if the very act of standing and walking to the door had taken far more energy than he’d intended it to. “Why are you here?”

  I hated this. It was such typical psycho-babble bullshit, like he hadn’t spoken to Leslie and found out exactly what my problems were.

  But everything was going to be okay.

  I was okay.

  “Well, my dad developed Huntington’s, and I want to be tested.” I smiled and clasped my hands over my knees, sitting up straight.

  “Okay.” The doctor scribbled notes on his clipboard, again reminding me how different from my normal counsellor he was. “And how do you feel about this?”

  This, however, I had expected.

  Typical Psych 101.

  “I was upset, and angry,” I admitted, surprising myself by telling the truth for once. “But now, I just—I feel like I’m coming to terms with it, you know? I still want to find out if I have it, but not with the same … the same desperation I felt before.”

  “So if I told you there’s a two-year wait, how would you feel?”

  “Frustrated, I guess.” I tilted my head. “But okay.”

  And as I said the words, I knew it really was okay. I answered all his questions succinctly, let him take my blood pressure, and even told him that—heaven forbid—I had wanted to hurt myself physically to release my inner demons, but now the pain wasn’t anywhere near as bad. It wasn’t stabbing anymore.

  Now, I was ready.

  “I have an item here saying you missed your last counselling appointment.” The psychiatrist’s eyes flicked to his sheet of paper then to me, acutely analysing my reaction.

  “I just forgot about it,” I lied. “But I did make my neurologist appointment, and I’m happy to see a genetics counsellor again.”

  “Good,” the psychiatrist scribbled a note. He shifted his weight and I felt him look at me, as if he could see my insides—the sort of study you know is deep. “I think it’s time you took the blood test, then.”

  It seemed ridiculous that, after more than a month of stress and worry, after neurologist and psychiatrist and what felt like endless genetic counselling, the test to find out if I had Huntington’s or not was a simple blood test, done at a pathology lab, just like any other.

  I found the closest one on the way home and stopped there, eager to just get it over with and find out. I squeezed my eyes tight while the nurse drew the blood, and then booked my results genetic counselling appointment to get the results three and a half weeks later, the day of Lachlan’s launch.

  Part of me thought it could
be a mistake, but I also thought it might be a good thing. If I was positive, it meant I had something distracting and all consuming to do; if I was negative, well, hey—party!

  I drove home and felt so much lighter, as if someone had lifted a weight from my shoulders I hadn’t known was there.

  I drove past the spot on the freeway where Lachlan and I had made out, the café, the street where we’d gone skinny-dipping and smiled—how could my future be grim when all these good things kept happening? Everything was going to be okay.

  I pulled up against the curb and all but skipped to the front door. I grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, walking inside. I’d go to my room and message Lachlan, see if he was still keen for tonight. Hey, maybe I’d even spend this afternoon hanging out with Dad, if he were out of hospital. I felt like I could, no matter his mood right now. Everything was fine.

  Peace had taken residence in every corner of my body. Peace, and a giddiness, caused from feeling something I hadn’t felt for a long time—happiness. I was like a little kid. Since when was life this full of potential?

  Spinning around, I pulled my hands from the door and twirled into the living room, about to head upstairs when I saw her.

  Mum.

  Sitting on the couch.

  When she should have been in the kitchen, cooking. Or the bathroom, getting ready for dinner. Or the hospital, sitting with Dad. Or just—anywhere but here.

  She was never the kind of person to just sit on the couch.

  “Mum?”

  “Kate.” Mum swallowed. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and there were dark bags underneath them. “Sit down.” She patted the space next to her.

  I knew then that something was truly, horribly wrong.

  “What happened?” I walked over all zombie-like, and sat on the couch next to her. Dad had gotten even sicker. The disease had gotten worse. The pneumonia was confirmed. Oh, God, oh no. And I hadn’t even gotten a chance to take him out again. Not since I’d worked out that I was doing okay as a daughter.

  Please, don’t let him be dying.

  Well, any more than he already is.

  “There was—there was an accident.” Mum studied the suede material beneath us. I furrowed my brow.

  “An accident? Like a machine at the hospital …” I trailed off, unsure what could possibly have happened. Did machines have accidents? Did a doctor make a mistake? And, whatever it was, why was Mum here instead of there?

  I felt my mind float somewhere above my body, looking down on me at the scene. He had to be … he had to be dead.

  No!

  I hadn’t had the chance to make things okay.

  He couldn’t be dead yet.

  Could he?

  “He’s … he’s dead,” Mum confirmed my fears. She placed a delicate hand on my shoulder. I felt the colour rush from my face. How could this be happening? When I’d been such a bitch to him, not even tried to understand?

  I felt the heat of tears behind my eyes. Oh, God. This was horrible.

  “I’m sorry, darling. Lachlan is dead.”

  What?

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Nothing.

  “There was an accident—his bike, slid out around a corner and hit a tree—a man named Johnny called, said to tell you. I said you didn’t really know anyone named Lachlan, you’ve never mentioned him, but he seemed adamant you’d care, and I remembered the café boy, and—”

  “No.” The blood drained from my face. My eyes felt dry. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Mum placed her hand on my back and gave it a little rub.

  How could … how could Lachlan, who’d been in my room that morning, whose parents had both already suffered cruel and tragic fates, who was already suffering from a potentially fatal illness, Mr Try Everything Once Lachlan, be … be dead?

  “Are you … are you sure?” I pursed my lips. Maybe she’d heard wrong. Maybe she was indulging in some cruel joke, and this was some final test to see how I coped with grief, and would impact whether I got my results in three and a half weeks.

  “I’m—darling, I’m so sorry.” A tiny tear trickled its way from the corner of Mum’s eye, over the ridges of her crow’s feet and down her sallow cheek. Seeing that, the tragedy of a single teardrop, made it real. It was my undoing.

  Pieces of me came apart, falling from my body onto the couch till I was a mess of me and tears and heat and hurt.

  Lachlan was gone. The guy who’d understood me, who’d wanted to be with me.

  The only guy.

  He was dead, gone forever. He was supposed to die later, from cancer, or sickness, or something. Not from a motorbike accident. It wasn’t supposed to happen yet. He didn’t survive cancer to die now.

  How could this have happened?

  Why?

  A wave of pain crashed over my head, sucking me under till it filled my lungs, drowning me in its all-consuming horrible hurt. I opened my mouth to gasp for air, try and come up and breathe, but all that came out was my pain, great, big tears of hurt spewing from my eyes.

  I ran to the door, rattling the handle, trying to open it. I’d go to my car, and I’d drive. I’d find him, I would. It was all a mistake, a great big misunderstanding. Or a joke.

  Yes.

  Johnny and Lachlan always played practical jokes.

  “I’m just going …” The words trailed from my lips, extra fast in between sobs I didn’t know were mine, as I swivelled the handle round and round. Why wouldn’t the stupid thing open? I gave it a tiny kick with my ankle, relishing the pain that shot up my leg.

  That hurt, but Lachlan was alive. That was my pain, now he could be living.

  “Kate.” Mum’s hands grabbed my shoulders and she pulled me from the door, spinning me round to face her with a force I didn’t know she had. “I’m sorry, but he is. He’s—he’s dead.”

  The world came rushing in with my breath, all the pain and heartache of everyone, everywhere, contained inside my body. It roiled in my gut, tore at my heart with a physical ache that made me clutch my sides in desperation. I couldn’t take it. How could anything be okay, ever again?

  “Nooooo,” I howled, my chest shaking with pain as the sobs gulped from my mouth in ugly spurts. “No. No. No.”

  It seemed easiest just to keep repeating that word, over and over. He couldn’t. It wasn’t. It didn’t.

  Did it?

  The pain, the feelings of hurt I’d thought I felt before? Nothing, compared to this huge, empty void taking up space in my heart. It was shaped like a knife, serrated and hard, so that every time I moved my body the stab went a little deeper.

  It hurt so damn much.

  Why? Why did the one good thing I have …?

  Why did the one good thing Johnny had …?

  I sat there for hours, crying and crying, Mum rubbed my back, making tiny comforting noises, small apologies I cared nought for, and that consoled me even less.

  At some point, I fell asleep. I woke up on the couch, wondering if we were still watching a movie, if Lachlan was still here, if he were in my bed, when I would see him again.

  Then I’d see him leave my house, hop on his bike and ride, crashing straight into a car, a truck, oncoming traffic, off a bridge. Every time I saw him it would be his face that stuck, red foam at his mouth, and life leaving his body. He was a limp, ragdoll of a man, and I’d try to shake him back to life, begging him to come back. I’d give him mouth-to-mouth, but his teeth would fall out, then his tongue lost the warmth of humanity and turned icy cold and I was trying to revive a corpse, a long dead memory of man. I’d wake, realise it was a dream and I’d fall asleep again, the dream always the same but different, the pain never any less real when I woke up.

  After waking to my sixth scream I felt a glass being shoved into one hand, a small, round tablet into the other.

  “Please, Kate.” Mum folded my fingers over the white pill. “To help you sleep.”

  I gulped back the pill and
choked water down my throat. She didn’t need to say please. She didn’t need to ask. I only wished she’d told me where the rest of the tablets were.

  Because if things like this could happen, if someone who already had a time limit on their life had it cruelly ripped away … if Johnny could lose everyone, if I could mentally lose my dad and physically lose the only man I’d thought would ever understand me, then how could staying awake be worth it?

  I wanted to sleep forever.

  And ever.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  LIFE WAS a blur. I lost track of time, became aware only of the numbness that overtook my body, interspersed with regular hits of pain when the sleeping tablets or the anti-depressants Mum gave me wore off.

  She kept saying I was in shock; this was perfectly natural. She even had her GP come and do a house call, checking my blood pressure and all the other vitals. But nothing could make it right. This wasn’t a blood pressure thing. It was my heart that needed to be gauged.

  It was everything, and it was not, it was the world and it was my life, all rolled into one. And it was crumbling in pieces around me.

  On the third day, the doorbell rang. Two giant bunches of flowers were delivered. One was all expensive, foreign-looking things, snapdragons and tulips and strange, round coloured buds, the other simple white roses littered with baby’s breath.

  “Don’t you want to know who they’re from?” Mum asked, taking out vases from some secret vase cupboard I knew nothing about and distributing the flowers, cutting the stems for display.

  “Don’t care,” I grunted and rolled over. I preferred facing the cream surface of the couch. The world was too much for me.

  “One is from a guy named Lee,” Mum continued. I shook my head. Who the hell was Lee? Clearly she hadn’t read the card correctly. “Yes, he says he’s sorry about the song, and that he’s dismissed the writer from the tour.”

  I blinked.

  Oh.

  That Lee.

  Lee-freaking-Collins.

  For some weird reason, the thought brought on a new flood of tears, until the wetness leaking from my eyes dampened my T-shirt and turned it slightly see-through. In the real world, someone had realised Dave was a jerk. A singer from a famous rock band had sent me flowers to apologise for his support-band’s lead-singer’s stupidity.