The Problem With Crazy

by Lauren McKellar

  “Sorry, just forget it.” I shook my head.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Johnny spat. His hands flew to his sides as he tried to contain his anger. “Why would I hold an art launch for my dead brother, Kate?”

  “It was just an idea.” My voice was choked with sobs. I didn’t want him to be mad. I hadn’t thought he would take it like this. “Because it’s a nice way to commemorate his life.”

  “In the way that dead people’s art is worth more?” Johnny stood up, pushed his body from the table. He gripped a handful of his long, brown hair in one hand, like pulling it helped the pain. “I thought you really liked him.”

  Something in those words sent fury sparking through me.

  “I did really like him!” I said, jabbing my finger into Johnny’s chest. “I still bloody do. I don’t want to make money from this, I just thought it might be an easy way to help you organise something to say goodbye, without having to …

  “Lachlan wasn’t about goodbyes. He was about learning, and growing, through pain and joy. I thought you’d think this was really kind of him, but forget it. I’m sorry.”

  My hand trembled as I brought it back to my side. I understood his reaction. I was prepared for it, even. Why was I so upset?

  “I don’t even want to organise a funeral. I just—do you get how hard this is?” Johnny’s eyes were desperate, needing me to understand.

  I realised I couldn’t. Sure, my life sucked.

  But I could never truly understand the gravity of his.

  “I don’t.” I shook my head softly. “But he was one of the good things. He made life okay. And I—I just want to celebrate that.”

  “I’ll text you,” Johnny mumbled and walked off, his shoulders slumped, his stride slow.

  I sank back down to the table, pulling my hair at the sides. Had I made things worse for him? I’d thought it was a nice idea. I didn’t mean to hurt him, not more than I already felt he was hurting. I tried to imagine the relativity of his pain scope in comparison to mine.

  It ran pretty damn deep.

  I fiddled with the little men on the chessboard for twenty minutes, a game against myself. Was I doing the right thing? Was there a right thing, or a wrong thing, or anything?

  “Kate.”

  “Michael.” I mustered up a weak smile and stood, accepting his tentative hug. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “S’okay.” He shrugged, taking the chair opposite mine. “We playing chess?”

  “Kind of.” I bit my lip. “I’ve never played chess in a park before.”

  “Cool.” Michael moved one of his pawns forward. Relief washed over me.

  I could do this.

  I could still do new things.

  “So, I heard about Lachlan,” Michael said, taking the rook I’d let venture too close to his knight. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I replied automatically. “And the stuff with Dave—the song—I know that wasn’t your fault, either.” My eyes locked on the chessboard, trying to figure out how to take his queen. He was a skilled player, well protected.

  It was only when I heard a sniffle I looked up.

  “Michael?”

  “I’m just—I feel so bad.” He shook his head, wiped his nose with his hand.

  What was wrong with me today?

  I’d made two men cry at the same park bench.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know what he was doing with the … the song,” Michael gulped the words down, like he was internalising the pain they clearly bought him.

  “It’s not your fault,” I repeated. “Honestly, right now, the song seems like such a tiny part of my problems.”

  “Oh.” Michael cocked his head to the side. “So what did you want to meet for?”

  The guy had a point. Sure, we’d been friends through Dave for years, and he’d been hanging around, near and off Stacey at every opportunity he’d gotten, but we’d never clocked up any solo time together. This was entirely unusual.

  “Well.” I pursed my lips together. I needed to choose my next words carefully.

  “I’ve been asked to join Coal.” Michael blurted out the words, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “Lee was furious when he found out what Dave had done. He dumped us as a warm-up, but his bass player had quit the band, and he asked me to join in his place.”

  “Congratulations!” I broke out into a smile. That really was amazing news.

  “I’m stoked, y’know? I gave him your address,” Michael continued. He knocked my queen over with his bishop, easy as you like. “Dave told him about your dad, clearly, and when he heard the song he wanted to send you some flowers. I hope that’s cool. He’s a really nice guy.” Michael’s eyes lit up, and I couldn’t help but grin along with him. I’d seen the flowers from Lee, but it just hadn’t seemed real. Nothing seemed real lately.

  Even a celebrity sending me flowers.

  A tiny shiver ran down my spine. Lee-freaking-Collins had sent me flowers! The me of three months ago would have been ecstatic.

  Today, I was pleased. Not knee-shaking, heart-racing pleased, as I’d been when I’d met him, and nowhere near as pleased as I’d been when I first stared at Lachlan’s lips, when I didn’t even know his name—but I appreciated the gesture.

  Wow. I’d changed.

  “It’s fine,” I said. I moved my rook across and took his queen. Maybe I could still win this thing after all.

  I placed my hands on the table, on either side of the chessboard, and felt a vibration rumble through them. My phone. I picked it up, slid the screen to unlocked to see what it would say.

  The launch is on. I need to do this. Johnny.

  A rush of relief swept through my body. I needed to do this, too. I needed to do one last thing for the boy who’d done so much for me. The boy who’d showed me things, like no other.

  The boy who’d been cruelly stripped from me.

  “Sorry, you were speaking.” Michael ducked his eyes back to the chessboard.

  “Yeah,” I continued. “It’s about Stacey.”

  “I’m all ears.” Michael knocked down his king in surrender.

  I pursed my lips together.

  For the first time in months, it was my move.

  Chapter Thirty

  IT WAS D Day. I woke up for the eighth time since I’d fallen asleep the night before, nerves gnawing at my innards like gnats at a dead thing.

  In a way, I was. Parts of me still felt dead. I physically ached when I remembered losing Lachlan, losing the whole man I’d called my father, and losing a part of me. The feeling of sorrow roiled around in my stomach, pounding me from the inside.

  Other parts of me felt numb. I was dead in the sense that I wasn’t here. I could look down at my actions and think Well, that’s what someone who is supposed to be mourning does. I was distant from finalising the caterers, from buying groceries, from fixing Dad breakfast. I was just going through the motions, and keeping on keeping on. Surviving.

  The thing was—and this really got me—there was a part of me that wasn’t dead or numb. A tiny spark was alive inside of me. It wondered if I had the disease or not. I was curious about the future, about doing more events, going to college, trying to find someone who’d understand my condition just like Lachlan had.

  I felt guilty when I indulged it, when I let that little spark breathe and gave it some air. I didn’t want it to become a fire. I wasn’t ready for that. The pain was too much, the dying inside of me too all-consuming.

  But still.

  There was a little light.

  “Do you like it?” Leslie’s eyes were wide. She nodded toward the large, blue chaise lounge in the room, stretched from one end of the window to the other.

  I walked over to it, squashed its surface with my hand. It was firm underneath, yet soft to the touch, a suede material covering the exterior. It was bright blue, a hideous colour that almost hurt the eyes to look at.

  “It’s pretty good.” I nodded. I gingerly sat on the e
dge of it, my fingers gnawing at the stitching. It figured. I’d badgered my genetics counsellor to get one quality item to make my experience more relaxing, and now I was too hyped up to use it.

  “How have you been?” Leslie’s eyes softened. She must know, I deduced. Figured. Johnny saw one of the other counsellors at the centre.

  “There have been better months.” I studied the flecks of coloured stone on the tiled floor. Better. That was putting it mildly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why do people say that?” I ran a hand through my hair. Keep it together, Kate. “You say ‘I’m sorry’, but it’s not like it can change things. Nothing can change things.”

  Except maybe time.

  “People apologise as a way to try and convey their condolences.” Leslie clasped her hands over her knee. She was wearing a taupe nail polish. It was funny, the way every acute detail about her imprinted itself to my brain. “It’s also to make them feel better, too.”

  “You apologised to me to make you feel better?”

  “A little.” Leslie shrugged. “That’s who we are as humans. We seek ways to feel better.”

  I turned to face the window. The old man was there with the young woman, the same couple I’d seen on my first day at the centre. She held his arm as he limped across the garden, their shadows running long against the deep green grass.

  Funny. I thought he’d have died by now.

  He’s alive and Lachlan is dead.

  “It’s not fair, Leslie.” I searched her face for something. Anything. I needed answers.

  “You’ve heard the one about life not being meant to be fair, right?”

  “You think?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “There’s supposed to be a patient/client confidentiality thing in place.” Leslie’s eyes darted to each corner of the room, like she was worried someone would duck out from behind the chaise lounge with a recorder or something. “But I want to tell you something.”

  I shrugged, giving her permission. What could she have to tell me that would change anything now? After all that had happened?

  “We talk about death a lot in this centre.” Leslie tapped a pen against her armrest, making a sharp, clicking noise. “And people always see it differently.”

  I looked outside. The old man and the young woman were sitting down now, his back propped up against the gnarled tree trunk, her shoulders hunched as she crouched down next to him. He was smiling, a huge, gap-toothed grin. Her face was terse. She had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  “One of our more … recent patients.” Leslie’s voice shook, ever so slightly. “He had encountered death a lot. Lots of his family members had died, and at one point, it looked inevitable that he would die soon, too.”

  I wanted to mutter something smart, like Gee, I wonder who that could be. But, I didn’t. I didn’t want to enough.

  “We’d talk about death, and we’d ask him if he were afraid. If he were worried about pain, about the unfairness of it all, about what would happen beyond,” Leslie said. “And do you know what he said?”

  Another arched eyebrow.

  “That he’d lived a good life.”

  Huh?

  “That it sucked. And he didn’t like it. But he’d experienced lots of things, he’d met a lot of special people—” At that, I think her eyes flicked pointedly in my direction, “—and that how could he regret life when he’d been given so many blessings?”

  I bit my lip and pushed my feet up, reclining against the soft chaise lounge. It was cool underneath my hot skin, firm and supportive. I didn’t want to speak. Did she think I was an idiot? That I didn’t get what she was doing here?

  It was all a ploy to make me feel better. He would never have said something like that, and if he did, he wouldn’t have believed it.

  Although he did tell you pretty much the same thing.

  But he wouldn’t have meant it.

  Would he?

  “Now, would you like to learn your results today?” Leslie must have sensed my shift in mood as her hands busied themselves amongst the papers on her desk. I nodded, but it felt like my mind had left my body.

  Oh, God. Did I want to do this, really and truly? Knowing there would be no Lachlan there to support me if it was positive? That I might never work, or find love, or be happy again?

  Or would I?

  My mind flashed back to the first day I was here, when I’d thought all those things, no matter what my results would be. Then I thought about Lachlan, Johnny, Dave, Stacey, planning the art event, and everything else that had happened in between. I’d thought back then it was going to be a yes, and look at all I’d achieved. I thought about my dad.

  The little light sparked brighter.

  “Kate, I have the results. A score of thirty-five or less is fine, forty and—” I shook my head.

  “Can you just say positive, negative, or somewhere in between?” All of a sudden, I had to know. Now.

  Leslie produced the paper like it was a grand scroll, waving it in the air. “Are you ready?”

  “Go on.” I screwed my lids shut. I needed darkness for this. I did want to know, I didn’t want to know, I was negative, I was positive, I was scared, I was frightened, I was confident, I was alone, I was—

  “Kate, it’s negative,” Leslie shrieked and I bolted upright, inhaling sharply. Negative.

  Negative!

  “Negative?” My voice was all breath. I gripped the lounge, carving my nails into the material. Did she—did she mean negative-I-don’t-have-the-disease negative?

  “Negative.” Leslie’s face looked like it was going to crack open; she was smiling that hard.

  It was negative.

  I didn’t have Huntington’s.

  I’d have to care for my father. I’d have to live life without Lachlan—but I didn’t have Huntington’s disease.

  I leapt from the chair and threw my arms around Leslie, and squeezed tight. Seconds later she embraced me back, no doubt shocked I’d made physical contact after months of emotionally keeping my distance.

  “Congratulations,” she whispered. I bit my lip. It wasn’t like I’d studied for this test. I hadn’t had to do any preparation.

  Or had I?

  “Thanks,” I whispered back. The sheen of tears veiled my eyes once more.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I STOOD in the shower with the hot water pounding against my body and the steam fogging up the glass. I thought about the events of the past few months: Dad coming back, Dad being sick, Dave and I breaking up, Lachlan, counselling, the café, no college, wanting to hurt myself, reaching out to my father, wanting to die, wanting to live … everything. I was emotionally drained just thinking about it all. I wished I could wash it all away, like the cherry blossom scented shampoo I was using. If only it were that simple.

  Instead, it hurt, but there were glimpses of sunshine. I was dirty and clean, all at the same time.

  I got out of the shower and slowly dried my hair, combing through the long brown strands to separate them from one another. I rubbed my towel against the mirror and cleared a spot so I could see my reflection clearly. Ugh.

  I went to my room and chose my clothes with the care of someone attending a funeral, settling on a short black slip underneath, and a brilliant blue lace dress that hugged my figure in all the right places on top, ending just above the knee. I blow-dried my hair and let it hang in loose waves down my back, tiny curls licking up at the ends. I dabbed on some foundation, mascara, and a red-tinged lip-gloss, trying to ignore the churning of my stomach.

  “Knock, knock,” Mum said, as she pushed open the bedroom door.

  “Well, that kind of defeats the point in knocking, doesn’t it?” I teased, not unkindly.

  “How are you feeling?” Mum sat down on the bed, looking me up and down. “Nice outfit, by the way. You look beautiful.”

  “I don’t feel it.” I made a face, giving my hair one last tweak. “I feel sick. What if it’s a disaster? Or if no o
ne turns up? What if too many people do?”

  What if this isn’t the tribute I want it to be, but instead an epic fail?

  “And you’re sure you want to be an event planner?”

  I spun around, ready to rip her to shreds, only to see a small smile playing on her lips. “Katie, I’m joking. Everything’s going to be fine. It’s your first ever event, and your dad and I—we’re really proud of you.”

  A warm glow swelled in my belly.

  “I was thinking—I’d like it if you came tonight.” I bit my lip. “As in, both of you.”

  “Darling.” Mum stood and stretched her arms out. I ran to her embrace, taking my second hug of the day. “We would love nothing more—as long as you’re okay with it.” She kissed the top of my head.

  “You know what?” I pulled back, and studied her eyes, mirrors of my own only older, wiser. “I really am.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  WHEN I arrived, the café was dark. I switched on the overhead and watched as the tiny spots in the ceiling flickered on, illuminating the place. Chairs were stacked on tables, the counter was clean, the coffee machine off.

  Nothing had changed, and yet nothing was the same.

  I stowed my clutch under the register and ran a hand through my hair. There were so many things to do; it was overwhelming.

  “I wanted you to help me put them up.”

  Johnny.

  He stood in the doorway, a giant cardboard box in his hands.

  “He’d been working on some new pieces for the exhibition.” His voice was flat as he walked to the wall and placed the box down, like it weighed a tonne. Someone had already removed the old art. I wonder if that was done Before or After. If, perhaps, it were so painful for Johnny to see, that he’d asked someone to get rid of it.

  “Thanks for coming.” I crouched down next to Johnny and the box and squeezed his arm. There were no words adequate enough to say, I’m sorry/I know it hurts/I’m hurting too/You’re hurting more/I can’t make this go away.

  None.

  Instead, we worked in silence. Johnny would frame an image and hand it to me, and I’d find a spot for it on the wall.