by Juliette Fay
PENGUIN BOOKS
The Shortest Way Home
JULIETTE FAY’s first novel, Shelter Me, was a 2009 Massachusetts Book Award Book of the Year. Her second novel, Deep Down True, was short-listed for the Women’s Fiction Award by the American Library Association. She received a bachelor’s degree from Boston College and a master’s degree from Harvard University. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and four children. The Shortest Way Home is her third novel.
Praise for The Shortest Way Home
“With trademark wit and grace, Juliette Fay portrays a man forced to rescue his family as he reaches for his own freedom. She keeps you turning the pages, even as you want to stop and admire her writing.”
—Randy Susan Meyers, author of The Murderer’s Daughters
“Insightful, funny, and tenderhearted . . . full of truths about family, falling in love, and finding out who we are meant to be.”
—Amy Hatvany, author of Best Kept Secret and Outside the Lines
“The Shortest Way Home is Juliette Fay’s best yet and shows us that loving the people in your life can be as exciting, as daring, as difficult an adventure as any.”
—Marisa de los Santos, New York Times bestselling author of Falling Together and Love Walked In
“A touching and engrossing story about the lengths to which we’ll go to avoid where we’re meant to be, and the way the heart leads us gently back.”
—Nichole Bernier, author of The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D.
“The Shortest Way Home is full of heart and of understanding about the often awkward collection we call ‘family.’ ”
—Meg Waite Clayton, bestselling author of The Wednesday Sisters
“If you’ve ever thought you or anyone in your family might be just a bit less than perfect, read this book.”
—Nancy Thayer, author of Summer Breeze
“A smart, sincere look at the meaning of home, the complicated nature of family ties, and how the things we run from are often what we need the most.”
—Allie Larkin, author of Why Can’t I Be You
“The Shortest Way Home is as complex and full of surprises as the well-examined life. This is one beautiful novel, rich with depth and heart.”
—Julianna Baggott, bestselling author of Pure
“Heartfelt . . . Juliette Fay does a wonderful job creating this quirky, lovable cast of characters finding their way in life and love.”
—Shilpi Somaya Gowda, New York Times bestselling author of Secret Daughter
“Powerful, beautifully written, and at times heartbreaking . . . a meditation on the impossibility and the inevitability of finding our way home.”
—Julie Buxbaum, author of After You
THE
Shortest
Way Home
Juliette Fay
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • ,
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in Penguin Books 2012
Copyright © Juliette Fay, 2012
All rights reserved
A Pamela Dorman / Penguin Book
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Fay, Juliette.
The shortest way home / Juliette Fay.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-60366-6
1. Huntington’s chorea—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. Title.
PS3606.A95S56 2013
813'.6—dc23 2012025149
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Contents
Praise
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
Excerpt from Deep Down True
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br /> For my sisters, Jennifer Dacey Allen and Kristen Dacey Iwai, beautiful inside and out
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Both Huntington’s disease and sensory processing disorder are conditions with fairly broad ranges of symptoms and challenges. Though I researched extensively, this story is not meant to be a comprehensive review of either subject nor to represent the entire gamut of experience. I hope readers will find the depictions in this novel to be plausible, interesting, and enlightening. For more information, here are two of the many resources I found to be helpful: Huntington’s Disease Society of America http://www.hdsa.org and Sensory Processing Disorder Foundation http://www.sinetwork.org.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I first learned of Huntington’s disease many years ago from my then-housemate, Susan Koehler Arsenault, and I’ve been pondering it ever since. I’m grateful for her openness about facing this terrifying disease over the course of her life, including her mother’s diagnosis, growing up with that loss coupled with the uncertainty of her own status, getting tested, and adjusting to life as a noncarrier but with a sibling who does have HD. This story owes a debt of gratitude to her.
Many thanks to Jennifer Allen and Megan Lucier for sharing their experiences of parenting children with sensory processing issues. Dr. Julia VanRooyen of the Harvard Humanitarian Initiative’s Women in War project gave me intriguing, heart-wrenching information about her work in Kenya and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Bridget Anderson and Jeremy Colangelo-Bryan also provided information from their Kenyan experiences. Karen Maguire offered wonderful stories and insights from her career as a massage therapist. Betsy Gemmell Steinberg, RN, gave me the inside scoop on nursing—and so much more—in a middle school setting. I only wish I could have included more from my interviews with these fascinating folks.
This novel has benefited greatly from the close inspection, careful reflection, and sound recommendations of talented writers, readers, and friends: Nichole Bernier, Alison Bullock, Kathy Crowley, Kristen Iwai, Megan Lucier, Randy Susan Meyers, and Catherine Toro-McCue. Eagle Scout Liam Fay gave me the thumbs-up on my depiction of scouting.
Keiji and Kristen Iwai produced another wonderful book trailer to introduce readers to The Shortest Way Home. Take a look at
www.juliettefay.com. Julia Tanen continues to share her impressive public relations and marketing know-how.
It’s a huge delight to be working with editor Pamela Dorman, associate editor Julie Miesionczek, assistant editor Kristen O’Toole, and the great team at Viking Penguin again. In addition to superior editorial acumen, their faith and vision mean the world to me. My agent, Theresa Park, has already given me a lifetime of good advice. I’m grateful for her brilliant mind, her friendship, and her team at Park Literary: Peter Knapp, Abigail Koons, and Emily Sweet.
The muses in my life are five great blessings who inspire me daily: Quinn, Nick, Liam, Brianna, and Tom Fay. Who says writers have to be unhappy, tortured souls? If it were true I could never write a word, thanks to them.
Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
—JAMES JOYCE, Ulysses
CHAPTER 1
When the plane took off, Sean didn’t experience that exhilarating liftoff surge he usually got when his body, mind, and soul were ejected into the earth’s atmosphere. This flight was no prelude to the next adventure. In fact, it was adventure’s negative image. It was an anti-adventure. He was going home.
High in the whispery layers of cloud above the Democratic Republic of Congo, Sean had a moment of regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have left. Maybe if he’d just hung in there a little longer, the burnout he’d been feeling would’ve worked itself out—and maybe the knots in his back would’ve followed suit.
A miraculous healing of mind and latissimus dorsi. He chuckled at the thought, and at his own sudden nostalgia for the hardest, most heartbreaking stint he’d ever taken on. Not that he disliked his work. In fact, he loved it. Recently, though, his plan for his life, his very vision of himself, seemed to be coming unraveled. Threads popping, holes gaping like a poorly constructed sweater. And he had no idea what to do about it.
* * *
When he changed planes in Nairobi, Kenya, he downed a quartet of ibuprofen tablets and balled up his old canvas jacket for a pillow, hoping for sleep during the overnight flight to London. Something crinkled when he laid his head down. Paper in one of the jacket pockets.
It was Deirdre’s letter. He’d first read it while walking back to his quarters from the hospital a month or so ago and must have jammed it into a little-used pocket and forgotten about it. Or tried to forget about it. He certainly hadn’t kept it on purpose. Traveling light was a sort of obsession with him. But somehow, despite his distaste for the letter and for hanging on to stuff, her words had come along for the ride.
Sean,
How’s everything. Hope you’re well. So, it’s great you’re over there saving the world and all, but we’re having our own little natural disaster here at the moment. Aunt Vivvy’s lost it. She brought home a dog. I am not making this up. A big one, some kind of german shepherd or doberman. The thing is huge—scares the crap out of Kevin.
On the upside, I got a part in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the Worcester Footlight. Just the chorus, but I’m also understudy for one of the leads. Hopefully, she’ll develop a facial tic or get incarcerated for criminal lack of talent before the show goes up. Rehearsals start in a month, and I’ll be gone a lot. Not as much as I’d like, but a lot.
Kevin’s okay, though all he does is go to school, study, and walk in the woods. It’s creepy.
I really think you should come home. I know I keep saying that, but I’ve about had it now, Sean. Seriously.
So happy birthday. 44. Wow. Who’d have thought, huh?
Dee
Actually, Sean wouldn’t be turning forty-four for another six months. He guessed it was Hugh’s birthday she’d been thinking of, and since their brother had been dead for six years, he wasn’t around to correct her. Sean didn’t really care if Deirdre knew the actual date of his birth, though she was his sister, and he imagined normal families kept track of things like that.
He tucked the letter into the seatback pocket in front of him, intending to give it to the flight attendant when she came by collecting trash. It was midnight and relatively quiet, the plane’s muscular hum obscuring what little evidence there might be of human interaction. Sean closed his eyes, but as he drifted off, the image of the letter peeking from the seat pocket insinuated itself into the landscape of his dreams.
* * *
The connecting flight out of London was oversold, and passengers waiting to board were getting unruly. As Sean stood braced against a wall, willing his aching back not to go out on him, he saw a man in a business suit jab his finger toward an airline employee behind the desk. The aggravated drone of his voice rose until Sean heard him yell, “I demand an explanation!”
Sean chuckled to himself. He hadn’t set foot in the so-called first world in years. Granted, he’d lived in the poorest, most degraded places on the planet for most of his adult life, so the contrast was particularly palpable. In the tiny hospitals and medical outposts he’d staffed, people were grateful just to be kept alive for another day. They didn’t demand explanations.
* * *
As the plane began its businesslike descent into Logan Airport, Sean gazed out the window. The city seemed to be posing for one of those tourist postcards with the word Boston written in colorful letters across the top. Low humidity, he realized. Weird for June. He could see everything so clearly. The Custom House Tower, Rowes Wharf, Chinatown. He knew that planted awkwardly among the dim sum restaurants and acupuncture clinics was Tufts Medical Center, where his mother had first been diagnosed. It was a genetic coin toss—heads you got it, tails you didn’t. She’d lost the toss.
Her older sister Vivian had won. Depending on how you defined winning.
In 1980 the whole family—Sean, his parents, baby sister Deirdre, and six-year-old brother Hugh—had moved into Aunt Vivvy’s cavernous house in Belham, Massachusetts. Sean’s father was a merchant mariner, out at sea for months at a time, and his mother could no longer remember if she’d fed the dog six times or at all. That dog was sent to live with a new family. Sean always suspected that Aunt Vivvy had simply had him put down. She was not an animal lover. Or a lover of anything other than order and gardening, as far as he could tell.
And now she had a dog of her own? Sean wondered if Deirdre had overdramatized the visit of some unfortunate pooch to Aunt Viv’s perfect, crabgrass-free lawn. Drama was the currency of Deirdre’s life—she was the Warren Buffett of drama—and she was clearly invested in Sean’s return. A hostile takeover of his life designed to increase her assets and cut her liabilities.
No one met him at the airport, nor did he expect anyone to. He took the Logan Express toward Framingham. It all looked different from the ground. The Massachusetts Turnpike, a smooth ribbon of roadway, laid itself out submissively before the bus. He’d ridden this stretch countless times in his childhood, but now, after years in places where the roads were little more than rutted, hole-pocked paths—if there were roads at all—the Mass Pike seemed suspiciously unimpeded, as if it were a trap of some kind, leading him docilely toward his downfall.
As the bus sped forward, a strange feeling came over Sean, his heart rate increasing, his breathing oddly shallow. Had he picked up some sort of respiratory bug? The sound of his pulse throbbed in his ears as he gripped the battered straps of his backpack. He had to get off the bus. He had to run from this illness, and though he was sure he was sick, he also felt as if he could run faster than he ever had. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes to the Mass Pike racing by. Then it came to him. It wasn’t a bug at all, though it was a rare condition, at least for him.
Anxiety.