The Problem With Crazy (9 page)

“Nope.” I shook my head and folded my arms across my chest. “Nada. Zilch.
Nothing
.”

“So you’re not helping to care for your father?”

“Well, I will be, a little.” I frowned. “It’s just—I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I haven’t thought about it.”

“And you don’t want to.” It wasn’t a judgment, simply a statement.

“He left, and didn’t tell us what was wrong or where he was going.” I hadn’t realised I was still angry about that till now. “Then he ruined everything. My graduation, my summer, my boyfriend …
everything
.”

“Have you asked him why he didn’t tell you?”

“Kind of.” I shrugged. Out the window, a young girl was helping an older man manoeuvre his way across the lawn. I wondered if that would ever be me: the young girl, or the old man. “He said he only came back ‘cause he ran out of money.”

“So perhaps he didn’t tell you before because he didn’t want to burden you.”

The words clicked.

It made sense.

I hated that it made sense.

“What do you think about that?”

I hadn’t really thought anything about that. I’d known I was embarrassed when he told me, and mad, and ashamed of him in public.

I tried to think how I’d feel if it turned out I did have the disease. God, I hadn’t even told Stacey about Dad yet. My shoulders slumped. If our situations were reversed, would I man up and tell the world? Or would I run away like he had?

“Kate, this isn’t about judging you and your reactions.” Leslie rested a hand on her knee. “It’s about working out how you feel. Huntington’s is a very complex disease, and it brings out a range of emotions in people, from anger, to embarrassment, to depression, to denial. Any and all of these are normal. For both you
and
your father.”

I let her words sink in as I continued window watching. Outside, the girl and the old man had reached the other side of the lawn and were sitting down together under the shade of a huge old maple tree, nestled amongst its knotted roots. I wondered if that would ever be me and my dad. If a relationship like that was ever possible for us.

“I’m going to tell you a little more about the disease.” Leslie shuffled some papers on her desk and came out with a brochure. I could see from the purple writing on the front it was called
Helping with Huntington’s
, or something as equally trite. Fabulous.

“Huntington’s causes a deterioration of neurodegenerative skills,” Leslie recited. “The disease generally takes about three years to completely set in, although symptoms are hard to diagnose at first, with things like clumsiness, and distant behaviour being common.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Was that my dad? He’d always been kind of clumsy, sure. Had he had this lurking monster inside his head for a few years, and I hadn’t even realised?

“Addiction is a common side effect, with things like drinking becoming a problem for some sufferers. Control of the limbs and speech will deteriorate at varying speeds for varying patients. General prognosis is fifteen to twenty years from first onset,” Leslie kept on reading. “The most common life-threatening complications are pneumonia, followed by heart complications and—finally—suicide.”

I blinked. I looked outside at the old man and the girl by the tree. Now the elder gentleman had his arm around the young woman, holding her close in a loving way. I tried to erase him from the picture, imagine him swinging from the tree with a rope around his neck. I tried to replace his face with my dad’s.

I shook my head and pushed the picture out of my mind. What was wrong with me? Thoughts like that weren’t normal. He was okay. My dad was alive, unwell, but alive. I was a sick, sick person to even think that.

Sick.

Like my father.

“How can I get tested?” My eyes snapped back to Leslie. She placed the brochure down on her desk and pressed her hands together. Her eyes were a cold blue, the kind that made you feel they saw everything.

“Well, you need to see me again”—Leslie counted on one finger— “then I’ll refer you to a neurologist, to confirm you have no visible symptoms of the disease already, then you’ll see a psychiatrist, and then you can get the blood test.” She ticked off her fourth finger.

“Why a psychiatrist? Isn’t that pretty much you?”

“It’s to make sure you’re not a suicide risk, Kate.” Leslie’s smile was sad. “I’m a counsellor. I’m here to help you along the way, and guide you through this—whether you end up deciding to get tested or not. However, I’d encourage you to wait before taking the test. There’s still so much of your life you need to deal with.”

“But how can I make plans if I don’t know if I’m going to die or not?” I shrugged. “How can I meet guys, or start a career, knowing that in twenty or so years I could fall sick and die?” My hands shook. “What’s the point in doing anything until I know?
What’s the point
?” I leaned as far forward in my seat as I could, inches from Leslie’s face. Unwavering blue eyes met mine. I felt naked.

Leslie reached over to the desk and took the brochure. She opened one of her drawers and took out a small, white paper bag out from its depths, and placed the brochure inside. She pressed it into my hands.

“For you.” Her voice was calm as ever.

“I guess I’m dismissed now, huh?” Each breath was a struggle. When did it become so difficult to breathe?

“My next appointment is due.” Leslie stood up. She walked over to the door and put her hand over the knob, ready to pull it back.

I grabbed my handbag from the floor and stuffed the brochure inside, like it was responsible for potentially giving me the disease.

“Kate, it’s not that there’s no point in doing anything until you know,” Leslie’s words were gentle. “When you know what the point is, that’s when you’ll be ready.”

I raised my eyebrows at her and stormed out. I didn’t even stop at reception to pay my stupid bill. I was sure they had Dad’s credit card details on file; surely he could spot me one lousy counselling appointment.

As I flew out of the building, I grabbed the stupid brochure and slammed it in the bin next to the doorway. Three words kept flashing through my mind over and over:

Waste. Of. Time.

A
S SOON
as I’d darted through the front doors of the giant counsellors’ building, I turned a corner into a small courtyard and flattened myself against the wall. The dark-brown bricks felt cool, supporting me with their sturdy weight as I pressed my back up against them.

What had just happened?

And what the hell was I going to do next?

I grabbed my phone out of my handbag and shot a quick text off to Stacey, telling her Dave and I had broken up. If only the rest of it—the why, and the telling her about this stupid disease—would be as easy.

What? So no tour?

I felt like throwing my phone against the concrete path that snaked around the building in front of me, but I resisted. Like that was the biggest problem I faced right now.

No tour.

Two minutes later and my phone buzzed again.

Do you still have your flights and the special hotel booked for Queensland?

I thought about it. I’d booked a separate hotel room for Dave and I to spend the first week of tour in, paid for it myself after working part-time at a chemist all year. Of course, I still had the booking and my flights. But I couldn’t use them now; I couldn’t risk running into Dave. Maybe he’d already tried swapping the room over to his name, anyway, even though he technically had a second room booked by tour management on a less fancy floor of the hotel.

Yes. But I can’t use them. I don’t want to see him.

Too late. Found flights on sale, we’re going. I know you paid for the suite—you’re you’re not wasting it! Meet you at the airport at 7 tomoz xx

Apparently, I wouldn’t have much choice in the matter. I rolled my head against the building and thanked a potentially deaf God for the fact that I had at least organised the accommodation. I shot off a quick email to the hotel manager—I knew they had a sister property slightly further south. Perhaps I could move our room there, meaning I’d only run the risk of seeing Dave on the plane, and not at the hotel where the band had also booked rooms.

I kicked off the wall and looked at the winding path that led to the parking lot. After being trapped inside that claustrophobic emotion-inducing office I didn’t feel like hopping back in my tiny yellow car, and driving the hour-long trip home. I felt like walking, stretching my legs.

No, scratch that.

I felt like running.

I grabbed my ankle and pressed it behind me, stretching my muscles out in the privacy of this tiny courtyard. Birds sang gaily in the branches of the giant willow tree across from me and I tried to block them out.

Next, I kicked my foot out and leaned forward to touch it. It was a good thing I’d changed into those workout clothes, after all. Maybe I could do a few laps around the building—this giant ambiguous counselling office—before starting the trip home. I switched legs and bent down again. To sweat, to feel exhaustion and pain—I needed the physical accompaniment to my internal turmoil.

“Nice ass,” a deep voice said. I jumped and quickly straightened up. Heat rushed to my cheeks as my head spun from left to right, trying to identify where the voice had come from.

“Sorry,” the voice came again, only this time I identified its source. A guy stepped out from behind the tree, lit cigarette in hand. He was tall, about six-foot, with floppy brown hair, olive-toned skin and chocolate-coloured eyes. A tiny freckle marred his right cheek. A small smile was twisted on his lips, showcasing a dimple that made something twinge inside of me.

“You can’t do that.” I frowned.

“You bend over in my presence, and I’m not allowed to compliment you?” The guy stepped forward, closer to me.

“I was stretching.” I shot him what I hoped was a withering look. “And you were hiding behind a tree.”

“I was relaxing behind a tree.” He stepped closer again, and I saw the light dancing in his eyes. “But I do realise I might have come across a little sleazy. I meant it as a compliment. You have a great ass. Much better than some of the others I’ve seen around here.”

“You do this all the time?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘this’.”

“Stand behind trees and check out people’s asses.” A tiny smile crept onto my lips, and I tried to force it back down.

“Only when I have time.” This time, a full-blown grin stretched its way across his mouth and I was treated to double dimples and square, white shiny teeth. “What about you? Do you, er, stretch at counselling centres a lot?”

His words brought me crashing back down to the present. I was at a counselling centre, a specialty one, for people coming to terms with illness. I was here because my dad was dying, and I could be, too. Some random guy had flirted with me, but I’d probably never have a boyfriend again because who would want to date someone with my problems, as Dave had oh so kindly pointed out?

Reality = checked.

“No.” I shook my head. “Anyway, I was just leaving.” I turned my back and looked at the path in front of me, trying to decide which way to go.

“Great.” The boy nodded. “You’re going for a run?”

I didn’t answer. Maybe if I ignored him he would get the hint.

I chose left and jogged down the path, a slow gait at first while my legs got used to the activity. It felt weird, running in the middle of the day in a park I’d never been in, but I didn’t care.

As I turned the corner I picked up the pace, my knees pumping up and down with extra speed. I passed windows in the multi-storey brown building, more giant, gnarled willow trees like the one out front, and brilliant flashes of lime-green grass.

I wondered if anyone inside the buildings were looking out at me, like I’d looked out at the young girl, and if they’d make up stories like I had. If they tried to envision themselves as the stranger sprinting down the concrete path.

A thin layer of sweat broke out on my back and I rounded another corner. The grounds were massive, and I remembered the map I’d seen out front. There was the counselling ward, a care area, and specialty centres. Each building had the same look and feel, the same staple bricks-and-mortar pattern that managed to be both boring and comforting at the same time.