The Problem With Crazy (35 page)

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.

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 one 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.”

W
HEN
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.

At first, I focused on getting the job done, just tacking the images up wherever I could without stopping to absorb their contents. After a while, though, I slowed down. I noticed Johnny run his hand over each image, like he was trying to take something from them.

Then I realised he was.

The first sketch I slowed on was a small pool, a waterfall at one end. The detail was intricate, everything from the gleam on the rocks to the splashes of the water as it fell from the sky, depicted in finely tuned black and white. It was our pool, where we had skinny-dipped.

Even without being here, he had the power to take my breath away.

Next was a hand holding a cigarette, tilted back, hovering over the grass. You could see each blade, singled out in glorious detail, and I felt a tiny smile creep up my face. I remembered that day, all right.

The pictures continued; some I recognised, and some I didn’t. There was a picture of a stuffed toy that Johnny held for a particularly long time before passing over to me. Then there was a sketch of headlights, piercing tunnels that arced toward the viewer as if in a scene from a horror movie.

There was a pair of lips, full and plump, a sheen of light highlighted on the lower one. I snatched it up greedily and scoured the image, taking in every line and wondering how a picture of lips could be made so detailed.

I’d found what I was looking for. The streetlight in the corner. The date it was drawn.

The night of our first kiss.

A flush of happiness flooded me, followed swiftly by sorrow, then guilt. It was confusing, the emotions, the actions and the words. It was confusing just to
be
.

“Kate,” Stacey said as she flew across the room, her body colliding with mine. She enveloped me in an almighty hug, crushing my arms to my sides in the warm autumn light.

“How are you?” I breathed as she let me go.

“You idiot.” She pinched me gently in the side. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I mumbled. I didn’t feel right complaining about the numbness inside of me, the more-than-sad, guilty feeling that had taken up residence in the motel of my body. Not in front of Johnny. It just wasn’t fair.

Stacey must have seen my sidelong look, because one moment she was by my side, the next, she was ambushing Johnny, pressing him to the ground in the sort of bear hug that would make a, well, bear proud.

“You must be Stacey.” Johnny’s voice was squashed under Stacey’s enthusiasm, but I could tell he was smiling. Just a little.

“This sucks.” Stacey pulled back and looked at him, straight in the eye. My heart went out to her. Good on her, for getting that “sorry” just wasn’t going to cut it.

“Hell yeah.” Johnny gave a weak smile.

“I think this is a nice idea, though,” Stacey continued, surveying the art lining the walls. “He was such a talented bastard.”

“Stacey!” My eyes widened. She gave me that,
Whatcha gonna do?
look she’d perfected on teachers at our high school, time and time again.

“Hey, hey,” Michael said, walking into the café. He was dressed in a white shirt, and black jeans, with a black suit jacket over the top. His dreadlocks were pulled back in a tie, his chocolate eyes alive with enthusiasm.

“Michael.” I smiled. “Thanks so much for stopping by to help.” I could feel the daggers Stacey was shooting in my back.

“No worries.” He nodded. “I think this is just such a nice—hey, man.” Michael stuck out his hand in front of Johnny who slowly took it and gave a single pump. Two guys with long, brown hair, one with a tan, dreadlocks and all this energy, the other with paler skin and a heart buried somewhere underground. So similar, and yet so very different.

“Okay, well, I need you two to go through the guest list and make a check sheet for the bouncers, then sort out a musical playlist,” I said. “But Johnny and I need to concentrate, so I’ll need you in the backroom.” I gestured toward the little room at the back of the café.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Stacey raised her eyebrows.

“Nope.” I shook my head. “I think you’re a good friend, who’ll do what I ask in my time of need.”

I saw the guilt flicker across her eyes as she followed Michael into the room. He’d brought his laptop, as I’d requested, to help pick the songs and hook them up to the sound system I’d hired.

When the two of them were inside the room, I reached over to the door, and slammed it shut behind them.

“No coming out till your jobs are done,” I instructed, a tiny note of glee in my voice. Maybe some time alone together and a common goal would finally push them into admitting how they felt for each other.

Or maybe Stacey would strangle Michael with his laptop power cord.

Either way, should be an interesting experiment.