The Problem With Crazy (4 page)

I didn’t know anyone who’d had cancer, except for one of Stacey’s grandmothers. She developed kidney cancer and died six months later.

That couldn’t happen to my dad.

Please don’t let that happen to my dad.

“It’s called Huntington’s disease.”

“Phew!” I smiled, my lips wide and almost at my eyes. I was an over-animated version of my normal self to counteract the melancholy occurring on the couch opposite.

But even as I tried to be enthused about it, I knew it was wrong. Their grim faces didn’t look like the canvases of people celebrating. “I mean, at least it’s not cancer, right?”

“It’s not cancer, no.” Mum shook her head. She placed a trembling hand on Dad’s leg. “It’s different from cancer.”

“Different how?”

“It’s a neurodegenerative disease,” Mum replied. I narrowed my eyebrows. “It destroys the brain cells that can effect movement, speech, memory and—” Before she could finish the sentence, big, fat tears started snaking their way down my father’s face. He held his head, shaking, his calloused veiny hands raking through his grey-flecked hair.

Mum put her arm around his shoulder, and he moved closer to her. After all her comments about him previously, after all he’d done, she was letting this happen. This sickness must be something really, really bad.

A chill ran through my body.

“Kate, your father has a terrible disease. At the moment, he’s having trouble controlling his movements and his speech.” Mum recited the words as if she’d written them down. “However, in time, he’ll lose the ability to control them entirely. His memory is affected. He is going to require constant care and supervision.”

My eyes widened. What? My father was going to—

“Dad’s going to go … to lose his mind?”

The room fell silent. No one answered me.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s not going to be able to control what he does, how he speaks, what stays in his mind and what doesn’t. Isn’t that kind of the definition of the concept?”

I was on my feet now, shouting. Why was I so angry? I tried to slow my breathing, calm my heart rate, but my body ignored me.

“How could you have let this happen? You’re not old enough to be—to be just having this happen. And
you
left. You left us!” I jabbed my finger toward him, stabbing the air in front of his face. I was yelling so loudly I was sure the neighbours could hear.

“Kate, calm down.” Mum shook her head. Dad didn’t say a word, just kept up his full-body sobs as he cried, tears for a life he would never lead.

Shaking, I nervously backed my way over to the couch.

“So. Okay. How does this work? Why are we only hearing about this now?” I slowly lowered my body, letting the pillows support me as I felt the will to move drain from my limbs.
Take in the facts, Kate. Gather information. Process. Breathe
.

“It started more than a year and a half ago. Small signs, at first. Nothing you or I really noticed, like involuntary movements of his body, depression and slurred speech.” Mum’s forehead creased. “Or, if we did notice, we blamed it on his drinking.”

“It’s why I was drinking.” Dad raised his head to look at me, his tears momentarily subsided. “A … addiction is a common trait when you have H … Hunting …”

“But you left,” I cut him off.

“He did, yes,” Mum said. “He knew something was wrong, so he went to get some tests done. He found out he had the disease, but didn’t want us to have to deal with—this. The next day, he sold his car to pay for treatment at a care centre, which is where he’s been living the past year.”

“So, you just didn’t tell us? And decided to come back to ruin my graduation?”

Another awkward silence panned out as Dad glanced sheepishly at Mum, then back to his hands that were quietly writhing away, clenching and unclenching in his lap.

“I c … couldn’t afford the treatment anymore,” Dad said. “I wanted to see you graduate. But I had—I had a few drinks.”

Fact check: My dad was back, and he was sick. Real sick. Drinking was a part of the problem. A disease was destroying his brain.

I felt removed from the situation, like I was watching the news. This sort of thing didn’t happen. Not to normal people like me.

“Couldn’t drinking deplete your brain cells? What were you thinking?”

Dad started to cry again, a new wave of tears, and I brought my hands to the bridge of my nose. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? He was sick, and he was my father. And I was hardly being understanding.

“Are you—okay?” I tried again, even though it was clear he wasn’t. No one answered. There was nothing even remotely okay about this.

We sat there in silence for a few moments, me leaning back in my chair in shock, Mum stroking tiny round circles on Dad’s back as he shook some more.

In books, people say that bad news can make you look older. I hadn’t really seen evidence of that before, but looking at my parents, I could definitely see the toll of time wearing on their faces and bodies: slumped shoulders, crushed foreheads, tired eyes. My middle-aged parents had become old.

“Katie, I’m sorry.” Dad raised his head and looked at me. His blue eyes were surrounded by fiery-red streaks from the tears he’d shed, little spidery veins of sadness.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Th … there’s more.”

I clutched the edge of my seat, my fingernails digging deep into the creamy suede material. What else could there possibly be? What could possibly be worse than a disease that was going to make him half a man?

“I’m … I’m going to die.”

The words ricocheted through my body.

Die.

My dad was going to die.

“He doesn’t mean in the ‘everyone-is-going-to-die-one-day’ way, sweetie, he means—”

“Mum, I know what he means.” I snapped my lips together.

“H … how long?”

“Prognosis is good. About fifteen to twenty years.” Mum stared at her nails, unable to make eye contact.

“Wow.” I thought about all the things that would happen in the next fifteen to twenty years. I’d move out. I’d have a tour management career. I’d get married. I’d have children. They’d grow up, and Dad would be there for some of it, but not all of it. One day, my dad was going to die, and my kids may not ever have known him except as a distant memory.

One day, I was going to have to face the world alone.

Without him.

Even more without him than I’d been for the last three-hundred and seventy-something days.

“This is just—it’s a lot to take in.” I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

I stood from my seat and crossed the room, hovering over him with my arms extended in an awkward sort of way while Mum, reluctant to leave his side, extended one of her hands to my shoulder.

I felt myself still as time slowed down. My hand was on Dad’s shoulder, and he wasn’t hugging me back. It was surreal, this moment, seeing the drool as it pooled in the corner of my father’s lip. Was this really happening?

“How sweet.” I heard Dave before I saw him. He’d walked in the door without knocking. For the first time ever, I wished he were a tiny bit less familiar with my home.

“Hi.” I quickly disentangled myself from our embrace and smoothed down my shirt, before walking to Dave’s side. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and handed me a weighted plastic bag.

“I bought ice cream,” he smiled, “but only for three.” The last sentence was directed with a cool gaze in Dad’s direction. I elbowed Dave in the ribs. Couldn’t he see that my father was upset?

“Deb, do you need me to remove any unwanted guests?” Dave took a step towards my parents. His knuckles were fisted, white bones showing through. Mum shook her head, no.

“Can you help me pop these in the freezer?” I grabbed the plastic bag from Dave’s hands and walked to the kitchen. He followed.

The second we were alone, he cornered me against the bench, his arms on either side of mine so my body pressed hard up against his.

“Now I can give you a proper hello,” he whispered in my ear and started nibbling against it.

“Dave.” I sighed, and gave him a nudge. He ignored me, pressing closer still.

“Dave. Seriously.” This time I gave him a shove, and he stumbled backward. I pushed away from the bench and opened the freezer to put the ice cream in.

“What’s your problem?” His arms were folded and his face was grim.

“Dave, it’s Dad,” I whispered. “He’s sick.” Even as I said it, the words seemed surreal. How did I describe an illness I barely knew anything about myself?

“Like, a sick idiot who ruined graduation?” I punched Dave on the shoulder. How could he be so tactless when I was trying to tell him something important?

“Stop being such a shit,” I hissed. “He has a disease. Something starting with
H
.” The actual name escaped me. I hadn’t heard of it before today. There was no “day” or “month” to honour it, like there was with cancer or MS.

This disease was going to steal my father from me—and it wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard of.

“What sort of disease?”

“It affects everything. He’s going to lose control of his speech, his movement—and then he’s going to die.” I felt tears well in my eyes and forced them back. Dave put his arms around me and I collapsed into him. I breathed in his cologne as he stroked my hair.

“How long?”

“Mum said maybe fifteen to twenty years? He’s going to die,” I repeated the words, with little to no inflection. I was removed from myself, from this scene.

“You’ll be okay.”

His words were of no direct comfort to me, but feeling his arms take my weight and support my body helped. I stood there for a moment, losing myself in him, and let my thoughts fly. I was angry Dad hadn’t told us, furious he’d run away, and devastated about the whole situation. I’d never felt so many emotions before: mad, upset, protective, confused, and hurt. Was this normal? To feel everything, all at once?

“I have to go back out there.” I forced out the words. I pulled back to look at Dave’s face, his pale skin, his electric-green eyes … he looked so steady, so sure. I wanted to stay in his arms forever.

“We’ll go together.”

Dave placed his hand on the small of my back and led me back into the living room where my parents waited.

“Kate told me.” Dave walked over to the couch. “And I’m sorry, man. That’s really rough.” He stretched his arm out and took Dad’s hand, pumping twice before joining me on the opposite couch. Dad’s forehead creased up.

“Paul.” Dad nodded slowly.

“You’ve met Dave, dear, that’s Kate’s boyfriend.”

“Dave,” Dad repeated, stretching the word out on his tongue.

Everything my parents had said became somehow more real. Dad had met Dave before, many times. And yet, here he was, acting like he was being introduced to a total stranger. Memory loss.

Wow.

“Dude, you like, came to some of our concerts.”

I gave a sharp kick to Dave’s ankle.

“Kate, I know you must have a lot of questions,” Mum said. “So feel free to ask us anything, anytime. I’m still—I’m still trying to take it all in myself.”

“O … okay.” I’d never stuttered so much in my life.

“And there is something else we need to tell you, dear.”

“Deb, not now. Give ‘er a rest,” Dad interjected, his voice sounding ever more weary with each passing word.

“What? Tell me.” My fingers clenched into tiny fists. “What could possibly be worse than what you’ve already said?” I felt Dave place his arm protectively around my shoulders.

“Maybe we should wait.” Mum eyed Dave’s hand.

“Anything you have to say, you can say in front of him.” I shook my head. “He’s family. You know that.” Dave and I locked eyes, and he gave me a special little smile.

“Kate, it’s not a good time.” Mum’s voice was shrill. My heart was beating like a jackhammer,
thud-thud-thud
, over and over in double-time.

“If you don’t tell me now, I’ll Google it. I’ll just search the disease and see what I can find. We both will.”

Silence.
Dave took my hand in his, clasping his other hand around it so I was protected entirely within his palms. Mum and Dad looked at each other, her lips pursed, his still loose.

“The disease your father has …” Mum paused. I nodded at her.
Go on.

Just tell me. Get it over with.

“It’s hereditary.”

I struggled to breathe as Dave’s fingers slowly unlaced themselves from mine.