The Problem With Crazy (5 page)

W
HEN YOUR
whole world falls apart, there’s not a lot you can do about it. When I found out my dad was going to lose all body control, and Mum told me the same thing might happen to me, I did what any normal person would do.

I walked up the stairs, all zombie-like, and shut myself in my ridiculously neat room. I got into my largest T-shirt. I cracked open my emergency packet of Tim Tams and mixed a bottle of cola with some hideous cheap vodka.

Then, it was horror-movie therapy time. Tarantino, Rodriguez … I rented them all online then watched them, back-to-back, like a junkie. I started to close my eyes once, and then quickly pinched my arm, forcing them back open again.

After two am, I switched from cola to Red Bull to keep the adrenalin pumping through my system. Slash, slash, slash. Stab, stab, stab. All this pain on screen, blood, gore and guts, distracting and enveloping me with its all-encompassing hideousness.

I had to stay awake. I couldn’t fall asleep.

You never fall asleep in dreams.

I woke to a piercing shriek, undignified, contrasting and loud. I managed to narrow one eye open into a squint. Light blasted from under my curtains and I saw my room: the boxy shape of my desk, my laptop, the plastic wrapping from the Tim Tams.

I identified the phone on my desk next to the computer as the nearest noise source I could control, and pressed “cancel” on the incoming call. Stacey could ring back another time. My laptop was right next to my phone, so I grabbed it and slammed the lid shut. I had no idea how long the intro music to
Planet Horror
had been looping, but judging from the way the tune continued in my head even after I turned it off, I’d be willing to guess a long bloody time.

“Kate, honey? It’s time to get up.”

Mum’s voice was outside the door. I rolled my eyes. Why on earth would I want to get up? I didn’t have school to go to, and I—

The previous night’s events came flooding through my mind like a highlights reel on a DVD. Dad had a terrible disease. He was going to lose his ability to speak and move, and be normal. He’d need permanent care. He was going to die. And, oh yeah, it was hereditary. So there was a chance I’d end up with it, too.

I groaned and threw my head back down on my pillow.
Happy end of high school to me.

“Kate? You go on tour in two days. You need to get up and pack. Have you finished packing?”

I looked around my room, surveying the half-filled suitcase. Was “kind of” a good enough answer?

“Katie, I’m coming in if you don’t reply soon.”

Mum’s definition of the word “soon” appeared to be approximately ten seconds, as that was how long she waited before bursting through the door, concern etched all over her face in her worried eyes, and thin lips. She sat down next to me on the bed, the crinkle of plastic wrappers celebrating under her feet.

“You know, chocolate is never going to solve your problems.” Mum picked up the rubbish and placed it in the empty trashcan next to the bed. “I would have thought you, of all people, would know that.”

“Mu-u-um,” I groaned. “You know I don’t care about that stuff.”

“I’ve told you before, you’re beautiful now, but in your early twenties … the weight just starts piling on, if you’re not careful.” She tutted and shook her head.

“What does my weight matter if I’m going to die?”

“Oh, Kate.” Mum wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me loosely across her lap. “There’s only a fifty per cent chance of that.”

“So, it’s like flipping a coin?”

“More or less.” She sighed and pulled away, studying me. “I know you’ve got a lot of thinking to do, but you’re about to go on tour with the boy you really like—don’t let this stop you. Your dad is going to be here when you return.”

“He’s moving back in?”

Mum nodded, a movement so minute it was almost imperceptible.

“He left, and you’re just letting him back?”

“He left to protect us from what was happening to him.” I leaned in closer to hear her speak. “And he—he’s been through so much by himself. We have to be there for him, now.” There was no anger, just hurt in her eyes.

“So, now what? Now we need to live with it?” I bit my lip. He was still my dad; I didn’t mean to sound so bitchy, but ... I didn’t know how I felt, about any of it. “I just don’t think it’s going to be as easy as ‘He moves in, we start playing happy families.’”

“We won’t. It won’t be. It’s going to be a big adjustment for all of us.”

I picked at a thread on my bedspread. The black-and-white print was done in William-Morris style, one of my favourites.

“If I have it, when will it kick in?” My voice was tiny.

“It typically hits you when you reach middle-age, so it could be years yet. Dad actually got it quite late. Legally, you can be tested for the disease once you reach eighteen. I’ve booked you a specialised counselling appointment for tomorrow, so you can ask an expert some questions before you go on tour. Normally there’s a wait list, but I told them about your special situation, and they squeezed you in.”

My mind was stuck on her first sentence.
Typically
. The average person.

But what about the not-so-average person? What about the one in a million?

“Is there any chance it could kick in … next year? Or the year after?”

I was frightened. I concentrated on biting my bottom lip, so hard I could feel my bottom teeth on the other side of it.

“Kate …”

“It’s not fair,” I protested. I pressed my hands to my face. “It’s just not fair.”

“The chance of the gene developing while you’re so young is very slim. Besides, you haven’t even taken the test yet.” Mum rubbed my back. She smelled like fresh soap and clean linen—normal mother smells. Not mother-who-is-married-to-a-diseased-man smells. “Let’s talk about this when you get back.”

I let her comfort me. It felt like a dream.

“Fifty per cent, huh?”

Mum nodded.

Fifty per cent.

They weren’t the worst odds I’d ever heard.

I stood up and scrambled through the papers and books piled neatly on my desk, letting them float softly to the floor as I searched for the coin I knew would be there. I picked it up, balancing it precariously on the back of my hand.

“Heads or tails?” I asked her.

“Kate.” Mum shook her head, stood up, and walked to the door.

“Heads or tails,” I insisted, raising my hand.

“That isn’t a fair test.”

“Heads, tails, or leave me alone.”

Mum’s eyes glistened, just for a second, and I thought about what a horrible person I was being. Then my instincts kicked back in. This was about my future.

“This isn’t a game. We can get you tested properly, but it’s completely up to you whether you want to or not. I understand if you’d rather wait. It’s a lot to take in—your father coming home, him having a disease, things changing as we adjust to it all. You may not want to know if you’re likely to develop it. You’re allowed to not want to know.”

Silence.

“Would you?”

I switched my attention from the coin to her. She didn’t look nearly as happy as she had earlier. She rested her body against the doorframe for support, her freshly ironed skirt pressing against her knees.

“I—I don’t know.” Mum’s voice was quiet. “When I was at an age where I was thinking about having kids? Absolutely. Now, though? I … I don’t know.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. If I had Huntington’s, my children could get it, too.

We remained in silence for a few minutes. One part of me felt relief. Leaving, running away with Dave, suddenly sounded a whole lot more appealing. I wouldn’t have to deal with it—I wouldn’t have to be here for this.

The other part of me was shocked I could try to live a normal life when everything I’d ever thought was real was crumbling.

“Tails, I have it. Heads, I don’t.”

I flipped the coin. It flew up in the air, circling its way inches from the ceiling then crashing back down to the floor where it landed next to an empty soda can.

I watched it bounce once, twice … then looked away.

“Well?” Mum asked.

I pursed my lips. I didn’t want to look anymore. It had seemed like a good idea, but now—now it just seemed scary. I didn’t want to know about my problems. Dad’s were enough to deal with.

My shoulders started to shake, and I fought to control them. Mum came rushing over, her arms around me, rocking me back and forth as all mothers are programmed to do.

I didn’t cry. I just sat there, arms by my side, and let her hug me, stroking my hair like she’d done when I was a little girl. When she eventually stopped she picked up my bin and the empty soda can, taking them outside to empty into the trash.

After half an hour, I managed to swing my legs out from under my quilt and put them on the floor. They felt steady, fine. I was in control.

I grabbed my suitcase from the corner of the room and did a final check, and then zipped it tight so none of the items inside could escape.

I wasn’t leaving for two days, but Dave had a show in Sydney tonight, and I was going to watch. Maybe I could stay with him till we left town for good.

Breathe, Kate.

Breathe.

There were eight hours till the gig. I could go downstairs to the house computer, check all the travel arrangements and finalise the band’s request lists for the gigs.

As I pulled the door closed, something caught my eye in the middle of the bedroom floor.

I walked over to it, seeing the coin where it had finally landed after its third or fourth roll. I took a deep breath.

I needed to know.

It was tails.

E
VENTUALLY
I left the sanctity of my bedroom, had breakfast, and mucked around on the Internet for a little while. I checked that all the tour information was correct, that we did indeed have accommodation and transport and funds for petrol organised for the entire two-week trip. Next, I updated the band’s social media sites, tweeting and posting that “we are so excited to be on the road soon” and blah, blah, blah, “isn’t it going to be amazing, there will be so many babes.”

It was so weird. I often wondered if the band’s fans would be in such a rush to DM me naked photos of themselves, or shots of their boobs, if they knew the person writing on the website was a girl.

Although, the fact that I monitored it meant the band didn’t know about the constant and gratuitous offers of sex, either, and that certainly wasn’t something I was about to let slip.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked Mum. She was in the kitchen, hovering over the chopping board, bread, ham and tomato in orderly piles next to the knife.

“In the bedroom.” She delicately arranged the ingredients and cut her sandwich into two precise triangles. “He’s a bit clumsy today.”

“Oh.” I took a soda out of the fridge and sat at the counter, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“He’ll be out soon.”

I took a long gulp, letting the cool bubbles swell in my mouth. I didn’t want to be in a house where my father was locked up like a little kid. Tour couldn’t come fast enough.