The Problem With Crazy (8 page)

“It’s not easy for me, either.” He gave no indication that he’d heard.

“When I told the boys and Coal about you and your dad, they—”

“You told the band? You told
Coal
?” I flashed a murderous glance in his direction. I hadn’t even told Stacey, and he’d gone and shared this precious nugget of information that was less than twenty-four-hours old with his stupid band mates, and a Grammy Award winning act, all of whom I’d be spending the next two months with on the road?

“Well, how do you think this is for me? Coping with all this, and the tour?”

“The tour I organised?” I sprang to my feet. “Is that the tour you’re talking about?”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself.” Dave raised his hands in exasperation. “You made a few phone calls and booked a few flights. I didn’t ask you to. In fact, the only thing I’ve been
asking
you to do, you keep bloody denying me.”

His words were tiny needles, jabbed all over my body. I blinked, and focused on not crying, not losing it right here in the middle of the hotel room.

“Then w … what am I doing here, if I’m denying you that?”

Dave stood up and walked over to me. He placed his hands on my arms, and looked me up and down.

“Kate.” He swallowed, staring me straight in the eyes. His voice was flat and hard. “Take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“Take off your clothes,” Dave repeated, never breaking his icy gaze. “Prove that you were planning on giving yourself to me tonight. Strip for me.”

My knees trembled. Dave was my ticket out of here, the way I could avoid dealing with my intense, new family life. We were arguing now, sure, but that was kind of my fault as well as his, and we’d been dating for two years—even though I felt like he was a bit of a jerk right now, we were meant to be together.

Weren’t we?

Slowly, I joined my hands to his, lifting them gently off my shoulders and placing them at his sides. I was surprised I didn’t send the nervous shudders straight out from my fingers and into his.

I raised my hands to my sides and lifted up my T-shirt, throwing it over my head and letting it land on the floor next to me. Swaying my hips to the side, I threw my hands out in a ta-da movement, like I was the host on a game show.

“And the jeans.” Dave nodded and took a few steps back to the bed, sitting down and crossing his arms. His face was blank, and his eyebrows were raised. I’d never seen him look so unimpressed.

I flipped the button and undid my fly, slowly pulling my skinny jeans over my thighs, my knees, my calves, and finally my ankles and feet. There was no way to do it and be sexy, so I settled for not falling over. I stepped out of my pants and stood up straight, in only my underwear.

Dave checked his cell for messages.

I felt sick.

My stomach roiled.

“Go on,” Dave instructed. “Sexier, this time.”

I raised my hand behind my back, and started to fiddle with the bra clasp. I couldn’t get the damn thing to unhook, and tears welled in my eyes. My hands wouldn’t work, falling apart in the sort of fumbles I’d seen my dad do the other day.

It seemed like a nightmare, like this was happening to someone else. Was this really what someone who cared about me would make me do?

And why did I feel like he was judging every ounce of flesh on my body?

“Anytime, now …” Dave widened his eyes impatiently. I was surprised he wasn’t tapping his foot.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I dropped my hands to my side, my bra still very much on.

“I told you, you were never gonna do it.” Dave stood and threw his hands in the air. He bent down to grab my shirt and threw it at me. “Get dressed.”

“I was! Just not like this.” My voice was raw with emotion. I scrambled to get the shirt back over my head and felt my breath release once it covered my stomach.

“There’s always gonna be something with you.” Dave stepped right in front of me. I felt the spit flying off his tongue land on my face as he spoke. “I didn’t ask to have a girlfriend with a crazy father.”

I felt as if he’d shot a cannonball out his mouth, and it had landed, smack bang in the middle of my stomach. I clutched at my sides, fighting the urge to double over in pain.

“He’s not crazy,” I whimpered. “And I didn’t ask for it, either.” I stood there, still as a statue while Dave walked back to the bed. He blew out the candles on either side of it, flicked on the lamp, and cleared the rose petals out of the way with one fell swoop of his arm till they were scattered all over the floor.

How had this all gone so horribly wrong? And why did my heart feel like it was cracking in two?

“Don’t you get it? I mean
I
don’t want one. I don’t want a girlfriend who might lose her freaking mind,” Dave yelled. He grabbed my jeans off the floor and threw them at me, the metal button connecting with my wrist. “Honestly, I was going to let you come on tour, but do you think I could seriously have a girlfriend with a crazy father when we make the big time? Put your clothes on. Go, get out!”

I blinked. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening, not after two years of dating and all the work I’d completed on the tour and just—just everything. I felt a solitary tear snake its way out of my eye, over my cheekbone, and down my face, playing kamikaze off my jaw.

“We’re over, Kate. O-ver.” Dave sucked the marrow out of the word. A flimsy breath shuddered up my throat. “Move.”

His word snapped me into action. I threw one leg into my jeans, and then the other, pulling them up so hard and fast I was worried I’d push through the material. I held the sides closed and did up the fly, threw my shirt over my head, and grabbed my clutch and shoes as I ran for the exit, sobs heaving in my chest.

I slammed the door behind me and ran for the stairs, not wanting to risk taking the lift and running into other people, people who would see the ugly mess of tears that had taken over my face.

I charged past the receptionist who moments ago had looked so in awe of me being taken up to the room by my romantic rock star boyfriend, and ignored the now-smug shape of her upturned lips.

When I got to my car, I turned the lock and slammed my body against the seat. I draped my arms over the steering wheel, shoulders hunched as I tried to shut out the world.

I slumped there till the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, and filtered through the tall brick buildings in the surrounding car parks.

In three days, my dad had embarrassed me at school, I’d learned about his disease, discovered my chances of developing it, found out the guy I thought I loved had told his friends and a Grammy Award winning band about my potential illness, lost my boyfriend, ruined the start of my tour-organising career and said goodbye to my ticket out of this stupid town.

There was nothing I needed saving from more than my past, my future, and myself.

“S
O, HOW
come there’s no psycho couch?” It was the first question that came to mind when I stepped into the genetics counsellor’s office. It was a small room with a big, open window framed by deep-blue curtains on either side. A desk cluttered with paper, books, and a model of a brain with moving parts was in the corner, two slimline office chairs next to it.

“Pardon me?” A woman whose name I’d learned was Leslie asked. She looked to be about Mum’s age, maybe a little older, and had blonde frizzy hair loosely pulled back into a bun. Streaks of grey ran through her locks, and tiny wrinkles gathered near her eyes. Was that a side effect of the job? Counselling people who were going through a whole lot of issues would surely bring out the greys in anyone.

“You know, like in the movies. When people go see a psychiatrist, they lie on one of those chaise lounge thingys.” I took a seat, a plain black one, close to the window. “Nothing offensive, but this isn’t anywhere near as comfortable as it looks.”

“Firstly, I’m not a psychiatrist, I’m a genetics counsellor,” Leslie explained. “And secondly, if you’re not comfortable, I can grab a cushion for you.”

“It’s fine.” I shifted my weight from one side of the chair to the other. “I just kind of feel like maybe if I was super relaxed and at a chaise lounge level of comfort I’d be more inclined to share my deepest, darkest secrets with you, you know?”

“I don’t intend to trick you into revealing any secrets, Kate.” Leslie leaned back in her own chair. Over her shoulder, I could see her computer, an open Word document with my name at the top all lit up.

“Is that where you’re going to write your notes about me?” I nodded toward the screen.

“Yes,” Leslie said simply.

“Can I see my notes?”

“If you want to.”

“What are you thinking of writing so far?”

“That it might be time to rethink my interior decorating.” Leslie gave a wry smile, and I couldn’t help but to dip my head with respect in return. Score one, Leslie.

“So, do all the counsellors in here deal with people like me?” I studied the little skull model on her desk.
I wonder if it’s so she can point out where the broken hides in people’s brains.

“Not exactly,” Leslie said. “We deal with youth and diseases, so a lot of cancer patients, or those who have family members suffering from a life-altering illness.”

“Bet you drew the short straw then, getting me.”

“Not at all.” Leslie raised the corners of her lips. “Firstly, you’re in a unique situation and I’d love to help you. Secondly, I happen to specialise in Huntington’s, unlike some of the other counsellors here. And thirdly, while you’ll see me face-to-face, we work as a team. My colleagues and I discuss all our clients—under the strictest confidentiality, of course—and brainstorm ways we can help you best.”

Fantastic. I would be part of a group science experiment. I
so
didn’t want to be here.

This morning I’d woken up in my car, driven to a public toilet block, and changed into the gym clothes I’d had stashed in the backseat from some previous occasion. They weren’t any cleaner than the outfit I’d worn last night, but somehow they felt less dirty.

Then, I’d driven the twenty minutes across to the other side of Sydney to make it to this counselling session—the one I really didn’t think I needed right now.

“Mum booked this appointment for me.” I folded my arms and tilted back in the chair.

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Oh!” I slammed my feet to the floor. “I
knew
you were going to say that. It’s like, straight out of the movies or something.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Leslie gave a wicked grin, and this time I graced her with a fully-fledged smile. Maybe she wasn’t the enemy after all.

I continued to smile and looked out the window. You could see the garden of the hospital, acres of neatly manicured green grass with flowerbeds lining the cream brick buildings that surrounded it, purple and pink hydrangeas bordering the edges.

“So tell me about your experience with Huntington’s so far,” Leslie suggested gently. Her voice was calm and relaxing. It was no wonder she worked at the state’s top facility. I could tell she would be irritatingly good at her job.

“Well, my father came home after a mysterious one-year absence and embarrassed me by showing up drunk at my graduation,” I started. “Then, I found out he’d run away when he found out he had Huntington’s. Then I learned it was hereditary, my boyfriend dumped me ‘cause he thinks my dad is an embarrassment, and that I’m going to go—you know, cuckoo—and it left me with nothing to do with my life, since I’d wanted to plan his tours and be a band manager, or event organiser, or something. But I guess having nothing to do is probably a good thing. You know, since I might die soon, and all.”

Leslie nodded and pursed her lips. She wasn’t even writing any of this down. I furrowed my brow.

“Shouldn’t you be taking notes as I go? It might be awkward if I bring this up again and you ask me if I’m in college, or something, when I just said I wasn’t.”

“Let’s go back to the part about you having nothing to do.” Leslie spaced out her words evenly, a light inflection on each one. She was definitely good at this. Every time I fired up, tried to get a rise, she’d make me feel all relaxed.
Irritating.
“What do you mean you have nothing to do? Sounds like you have a lot on your plate.”