The Shortest Way Home (30 page)

Based on what he knew of the history of Huntington’s research, it was likely that his parents didn’t know the 50 percent likelihood of her carrying the gene when they were married in the 1960s, nor when Sean was born in 1968. But they almost certainly would have known by the time Deirdre was conceived.

They rolled the dice and hoped for the best,
thought Sean.
And they lost.

* * *

I
t was late afternoon by the time he pulled into Aunt Vivvy’s drive-way. The house was quiet, and for this he was grateful. As he stood in the foyer, a thought popped into his head: the note from his mother about mowing the lawn—the last thing she’d given him before her mind had been hijacked by Huntington’s. He’d kept it in a box in the basement; suddenly he needed to see it.

Rushing down the stairs, the same ones on which she’d fallen and later died, he panicked that the box was gone. Aunt Vivvy would have thrown it away without a second thought. But on the far side of the basement, on the shelf behind Hugh’s old tent, he found it. His box of treasures.

He dumped it out searching for the note and rifled through old report cards, his high school yearbook, his driving learner’s permit. There was the picture of him and Cormac holding their tennis trophy. He slid that into his breast pocket. And there was Hugh’s fishing lure, which he also put aside. There was a pink glove and a signed baseball, and finally there was the note.

Sean, I’m taking Deirdre for her one-year checkup. Auntie Vivvy is watching Hugh. Would you please mow the lawn? Love,
M.

Hi Mom,
he thought. And he sat down on the damp cement floor and wept.

* * *

A
little while later he loaded everything but the note, the picture, and the fishing lure back into the box. When he picked up the pink glove, he remembered it was Chrissy’s. She’d left it in the bleachers that time he’d put his arm around her, shortly before her future ex-husband popped him one. He pitched it into the box with the rest of his ancient history and put the box on the shelf, no longer worried about hiding it. Aunt Vivvy didn’t come down here anymore, and even if she did and decided to get rid of it, there was nothing in it that meant that much to him.

Walking up the stairs, he realized that included the pink glove.

* * *

E
xhausted, he wandered into the den in search of his book. He was up to
The Last Battle
in
The Chronicles of Narnia
series, and the thought of immersing himself in a mythic kingdom where good always prevailed seemed like a balm to his frayed emotions. He couldn’t immediately locate the book, so when he saw Deirdre’s laptop sitting there, he absently clicked into his new e-mail account and found a message from Claire Lindquist, Kevin’s teacher.

Hi Sean,

I was very happy to get your note. I assumed you would have returned to Africa by now. It’s great that you’re staying and taking an interest in Kevin’s education.

Kevin’s a wonderful boy, a pleasure to have in class, but he does have his challenges. I’m very concerned about

Before Sean could read any more, he was distracted by the slam of the front door and footsteps coming quickly toward him.

“Hey,” said Deirdre breathlessly, appearing in the den and reaching for the laptop. “I need that.”

“Sure, can I—”

“I’m in a wicked hurry. Can you just get off?”

“Yeah, but this e-mail is from—”

She gave her head an annoyed shake. “Jesus, Sean, I really don’t care. I have to go!”

“Dee, it’s from Kevin’s teacher.”

“Okay, last I checked, it’s summer and he doesn’t actually
have
a teacher at the moment, so it can’t be all that critical.” She leaned over him and hit the little X at the top of the screen.

“Christ, are you really that self-centered?”

“Whoa, little pot. You are at least as black as me,” she said, clicking the Shut Down function. “So fuck off.”

“Fuck off yourself, you raving bitch!”

Aunt Vivvy appeared in the doorway. “What on earth is going on in here?” she demanded. George was at her side, ears standing straight up and twitching agitatedly.

“Nothing, Auntie,” said Deirdre breezily. “Sean just needs to come down off his high horse, stop mooching off other people, and get his own stuff.” She yanked the cord, grabbed the laptop, and sailed out of the room, the front door slamming moments later.

“I don’t appreciate that kind of language, Sean Patrick,” said Aunt Vivvy. “And I’ll thank you to conduct yourself with some consideration for other people and their belongings.”

“Hold on a second.” Sean stood up. “Consideration for other people was in short supply around this house long before
I
got home.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Her scathing tone rattled him as it always had—as it was meant to. But his anger, stoking all day and fueled by Deirdre’s attack, seemed to rise out of his belly like some sort of volcanic eruption. He blazed back at her, “It means that you drove my father out of here, for one thing.”

“How dare you,” she growled.

“I was with him today. And I can see a little more clearly how it went down. You never liked him. And when he started falling apart, you said exactly what you knew would make him leave—that we’d be better off without him.”

She smiled coldly. “And you were.”

“Christ, how can you
say
that? Look around!” His finger flew out in front of him, indicting her. The dog started to bark, and Sean turned up the volume to be heard. “Deirdre has the interpersonal skills of a rattlesnake! Kevin’s practically raising himself—small wonder Social Services hasn’t yanked him out of here! And you! You won’t even go to the damned doctor. You’re just as happy to lose your mind and leave me with the whole freaking mess!” He was yelling now, and the dog’s barking ramped up in response.

“I’ve had enough of your childish vitriol,” Aunt Vivvy said, and turned to walk out. She stumbled against the door and nearly fell. Sean caught her elbow. “Leave me be!” she commanded. But raising her voice—something she almost never did—seemed to increase her instability, and Sean didn’t dare let her go.

“Just sit down on the couch,” he said as he followed her through the living room. But she was determined to go up the stairs, and he wasn’t about to release her so she could fall and break a hip. The dog lunged, nipping at Sean’s calves as he buttressed his aunt’s ascent.

“Stop!” yelled Sean. “Make her stop!”

“Make her stop yourself,” she muttered at him. “You’re her master now.”

Aunt Vivvy pulled away from him at the top landing, and shuffled down the hallway to her room. The dog continued to nip and bark. Sean grabbed her by the collar and dragged her toward Kevin’s room, bracing all his weight against her as her paws slid across the oak floorboards. With one final heave he got her into the room and shut her in.

His back . . . that unhitching feeling, as if the pieces of his spine were railway cars that had suddenly become uncoupled . . . The ibuprofen was in the kitchen, and he clutched the banister as he made his way down the stairs, every movement stabbing at him.

He made it to the foyer, but lay down for a moment in hopes the spasm would subside. Prostrate on the floor, listening to the dog bark rabidly from Kevin’s room, back throbbing like hammer blows, he felt despondence fill his head like acrid smoke.

This is hopeless,
he thought.

If there had been a wound to suture or a med bag to hang, it would’ve been so much simpler. But here in this house, with this family, there wasn’t even a diagnosis. Just a seemingly unending stream of ever-worsening symptoms. And the impact of his efforts seemed negligible. At what point did you stop fighting and let the situation run its course?

Lying there in the fog of pain, he heard a knock on the front door. He didn’t answer. Another knock, slightly louder. He waited for the person to give up.
For the love of God,
he thought,
just go away.

The knob turned, and the door opened slowly. In his peripheral vision, Sean could see the outline of a face peeking in. “Hello?” it called. “Sean?” Then the voice was coming toward him. “What happened?”

Rebecca’s face came into view, and he started to laugh a little—not at her, but at the absurdity of the picture before her: him lying in the middle of the floor with the damned dog going mental upstairs. He shook his head, unsure of where to start. Aunt Vivvy and her hellhound? Deirdre and the computer? His trip to Castle Island? Breakfast with his father?

She stood there for a moment waiting. When no explanation appeared forthcoming, she came down next to him, lay on her side, and propped her head against her hand. “Got your note,” she said. And she smiled.

He could’ve kissed her. And he might have actually done it, if he could’ve turned toward her without what felt like shards of glass twisting further into his back. A confusing rush of urges that ranged from deeply emotional to highly sexual to desperately painful ran through him. But none of that seemed to matter. She was here. Somehow it would be okay.

“Should I let the dog out?” she asked.

“Hell no.”

“Tough day?”

“Nah,” he said, grimacing. “What makes you say that?”

She grinned appreciatively and said, “Okay, tell me.”

So he gave her all of it. She didn’t say much, just the occasional “Wow,” or “Oh, how sad.” He watched her intently as he talked, trying to gauge her reaction as her eyes squinted in concentration, or her brows went up in surprise, or her lips tightened in commiseration.

“So,” he said. “How’s that for a day.”

“That’s some day,” she nodded.

“Not much of an opinion.” He’d expected a bigger reaction.

“Well . . . I guess I don’t really have an opinion. I’m just sorry everything has to be so difficult and complicated.”

He nodded. “To put it mildly.”

“Um . . . no . . .”

“What, you think this stuff is
normal
?”

“Not normal, exactly.” She put her hand on his shoulder and started to pulse her fingers against the edges of his pain. “But Sean, you have to realize—this is life. This is how most people our age live: with the younger and older generations relying on them, and needing things, and driving them crazy sometimes. You and I don’t really have that—or you didn’t until now. But see,
that’s
what’s unusual. Not the other stuff.”

Her fingers made their way up to his neck, and he could feel his muscles throbbing against them, as if to defy their peaceful mission.
Maybe all this crap is normal for other people,
he thought,
but I built my life differently. I didn’t get the bennies of marriage and kids and a comfortable bed and regular sex, so how come I still have to pay the price?

Rebecca got up and asked him where the ibuprofen was. She returned with the tablets and a glass of water. He turned over, slowly, gingerly, and she worked on him while the medication took effect. Soon he was feeling semifunctional again.

“How come you got off work so early?” he asked.

“One client canceled and Missy’s schedule was open for the last one, and she said she needed the money, so I gave him to her.”

Sean smiled. “Poor slob.”

“Hey, she’s actually a pretty good massage therapist,” said Rebecca, “when she’s not hormonal, or pissed at her boyfriend, or the moon’s not full . . .”

“It’s funny to think that if she’d been having a good day two months ago, when I first came in, I never would’ve found you.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, and Sean got nervous. Maybe she was getting sick of all his problems and complaints. Maybe
he’d
become a complication for
her
. . . .

“Yeah,” she said finally. “We’re lucky she’s such a nut, huh?”

Crazy lucky
, he found himself thinking. But he didn’t say it out loud.

CHAPTER 37

S
ean was anxious to see the e-mail from Kevin’s teacher, so they went to Rebecca’s house. First he released the dog from solitary confinement and let her outside to do her business. The hair was up on the back of her neck until she got into the yard.

“That dog does not like you,” said Rebecca.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a cross between Ted Bundy and Michael Vick.”

“Have you been walking her?”

“Oh, God,” he said. “I completely forgot.”

“Sean, you promised Kevin.”

“I know! It’s just been so crazy around here.”

“We could take her now.”

“With the mood she’s in and the state of my back, one good yank on the leash, and she’d put me in traction.” Rebecca gave him a look. “I’ll walk her tomorrow,” he said. “I swear.”

As they drove in her car, she said, “So I had kind of an unusual thing happen yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“I have an elderly client that I see in her home. She’s an artist—kind of funky for her age. Unfortunately, she doesn’t get around very well anymore. Anyway, her house is gorgeous. It’s decorated with this really beautiful furniture. Lots of natural wood and warm colors. Just the kind of stuff I would buy if I had the money . . . and a house to decorate.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s lovely.” Rebecca pulled into her driveway and turned the motor off. “And now she’s moving into an assisted living condo with much less room.”

“And you want to buy her furniture?”

“No.” She looked at Sean. “She wants to give it to me.”

“Great! When does the moving van get here?”

“I can’t
take
it,” she said, annoyed. “You know there isn’t an inch of space left in my house for more furniture. And I’d feel bad, like I was taking advantage of a sweet old lady.”

“Why does she want to give it to you in the first place?” said Sean. Then he held up a hand. “No, let me guess. First, you don’t charge her extra for the house call.” Rebecca made a no-big-deal face. “And second, you listen to her and sympathize and make her feel like she’s sixty again. Am I right?”