“But if we have the gene, there’s nothing we can do about it. You just live with knowing you’re going to get sick,” says Meghan.
“That’s right.”
“Does the test tell you when it will happen?” asks Katie.
“No.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” says Patrick.
“How long have you known about this?” asks JJ.
“There’ve been some symptoms for a while, but we didn’t know about Huntington’s for sure until March,” says her dad.
“You’ve known since March?” asks JJ, his jaw clamped and his hands squeezing into fists, as if he’s resisting a sudden, overwhelming urge to break every ceramic frog and angel in the room. “Why are you just telling us this now? It’s friggin’ May!”
“We needed some time to process it ourselves,” says her dad.
“It was hard getting you all together at the same time,” says her mom, defending him.
“That’s bullshit—we all live here,” says JJ, now yelling.
“There’s Meghan’s dance schedule, and either you or your dad are working on Sundays,” says her mom, her voice wobbly, Yaz covered in a heap of damp, crumpled tissues on her lap. “We had to tell all of you, all at once. We couldn’t tell two of you and leave the cat half in the bag.”
“Why is Mom talking about a drunk cat?” asks Patrick.
Katie laughs, knowing it’s inappropriate, but appreciating Patrick for the momentary relief from the tension. But Colleen bursts into tears, hiding her face in her hands.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s going to be okay,” says JJ.
Rather than consoling her, this only escalates her crying, until it can’t be contained inside her hands. Her head suddenly pops up, and it’s Colleen, but it’s not. She looks nothing like the sweet, affable sister-in-law Katie’s known since elementary school. Her eyes are desperate and crazed, and her mouth is open and distorted, as if some kind of Hollywood horror movie special-effects transformation took place within her hands. JJ tries to hug her, but she won’t have it. She’s up from the love seat and out of the living room. The rest of them sit in apprehensive silence, listening to her feet stomp up the stairs. The door to their apartment slams, and Colleen is wailing somewhere overhead.
“What the fuck was that?” asks Patrick.
“She’s scared, you jerk,” says Meghan.
“JJ, we know you two have been trying to start a family,” says her dad. “Even if, God forbid, you carry this thing”—he stops and knocks three times on the wooden side table—“there are medical procedures, pretty common in-vitro stuff, and they can make sure your children never get this.”
This sounds encouraging to Katie, like a real honest-to-God life raft in this roiling sea of shit, but JJ doesn’t seem to want to grab it, as if he’s voluntarily drowning.
“It’s too late, Dad,” JJ finally says. “She’s pregnant. She’s ten weeks. We just heard the heartbeat.”
Shit. Katie’s been expecting her brother to say those words for three years. She’s imagined so many times the delighted screams and hugs, the congratulations and toasts to the health of the first O’Brien grandchild. Her mom, especially, has been waiting on the edge of her seat for this news. The baby already owns a whole wardrobe of adorable yellow and green knitted blankets and booties and the cutest little hats.
Her mom starts sobbing. She crosses herself over and over.
“So it’s too fuckin’ late for a medical miracle,” says JJ.
“You won’t need one,” says her mom, her voice swimming in tears, sounding more devastated than convincing. “You and the baby are going to be fine.”
“Yeah, man. You’ve always been real lucky,” says Patrick. “I’d bet anything you don’t have this. Million-to-one odds.”
“Yeah, JJ. You gotta stay positive,” says Katie. “I’m so happy for you.”
JJ smiles, but he doesn’t mean it.
“I’d better go,” says JJ.
“Tell Colleen I’m sorry,” says her dad, standing.
Her dad walks over to JJ. Their hugs are usually casual, manly slaps on the back, but this one is a real embrace. Her dad and JJ hold on to each other, no space between them, squeezing hard, and Katie starts to cry.
“You’re gonna be okay,” says her dad, finally releasing his oldest child.
“You, too, Dad,” says JJ, wiping his eyes. “We’ll fight it, right?”
“Yeah.”
JJ nods. He’ll be lucky. They’ll all be lucky. Or they’ll fight it. Katie scans the open page of her booklet. But how? How can they fight something that can’t be prevented or cured or even treated? There are no medical miracles for this disease. She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes. She prays to Jesus on the wall, the ceramic angels on the tables, even Kermit the Frog. If there are no medical miracles, she’ll just have to pray for the good old-fashioned regular kind.