JJ hangs his head over his knees and rubs his eyes with his hand.
“I dunno,” he says, his voice hollowed out. “Maybe. No. I dunno.”
“Ma’d have a stroke,” says Patrick.
“I know,” says JJ.
“I’m not even kidding,” says Patrick.
“I know,” says JJ.
“What does Colleen say?” asks Katie.
“She’s a basket case. She doesn’t want to even think about it. She doesn’t want me to get the test.”
“It’s gonna be negative, man,” says Patrick. “When do you find out?”
“A week from Wednesday.”
“Okay. You’re gonna be fine, the baby’s gonna be fine, Ma’s not gonna have a stroke,” says Patrick.
Katie and Meghan nod. Patrick knocks back a few gulps and hands the bottle to JJ.
“Course, the poor thing still might come out lookin’ like you,” says Patrick.
JJ punches Patrick’s shoulder and almost smiles.
“There’s another thing,” says JJ. “The counselor guy talked a little about juvenile HD. You can get this thing full-blown at our age. It’s rare, but when it starts young, it seems to be passed down through the father.”
Meghan goes weepy.
“We’re learning a new routine, and I’m having trouble with it. I keep messing up the steps,” Meghan blurts out as if confessing. “That’s never happened before. Never. And I keep falling off pointe.”
“You’re just stressed,” says Katie.
“What if I have it now?”
“You don’t.”
“Are you guys noticing anything?”
“No,” says Patrick.
“No, nothing,” says JJ.
“Promise?”
“Honest to God,” says Katie.
“Don’t worry, Meg. If anyone’s getting juvi HD, it’s me, right?” says Patrick.
“You don’t have juvi HD, you’re just an asshole,” says JJ.
“You could get the test and find out for sure,” says Katie to Meghan.
Meghan shakes her head. “I don’t think I can. I would probably jump off the Tobin.”
“Look at Dad,” says JJ. “He’s forty-four, and he’s doing okay. If you take the test, find out you don’t have it, then you don’t have to worry anymore. You’re free. If you have it, then okay. It is what it is. You worry about it in ten, fifteen years. They might have a cure for this thing in ten years, right?”
Meghan nods. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Katie, what about you?” asks Patrick.
She sighs. Does she want to know? She does and she doesn’t. Of course, finding out she’s negative would be an awesome relief. But deep down, she’s pretty sure she has this thing. Yet without absolute, medical proof, she can still hope that she doesn’t. Knowing for certain that she’s positive would probably devastate her poor mom and dad. She’d probably have to break up with Felix. She glances over at the green girders of the Tobin.
Maybe she’ll just keep living “at risk.” Put that on your Facebook status. But who doesn’t live a life at risk? Her life is full of risk every day. Risk of failure if she opens her own studio, risk of failure if she doesn’t, risk of never fitting in if she moves to a place where everyone isn’t Irish Catholic, risk of not being loved by Felix, risk of not being loved by anyone, risk of burning in the sun, risk of being struck by lightning, risk of having HD. Every breath is a risk.
Or maybe she’ll go to the first two appointments, get those done and out of the way. Then if she decides she really wants to know, she can show up and find out the results of the test. A freakin’ test.
The idea of taking the genetic test itself, regardless of the outcome, makes her skin go cool and clammy. Katie hates tests. She’s never performed well on them. In high school, she’d study and care and even know the material cold, but then she’d panic when faced with all those typed and numbered questions. She’s a big-time choker.
The last exam of her senior year, a math test, she remembers celebrating after handing her completed paper over to her teacher, giddy and bragging that this would be the last test she’d ever have to take. Like the O’Briens, God has a sick sense of humor.
That last math test was on statistics. She got a C.
“I dunno,” she says. “Maybe.”