Meghan smiles at Katie while bending the shank of her shoe, forcing it toe to heel, working it over and over. The shoe crunches audibly as she does this, its stiff architecture breaking in, softening. It amazes Katie that these shoes will be worn only once. All this sewing and cutting and bending to get them supple and quiet and perfectly fitted for Meghan’s feet, and after tonight, the shoes will be considered “dead.” Meghan’s feet are so strong, the integrity of the ballet shoe will be ruined after a single performance, sometimes even after a single act. They’d actually be dangerous to wear a second time.
There seems to be a goading quality in Meghan’s stretched-out smile, the repetitive crunching of the shoe, the baited silence. Meghan wiggles her blistered, pretty toes.
“I don’t interrogate you about who you’re seeing,” says Katie.
“I’m not seeing anyone.”
Meghan says this as if not seeing anyone is the right thing to do, given their circumstances, which of course implies that Katie is doing the wrong thing, recklessly having a boyfriend when she might have HD.
“Well, I don’t make fun of you for not having a boyfriend.”
“I’m not making fun of you. Jeez, you’re so sensitive. I just want to know what’s going on with you.”
“Well, now you know.”
“Am I ever going to meet secret, invisible Mr. Martin?”
Katie shrugs.
“You could bring him tonight.”
“No thanks.”
“What? Are we not good enough for some fancy Toonie?”
“You know what, Meg?”
“Oh, relax.”
“Whatever.”
Meghan turns her attention to the second shoe. She lays two ribbons and a short band of wide elastic on her thigh, cuts a length of thread, and begins stabbing one end at the eye of a needle. It won’t find the hole. She stabs and stabs, but the tip of the thread still slips past the eye. Her hands begin to shake. Meghan places the needle and thread down on the floor in front of her, clenches her hands into fists, rolls her shoulders up, down, and back, and then looks up at Katie. Meghan’s forehead is beaded with sweat. The room is freezing cold.
“Listen, I need you to do me a favor,” says Meghan.
Katie raises her eyebrows and waits, silently incensed that Meghan has the nerve to ask her for anything right now.
“Will you watch me tonight, like really watch me, for, you know, anything weird? Even something really small and subtle.”
“Meg, you’re fine.”
“I know, but I’m feeling really spooked,” Meghan says, nodding to the sewing needle and unattached thread on the floor.
“You just did the other shoe no problem. I watched you. And I couldn’t thread that tiny thing. Just try again.”
“But you see how Dad doesn’t know half the time that he’s even moving at all and he’s like all over the place?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so scared of that.”
“I am, too. You don’t have HD, Meg.”
“I know, but now JJ—”
“Even if we’re HD positive, we wouldn’t be symptomatic yet,” says Katie, trying to convince herself as much as her sister.
“Right. Probably not. I know. But still, I can’t stop worrying about it being there, that it’s starting and I don’t even know it. Like having spinach in your teeth and everyone is too polite to say anything. I want you to say something.”
“Okay.”
“A tremor, any movement that looks even slightly off, I want you to tell me.”
“Okay.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“I think I have to go see that genetic counselor.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The stress of not knowing is making me crazy.”
Katie nods.
“Yeah, but what if you’re HD positive?” asks Katie. “Won’t that just make you crazier?”
“At first I thought so, but now I dunno. I think knowing, either way, would give me some measure of control. Right now, the whole thing feels so completely out of control I can’t stand it.”
“Yeah, you’re kind of a control freak.”
“I get it from Dad.”
As soon as she says this, the blood drains from Meghan’s face. Katie feels it, too, the cold terror in wondering what else they each inherited from their father.
“What about you? You think you’ll get tested?” asks Meghan.
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“Have you told Felix about all this?”
“No.”
“I don’t blame you. I can’t imagine involving someone else in this shit. Poor JJ and Colleen.”
“I can’t believe—”
“You know what? I can’t even talk about this right now or I’ll cry. I have to get ready.”
“Fine. You brought it up.”
But Katie would like to talk about it. She’d like to talk about JJ being HD positive, how she thinks of him differently now, as if he’s someone who’s already sick or damaged or even contagious, how she’s kind of afraid of him, which is ridiculous, but she can’t help it. She’d like to talk about Colleen and her pregnancy and how worried Katie is about the baby, that she can’t believe they decided to keep it without having the amnio to find out whether it has the mutation. She’d like to talk about how scared she is of being HD positive, too, that she imagines HD like a seed buried deep inside her, already beginning to germinate, the first buds growing on a creeping vine, spreading throughout her entire body.
She’d like to talk about HD with Meghan, before Meghan’s call time tosses her out of this small, chilly living room. But Meghan has returned to the needle and thread, and Katie wouldn’t dare interrupt her. As it’s always been, Meghan is the big sister, the driver of any conversation
between them, and Katie’s the little sister, still not old enough to touch the wheel.
Meghan threads the needle this time on the second try. She exhales loudly. Katie watches as she stitches a pink ribbon to the inside of the arch. Still seated in a straddle split, Meghan’s toes on her right foot point and flex, point and flex, up and down, up and down, while she sews. Katie’s sure she’s doing this on purpose, that she’s seen Meghan do this sort of seated exercise many times before, but what if she’s not? If it’s an exercise, why isn’t she giving her left foot a turn? What if moving her right foot right now isn’t volitional, and she’s not aware of it? What if it’s HD? It’s not. It can’t be.
Meghan’s foot continues to point and flex, and Katie stares in stupefied silence. Just two minutes ago, Katie promised to tell her if she saw anything suspicious. She’d have no problem pointing out spinach stuck between her sister’s teeth, but she can’t bring herself to mention the possibility of HD in Meghan’s foot. Is this how it’s going to go for all of them? She imagines Sunday suppers, everyone grimacing and fidgeting, bumping into each other and knocking things over, five giant pink elephants squeezed into that tiny kitchen and no one saying one word about it.
Meghan lights the end of the ribbon, and her foot stops. Katie holds her breath, waiting for Meghan’s foot to start up again, but it remains still. She watches Meghan go through the rest of the process without any questionable movements, disruption, or comment.
“What time is it?” Meghan asks, inspecting her shoes, satisfied with her efforts.
Katie checks her phone. “Three twenty.”
“Okay, I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Good lu—”
“Don’t.”
“Sorry. Merde.”
“Thanks.”
Meghan gathers the needle, thread, scissors, and lighter, and off she goes. Merde. And they all think yoga is weird. Yogis would say Namaste, which means I bow to the divine in you. Actors would say Break a leg, which Katie agrees would be a particularly inappropriate wish for dancers. And Katie gets that saying Good luck is tempting fate. This is why she knocks on wood all the time. But merde makes no sense. Merde is French for shit.
Katie sits alone in the cold living room, aimlessly scrolling through her Facebook newsfeed on her phone. Andrea posted a video of Krishna Das chanting in India. Katie taps PLAY, and although her eyes stay focused on the screen, what she’s really seeing is her sister’s foot pointing, flexing, pointing, flexing, pointing, flexing. The green tea in her stomach turns, becoming a pool of hot sewage.
Merde.
FELIX OPENS THE door to his apartment wearing a Yankees T-shirt, white linen shorts, and a pleased smile of surprise.
“Hey, you’re early. It’s only seven thirty. What happened to your private?”
“She canceled last minute,” says Katie.
“I hope you charged her anyway.”
“Nah, it’s okay.”
“Come on in.”