“What’s his name?”
“Felix.”
“Does Felix know about this?”
“No. I don’t want to lay it on him until I know what’s what.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t judge me.”
“No judgment here. Let’s make it more abstract. You want to get married someday?”
“Yeah.”
“Have kids?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, probably.”
“What if you’re HD positive?”
She thinks about JJ and Colleen. She doesn’t know whether she could’ve made the decision they made, whether she would’ve kept the baby. But Katie can find out before becoming pregnant. She could do that in vitro thing where they test the embryos for the mutated HD gene and only implant the embryos that don’t have it. She could have Huntington’s and have babies. It’s not exactly chocolate and peanut butter, but she could make the combination work.
Or not. Felix doesn’t deserve to sign up for a wife who is destined to get this hideous disease. He doesn’t deserve a wife whom he’ll have to take care of—feed her, push her in a wheelchair, change her diapers, bury her—by the time she’s fifty. She thinks of her mom and dad, and she starts picturing their immediate future. She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and clenches her teeth, chasing the images away.
Why should Felix be stuck with that kind of future, knowing it from the get-go? At least her parents have had twenty-five years together without knowing. No guy should have to be saddled with that kind of burden before even getting started.
A realization hits her hard, and an overwhelming urge to cry swells fast within her, filling to the top of her throat. She swallows several times, grinding her molars, holding it down. Maybe being HD positive would be the perfect excuse, irrefutable proof that she’s unlovable.
“I dunno. These questions are all way ahead of where I’m at anyway. You’re not married,” she says, as if accusing him of something. “You planning to?”
“I’d like to someday, yeah,” says Eric.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Okay, so you could get hit by a bus when you’re thirty-five. Dead. Done. You still wanna make plans? You still wanna get married someday?”
Eric nods. “I understand your example, and you’re right. We’re all going to die. And who knows, I might get hit by a bus when I’m thirty-five. The difference is, I’m not sitting in someone’s office, asking a counselor or a doctor or a psychic to tell me approximately when and exactly how I’m going to die.”
Katie thinks of the last ghost in A Christmas Carol, the grim reaper pointing to Scrooge’s future gravestone. She never did read the book for English class like she was supposed to, but she’s watched various versions of the movie on TV every year at Christmastime. Scrooge in his nightgown and nightcap, shaking in his slippers, begging for a different outcome. That scene always scared the living shit out of her, gave her vivid nightmares when she was little. Now the nightmare is real, and the creepy ghost’s name is Eric Clarkson. He’s even wearing a black shirt. All he needs is a hood and sickle.
“I don’t get why I have to answer all these questions. It’s my business what I do with the information and how I’ll live my life. If I say the wrong answer, you gonna tell me I can’t find out?”
“There are no wrong answers. We’re not going to deny you the test. But we want you to understand what you’re getting into and have the tools to deal with it. We feel some responsibility for how you’re going to react.”
She waits. Eric says nothing.
“So what happens now?” she asks.
“If you still want to go ahead and find out, you can come back in two weeks or anytime after that. We’ll talk again, see how all this is sitting with you, and if you still want to know, I’ll walk you to the lab and they’ll draw your blood.”
She swallows.
“And then I’ll know?”
“Then you’ll come back four weeks after that, and I’ll tell you the result of the test.”
She does the math. Six weeks. If she goes through with this, she’ll know whether she’s HD positive or negative by the end of the summer.
“Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”
“No, it has to be here. In fact, we want someone to come with you for support, and not one of your siblings, because your news either way might be too hard on them given that they’re also at risk. I also wouldn’t recommend JJ or your father. Bring your mother or a friend.”
She wouldn’t bring her mother. If the news is bad, her mother would be more of a mess than Katie. She’d end up supporting her mother, not the other way around. The other possibilities are equally unappealing. Felix. Andrea. Another teacher from the studio.
“But no one outside our family knows about this. Can’t I just come alone?”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“But it’s not a rule.”
“No.”
She can’t imagine whom she’d bring, but it’s two appointments from now. Maybe by then she’ll have told Felix. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. Maybe she won’t even go through with this. A lot can happen in six weeks. If she gets to that last appointment, to the day of reckoning, she’ll either figure out whom to bring or come alone. She’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.
Truth or dare, little girl. What’s it going to be?