Page 11 of The Making of Mila and Blake
I sip my iced coffee, releasing an “ahhh” of satisfaction as the taste of hazelnut cools my mouth. So refreshing, and definitely needed on a Sunday. Popeye raises his donut, his shaky fingers sticky from the glaze, and takes a bite. Crumbs line his lips and I laugh out loud, almost choking on an ice cube.
“Here,” Dad says, offering some napkins.
Sheri sinks into her chair, hugging her hands around her coffee and closing her eyes. Honestly, I commend her for pulling herself together enough to attend church.
While Popeye scarfs the rest of his donut, I notice a woman and a small child at the counter. The woman surreptitiously peeks over her shoulder more than is necessary, and I know then that she has clocked Dad. She fetches her drink and then guides her son toward us.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says nervously, “but I’m such a big fan of yours. Would you mind if we grab a photo with you?”
They always apologize for interrupting, yet they do it anyway. Popeye scoffs slightly and continues enjoying his donut, disinterested, and Sheri sits forward and kindly takes the cell phone the woman is holding out.
Dad sits back in his chair and smiles up at the blushing mom and her none-the-wiser son. “Thank you. Sure,” he says in his best movie star tone. It’s a voice that’s smooth and husky, polite and friendly, even when I know he wishes he could just be left alone. But he isn’t allowed to be a jerk. He has to appreciate his fans. “Hey, champ. How’s it going?”
The son, no more than five years old and who definitelyhasn’t seen any of Dad’s movies, tucks himself in behind his mom’s hip. The woman bends down, leaning over Dad’s shoulder, and then gestures for me to join the picture too.
And ofcourseI have to be wearing a baggy flannel shirt and not a smidge of makeup. This photo will end up on Facebook for sure. I pull one of Dad’s moves and knock my sunglasses down over my eyes, then lean in close to him while Sheri snaps us all.
“Thank you so much!” the woman says breathlessly, retrieving her phone, hands shaking. “I hope you enjoy your stay here, Everett, and I really hope you’ll return to acting soon.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Dad says with a gentle laugh, but he knows that will never happen. He has repeatedly claimed to have given up acting for good. Still, it doesn’t stop the fans from dreaming.
We sit silently until the woman leaves the store, and then Popeye grumbles, “How do youlive, Everett? You can’t go anywhere. It’s a Sunday! Don’t people have enough respect to leave you alone?”
“I wouldn’t be where I am without them,” Dad replies defensively. The fansdoannoy him sometimes, of course they do, but he iseternally grateful for their support. “If two seconds of my day will make someone’s week, then who am I to say no to a photograph?”
Besides, things aren’t as intense as they used to be. Dad’s low profile means the paparazzi don’t care enough to travel out to Fairview anymore, so he can visit home without the ranch being surrounded. He can exist relatively peacefully here, except for the occasional photograph request. That’s fine by him.
I push my sunglasses into my hair and try not to snicker at Sheri’s deep breathing. She is fighting so hard not to throw up that perhaps she should have just stayed at the ranch. Popeye quietly finishes his donut, wipes his hands on a napkin, then sets it neatly down on the table.
He leans back in his plastic chair with a sigh of annoyance as he struggles to get comfortable. His focus moves from Dad to me, his glass eye shining beneath the stark fluorescent lighting. “There’s something I need to tell you both.”
The change in his tone and demeanor immediately shifts the atmosphere at our small table. I straighten up, my grip tightening around my coffee, and Sheri’s eyes ping open as though Popeye’s announcement has sucked any lingering alcohol straight out of her bloodstream.
“Dad, are you sure?” she asks, features twisting with deep concern. “Here?”
Popeye dismissively waves his hand at her, his teeth gritted with determination. “I’ve got this, Sheri. It needs to be said.”
Dad sits forward in his chair and interlocks his hands on the table. His expression is serious. “What, Dad? What needs to be said?”
Sheri purses her lips and now really does look as though she’s going to hurl. She reaches over and places her hand over Popeye’s, which only causes a feeling of dread to settle in my stomach. This can only be bad news, and when it comes to Popeye, bad news is shattering.
“Popeye?” I urge. I’m squeezing my iced coffee so hard, I’m getting freezer burn on the palms of my hands. But I am so rigid, I can’t let go.
Popeye swallows hard, squeezes Sheri’s hand, then studies the neatly folded napkin in front of him. “You know I haven’t been well. All sorts of things,” he begins, and my heart skips out of beat. “The doctors have been running endless tests on me for the past few years now, and you know I’ve never gotten any conclusive answers. I was convinced there was nothing wrong with me and that Sheri was just being dramatic. Us old folks get clumsy as we grow older, you know? We forget things sometimes. But I finally have a diagnosis now, and it’s not just old age.”
“You have a diagnosis?” Dad repeats. “What is it?”
Popeye lifts his gaze and, his voice steady, says, “Huntington’s disease.”
Sheri sucks in a breath and moves her hand to her mouth, eyes squeezed shut again. Dad and I take a moment to process the words suspended in the air around us, all while the coffee machines whirr and customers enter and leave the store. We are in our own bubble, at a complete standstill, yet the rest of the world moves forward.
“Huntington’s disease? What is that?” I manage to ask, breaking the silence.
“A neurological disorder,” Sheri says, and Popeye tuts at her and pushes her hand off his.
“Sheri, please,” he says. “This ismycondition. Let me be the one to share it.”
“Neurological?” I repeat, pushing through the brain fog.Brain.If something is neurological, it affects the brain.
