Page 12 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“Huntington’s disease is progressive. It’s degenerative,” Popeye explains. His eyes meet mine, and although his voice is calm and informative, I can see the fear he’s trying hard to hide written so clearly across his face. He doesn’t want Dad and me to panic. “I will get worse, but slowly and over many years. I will get clumsier. I’ll forget more. My mood swings will intensify. I’ll get more fidgety.” He holds up his hands to show the tremor in them, then offers an embarrassed smile. “Many little things that will make me different from who I used to be.”
“But there’s medication, right? A cure?” I ask, my tone rising with optimism.
Sheri looks down as Popeye says, “No. There is no cure, Mila.”
“How long?” Dad asks. He clears his throat, his dark eyes unfocused, like he’s trying to wrap his head around this news of Popeye’s incurable disease. It hasn’t sunk in; Dad’s voice is level and serious, no trace of emotion, but only because it hasn’t set in yet. “How many years does this progress over?”
“I have late-onset, and my neurologist believes symptoms may have begun appearing nearly ten years ago. They were just very subtle,” Popeye says, “so we didn’t pick up on them. Things will get worse over the next ten years, he thinks. Who knows? I might not even live long enough to find out!” He chuckles, but the sound of it grates and none of us laughs. “Oh, c’mon.”
“That’s not funny,” Sheri says sternly.
“No, I suppose not,” Popeye agrees. He presses his lips together, then reaches across the table to touch Dad’s hand. The affection makes Dad flinch. “There’s something else. I’ve already told Sheri, but Everett, you need to know too. It’s really important that you do.”
Dad doesn’t shake off Popeye’s touch. “What? What do I need to know?”
There’s a heavy pause as we all wait for Popeye to gather his words.
“Huntington’s is genetic. It’s inherited,” he says, his voice cracked with emotion. It’s not fear but guilt that now pools in his eyes as he glances between Dad and Sheri, wishing he could take this all away. “Both you and Sheri have a fifty percent chance of carrying the gene.”
Dad blinks, takes a deep breath, collapses back into his seat. “Fuck,” he says.
A wave of hopelessness sweeps over us, but Popeye is steadfastly reluctant to let it win.
“There are genetic tests,” he reassures Dad. “You can find out—”
“I’m choosing not to,” Sheri interrupts. She shrugs, but there’s terror in her eyes when she exchanges a look with Dad. “I’d rather not know, wouldn’t you?”
Dad recoils from her question and I can tell that he’s nowhere near ready to think about his options yet. “And if we have the gene, can we. . .” He looks at me, then back to Popeye. “Can we pass it down the line again?”
Popeye genuinely looks hurt as he frowns at me, his lower lip trembling, and then nods.
“Oh,” I breathe, my mind racing. Everything comfortable and familiar spins away from me. Not only does this affect Popeye, but it may also affect Dad and Sheri. And if Dad has the gene, then there’s also a fifty percent chance thatImight inherit the disease too. It’s a lottery game.
“This is. . .” Dad says, shaking his head. He takes a sip of his coffee, like he needs the caffeine to zap some energy back into him. “This is heavy. I’m glad you have your diagnosis now, Dad, but. . . damn.”
My throat tightens as I stare at the people around me, my family, with this new and horrible awareness that we have a degenerative illness possibly locked in our genes. Maybe. Or maybe not. None of us knows except Popeye, but I feel so. . . doomed. Already I have resigned us all to a future of pacing the corridors of hospital neurology departments, of watching every innocent act of clumsiness or forgetfulness for signs, of paranoia about our own health.
Feeling depressingly pessimistic, I scoot my chair away from the table and grab what’s left of my iced coffee. “I need some air,” I say, and no one stops me.
Breaking out of Dunkin’, I tilt my head up to the blazing sunshine and run my hand through my hair. Like Dad, I am glad Popeye has answers, but this news is just so much to unpack. Popeye is going to get sicker. He’s going todegenerate.I don’t know what that means for the future or how I’ll handle seeing those changes in him and knowing that there is absolutely nothing anyone can do to help.
Grinding my teeth at our crappy luck of the draw, I cross the parking lot shared with Dunkin’ and a few other businesses. McDonald’s across the lot, a Mexican restaurant, a discount store literally named “Dirt Cheap”. I check my phone. It’s twelve thirty. Why the hell am I dealing with this kind of bombshell on a Sunday lunchtime? I just need to walk, anywhere, even if it means pacing this lot in circles for the next twenty minutes. I need to process this.
What a welcome home to Fairview. Last night sucked. Today sucks.Everythingsucks. Ugh.
As I’m passing the Mexican bar and grill for the third time, trying to hold these feelings of despair at bay, the door swings open and a man stumbles outside into the blinding sunlight. He shields his eyes and staggers past the patio seating, catastrophically unsteady on his feet.
The man whips his denim jacket over one shoulder, sauntering across the parking lot in front of me.
As he draws closer, I gasp.
I recognize that rockstar swagger. The vintage style. The long, unkempt hair.
It’s Jason– Blake’s dad.
6
I deliberate for the longest of moments. I could turn away, pretend I didn’t notice him. But it’s Blake’sdad. And no matter how treacherous the history between Blake and me is, I’d like to believe I’m not the kind of person who wouldn’t help someone in need. When Jason let us stay at his apartment in Memphis two summers ago, he was sober. Blake believed he was sober for good, but the man who has just stumbled off the curb is anything but.
