Page 2 of Crazy for You
The moonlight filtered in through the large transom window in the family room, highlighting a path for me as I headed into the kitchen.
As my feet slapped on the tiled floor, I heard faint crying. I held my breath as I sharpened my hearing.
The deep-baritone sob grew louder.
Dad?The last time Dad had shed tears was at Mom’s funeral.
I hurried down the short hall to his room. The closer I got, the louder his cry became.
My heart split in half, and I fought hard not to let my own tears fall. Seeing Dad sob twisted my insides like a violent storm.
Our therapist had said that time would help ease the grief, which was total bull crap. Anytime I thought of Mom, that empty, hollow feeling came back as strongly as the day the social worker had called to tell us that Mom had died on the way to the hospital.
I knocked softly. “Dad?” Then I opened the door and faltered.
Dad was on the floor with his back against his dresser as though he’d fallen and couldn’t get up.
I ran like a sprinter, hoping my legs wouldn’t give out. “What is it? Are you having a heart attack? A stroke?” I dropped to my knees.
He shook his head, blinking several times, his blue eyes clouded with tears. “Why are you up? You have school in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about me. What is it?” I felt his carotid artery as if I knew what I was doing.
His fingers wound around my wrists. “I’m fine.”
“You’re crying. So you’re not fine.”
He patted a spot next to him. “Sit with me.”
Once I did, I grabbed his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Dad was my anchor, my saint, my world, and if he died, I would die a thousand deaths. I rested my head on his shoulder. “Are you thinking of Mom?”
“No, sweetheart.” He took a huge breath. “I need to tell you something.”
I stiffened at the despair weaving through his voice. I knew that what he was about to tell me was bad, not only by his tone, but also by how hard he was squeezing my hand.
“Do you remember what Lou Gehrig died of?” he asked so softly that I almost didn’t hear him.
I nodded. “He lost the ability to control his muscles.” Dad and I were big baseball fans. In the South, we rooted for the Atlanta Braves. Truth was, I didn’t like them that much. My team was the Chicago Cubs.
“Well,” he whispered.
I shook my head violently. “No. No. No. Please don’t tell me that’s what you have.” I knew a little bit about the disease, mainly from watchingThe Big Bang Theory.Sheldon was a gigantic fan of Stephen Hawking, who’d lived with ALS for many years, which was very rare. Lou Gehrig had died within two years of diagnosis.
Dad shuddered. “Skye, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to believe it myself.” Tears streamed down his unshaven face.
“Did a doctor diagnose you already?” I knew he’d had his yearly physical last week.
He cried. “I have some very revealing symptoms. Remember a few weeks ago when you asked if I’d been drinking because I was slurring my speech? Well, I’m finding it’s hard to say certain words. And one of the guys asked me the other day if I was drunk when we walked off the golf course.”
In my head, I replayed what he’d just said, trying to detect any sort of stumbling in his speech. “But you’re not slurring now.”
“True, but it comes and goes.”
“Maybe it’s just stress.” He’d been under a ton with his job at the local chemical plant, and Mom’s death hadn’t helped.
He dragged his fingers through his thinning blond hair. “I wish it were.”
“So the doctor knows this for sure?” I refused to believe it.
