Someone Else's Life (27 page)

Rosie

I watch helplessly through the bedroom window as Andy walks away down the back steps, out of my life.

Suddenly Holly rushes up past him and he looks back after her for a second, as if undecided, before continuing on down. He walks up to Josh, starts to say something, then Josh turns and punches Andy hard round the face. I gasp. Josh’s eyes blaze with tears as he turns and stalks away, hurling the daisies scattering to the ground.

Andy just stands there for a moment, staring after Josh, holding his jaw, and every part of me wants to run to him, comfort him—but then he looks up at me, scowls, and disappears round the corner.

I close my eyes, a wave of loneliness washing over me as I clasp the beautiful birthstone necklace he gave me, hanging heavily next to my heart.

He’s gone. This time he’s really gone
.

And it’s all my fault
.

My throat dry and sore, I slump down to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Andy’s wrong, I
do
have a right to be here. Jack
wants
me here—and Kitty. They’re my
parents
, they want me—I
have
to stay.

I’m about to run the tap when I hear Megan’s voice, raised in anger.

“Is this what it’s all been about, Jack? All these years? Finding Kitty?” she yells.

I freeze, my eyes drawn to the closed living room door.

“Is this why you came to the States? Jeez, Jack, is that why you
married
me, so you’d be able to
stay
?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jack’s voice is low, defensive.

I put the empty glass down carefully.

“Is it ridiculous?” Megan asks, her voice shrill, so unlike the happy-go-lucky Megan I’ve gotten to know these past few days.

“Then how come you never mentioned her, huh, Jack?” she demands. “How come you gave me the same spiel you gave Holly about her mom being dead—when all along you’ve been sending her letters? All through our marriage!”

Despite myself I wander into the hallway, drawn like a moth to the flame of destruction.

“It’s not like that! I was only sending her photos of her daughter—of Holly!”

Megan laughs bitterly. “Her
daughter
, is she? No matter that she’d never laid eyes on her mother till this morning—that she thought she was dead? No matter that I’m your
wife
—for all intents and purposes Holly’s mom too—but you didn’t think to mention that her
real
mother was still kicking around somewhere, not so far away—on our television every week, for Christ’s sake—
being sent regular updates?
That she might just turn up at our house one day and stand there in our kitchen letting me
gush
about her
stupid show
?” She snatches a ragged breath. “Do you have any idea how
humiliated
I feel, Jack? How
betrayed
?”

“Megan …” Jack sighs. “Yes, I sent her letters, okay—she’s Holly’s mother, I wanted to give her a chance to know her. But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want anything to do with me, or Holly. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again!”

“And now you have.”

“Yes, now I have.”

There’s a long pause, then Megan’s voice, clear and controlled. “Are you still in love with her, Jack?”

I hold my breath, the silence so long I’m convinced I’ve missed his answer. Then finally it comes, quiet, almost a sigh.

“Don’t be stupid. I love you, Megan.”

Megan sighs. “You know what?” she says, her voice bright with tears. “I think I need some air. Can you pick up Ben? You know, your second child, born of your second choice?”

“Megan—”

I retreat quickly to the stairs as the door flies open and she storms through the hallway and out the kitchen door, Jack in pursuit, but she’s too fast for him. I hear her quickly pattering down the steps outside as Jack watches her through the kitchen window, his head bowed over the sink. Suddenly he punches it hard, the dirty cutlery clattering in the bowl, my empty glass shattering on the floor.

I pad slowly, softly, back up the stairs to my room, careful of every footstep on the soft carpet. But still the trail of destruction continues.

How?
I think. How did this happen? Just half an hour ago I raced into this house, on top of the world, buzzing with excitement, desperate to tell Andy about Kitty, thrilled that everything was somehow, amazingly, falling into place …

But actually everything was falling apart. I twirl my necklace miserably. Andy’s right. I caused this. I caused this whole mess. And now he’s gone. I just let him go. Again.

Well, not this time. I pull out my mobile and punch in his number, a thousand apologies poised on my lips. But he doesn’t pick up. I sigh. I don’t blame him.

“Andy, I’m so sorry,” I tell his voice mail. “You were right. I’ve screwed everything up. Sarah changed everything when she swapped me with Holly and, whether she was right or wrong, I should’ve had the sense to just live with it. To get on with my own life and make the most of it. With you. I love you, Andy. I miss you.” I sigh, clutching my birthstone tightly. “Please call me.”

I click off and stare at the phone, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.

I curl up on the bed, my head throbbing in my arms, loneliness descending around me like a cold fog.

What have I done?

Holly

I dive into the pool, the cool rush of water swallowing me whole as I swim for all I’m worth, slicing through the water, barely time to snatch a breath as I propel myself forward, one length and then another, kicking faster, pulling the water past me in swift powerful strokes. I push myself harder and harder, until suddenly I break the surface, gasping for air, adrenaline still surging madly in my veins.

It’s no good, I realize, throwing my head back and rubbing the chlorine from my eyes. I used to be able to escape anything by swimming, to lose myself in the water. But not now. Not this time.

I take a deep breath and sink below the surface, the world dissolving instantly, all sounds of the pool, of people, of life outside, fading as my hair swirls around me like a mermaid’s. Down here, everything’s in slow motion, the sounds muted, the blue water and the lights rippling above, so peaceful …

Is this what it’s like for you, baby?
I think.
Floating in there, so peaceful and quiet? So safe?

It seems impossible that only a week ago I went to the clinic—it’s been the longest week of my life. How is it that I’ve never noticed how slow a second is, how the hours stretch endlessly through the morning, the long afternoon, into the eternal black night. Day after endless day. But finally it’s almost here. Tomorrow is my appointment. Just one more sleep. One more endless night. Then decision time.

Think about it
, Charlotte said. I’ve done nothing but.

What if
 … What if it’s negative? That’s easy. Hurray, we’re safe. My life can go back to normal—ish—and I can start trying to deal with my pregnancy like any other teenager.

What if
 … What if it’s positive? A shiver runs down my spine. Then I know what to expect. I’ve read enough now, watched enough heartbreaking videos online. I know exactly what’s going to happen to me. What might happen to my baby.

My eyes sting from the chlorine and my lungs begin to burn as I watch the air bubbles float silently to the surface.

Would I treat my child any differently, knowing? Knowing his or her future? Knowing mine? Will people treat me differently, judge me, make assumptions if I’m positive? If I tell them …

Charlotte said that I should consider applying for benefits like long-term-care insurance now, before I get tested, because if I’m positive it’ll be more difficult—impossible, even. It could affect my employment, my life insurance, my
baby’s
insurance … unless I can find five hundred dollars to pay for the test anonymously.

Though the answer to that one’s offered itself on a plate, I think bitterly, remembering Kitty’s letter—the first ever—that arrived this morning. After
eighteen years, now
she suddenly writes to me, apologizing for missing my entire childhood, offering me money—ten thousand dollars—as back payment for all the birthdays and Christmases she’s missed.

Yeah, like
that
makes up for a lifetime of abandonment.

My blood boils in my temples.

I don’t need her, don’t need anything from her. Ever. She can stick her freaking money. She can’t
buy
my forgiveness—not after what she did. I’ll find another way. Somehow.

I close my eyes and float like a starfish to the surface, my lungs exploding with the burst of oxygen, tears brimming my eyes as I surrender to the water, to fate.

I always thought I’d like to see the future, what life had in store for me. What I didn’t realize was that some things are set in stone. I’m not like Ebenezer Scrooge, who can see the misery in his future and change it. This is DNA. It’s unchangeable. There’s no cure. If you’ve got the mutated gene you’ll definitely develop Huntington’s. If you don’t, then you’re free. Fifty-fifty. All or nothing. The toss of a coin.

If only it were that easy.

Charlotte’s given me an information packet—testimonials from other people who were at risk. Huntington’s is not the end of the world, she says; lots of people lead fulfilled, happy lives, even knowing they’re positive. Scientists and athletes and academics—brilliant people who might not have achieved what they did if people had treated them differently. If their horizons had been fenced in. Thirty to forty years is a long time, they say. You can either live while you can, or treat it like a prolonged death sentence, overshadowed by the future.

I know it’s meant to be comforting—inspiring, even—but I’m pregnant, there’s another life at stake here. I know Charlotte says I can abort at up to twenty weeks, but I honestly don’t think I could bear it. My baby already seems so much a part of me that I need to decide before then. Before I’m showing. Before everyone has to know. When I might still be able to try to pretend that none of this ever happened.

Tell people
, Charlotte had said. But how can I? Melissa keeps calling and coming around, but I can’t face her, can’t talk to her. How can I tell her why Josh and I broke up without telling her about Huntington’s? How can I tell her about Huntington’s without telling her about the baby—her
brother’s
baby—Melissa’s niece or nephew—while Josh doesn’t even know I’m pregnant?

While I’m still considering abortion
.

I can’t. I can’t tell anyone. Even Dad. As much as I’ve tried, as much as I want to tell him … there’s just too much. I can’t spill one drop without the rest coming pouring out in an endless flood, and I’m afraid I’ll drown in it. I’m afraid we all will. I squeeze my eyes shut, giddy in this endless circle, fumbling around desperately for the way out. There is no way out, I realize, no Get Out of Jail Free card, only a choice to stay in the dark or to know where I’m headed.

Where
we’re
headed. It’s not just me anymore. There’s my baby. Josh’s baby.

Josh
. God, Josh. He sat outside my room all night, begging me to talk to him, then left me a letter saying that he understands I need some space, some time to deal with everything, but that he’s there, ready, waiting for me whenever I need him. That he loves me …

My eyes sting.

I made the right decision, ending it with Josh, I know I did. I’m saving him, just like I’d be saving this baby. From a life of misery—of endless heartache.

It was the right decision—the hardest decision of my life.

So far.

With a rush I turn and heave myself onto the side of the pool, shivering in the sudden cold, the harsh lights, the echoing noise of the real world.

I grab my towel and hug it around me, reaching into my purse for my notebook, and pull out the photo inside. To my surprise, two pictures slide to the floor—the scan image and Rosie’s photo of Trudie, her chestnut hair gleaming in the sun, so like mine.

My heart twists. How did Trudie do it? How did she cope, knowing that her child, her little girl, was watching her deteriorate, watching her die,
knowing
she might develop HD herself one day? I brush my finger gently across the photo, across the kink in her ear, noticing for the first time her finger curled in her hair. I untwirl mine self-consciously, a funny shiver tingling down my spine.
She did that too
.

There are so many things I don’t know—so many questions I’d ask her. Would she have done things differently if she’d known? Would she have taken the test?
Would she have had an abortion?

My eyes flick to the scan picture, my heart twisting painfully as my fingers trace the tiny form.

The only reason to take a prenatal HD test is if you’re considering terminating your pregnancy …

Memories of the clinic rush back at me.
Manual Vacuum Aspiration
 … I shiver.

What if I couldn’t? What if I couldn’t face it, if I changed my mind? We’ll always know what’s in the crystal ball, I’ll have stolen the child’s choice and he or she will get a live-action preview when I start having symptoms.

But if I go ahead with an abortion … My chest hurts. I’ll be saving my baby a future of misery, a preordained destiny of suffering … A woman in the news even killed her sons because of what HD was doing to them, thought they’d be better off dead …

But I’d be robbing my child of thirty to forty years of healthy life …

Which is the right choice? And who am I to decide what’s best—a life destined for suffering … or no life at all?

Maybe I should just go ahead with an abortion anyway; then I wouldn’t have to decide about testing for myself for another ten, twenty years—no pressure, no rush. My decision. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done to start with, saved all this misery and heartache and stress. I never wanted to be pregnant, after all—I should sue the stupid condom company—and now suddenly here I am, forced to make all these life-and-death decisions.

And Kitty left her baby, after all—maybe teens just aren’t meant to be parents.

I stroke my stomach. But if it’s negative, if I don’t have Huntington’s …

I close my eyes, my head spinning in endless circles as I pull on my clothes and head home.

Still holding my breath.

Still waiting to surface.