She’s not good. She’s a big, fat fuckin’ lie is what she is. She’s planning her Huntington’s, rehearsing her final genetic counselor appointment, hearing the words pronouncing her doomed fate. You are HD positive. And she’s practicing her response, strong, icy cold, even cocky. Yeah, I knew it. Then she moves on to imagining the first symptoms, never getting married or having kids, living in a nursing home, dying alone.
Indulging in all this negative storytelling isn’t doing her any good, and she knows it. She has the tools to put a stop to it. If her thoughts can create the fear, her thoughts can eliminate it. But for some sick reason, she chooses to keep it. She’s wallowing in her fear, and it feels good in that bad kind of way, like eating a pan of brownies when she’s on a juice cleanse or sneaking a slice of bacon when she’s vegan.
“So how are you doin’?” asks her dad.
She’s about to throw him her pat reply, her tidy lie. The Good is in her mouth, but suddenly, she can’t stand the taste of it.
“I’m scared, Dad.”
She looks down at her shoes, the balls of her feet resting on the ground, still. She looks over at her dad’s. Heels up, heels down, toe tap.
“I know, honey. I’m scared, too.”
In the past, he would’ve tried to cover over her fear with some quick fix, like slapping a Hello Kitty Band-Aid on a bloody cut. Like most fathers wanting to protect their little girls, he would’ve tried to annihilate it or hide it or negate it, whatever it took for him to feel as if he removed the problem. Don’t be scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Don’t worry. It’ll all work out. He would’ve left her feeling still scared and alone in it. But today, to her complete surprise, he goes there with her.
She scooches over to him, hip to hip, and hugs her arm around him. He wraps his arm around her, too. Being scared together is so much less scary.
“I was thinking about you and Felix,” says her dad. “If you decide you want to move to Portland, you have my blessing. Your mother’s, too.”
“I do?”
“Live your life, sweetheart. No matter what happens, it’s too short. Go do what you want with no regrets, no guilt.”
Her dad has been doing an admirable job of living well with HD, providing a positive example for his children, but this change of heart comes wholly unexpected. She appreciates his blessing, but it’s the heavy black mass inside her, and not her parents’ disapproval, that’s been keeping her from packing her things, refusing her permission to go.
“You keep surprising me, Dad.”
“What, you think you yogis are the only enlightened ones?”
Katie laughs. Her smile lands in his eyes, and there he is, her father. If she looks for it, she can see his love for her in his eyes.
“Are you saying cops are enlightened?” she asks, teasing him.
“Oh yeah. They don’t let us wear blue unless we pass Zen training.”
She laughs again.
“Let’s go over there,” says her dad, nodding toward the footpath.
The path is brick and uneven and windy, and Katie’s spotting her dad with every precarious step, unsure whether she has another Band-Aid should he fall, but they make it to the path’s end without incident. They’re standing before a small fountain, a shallow pool of water in a circle of concrete, a spigot spurting a modest splash of water in the center. Beyond the fountain is the familiar panorama of skyscrapers, Boston’s Government Center and financial district.
“She’s a beautiful city,” says her dad, gazing out at the horizon.
“Yeah,” says Katie, thinking it’s all right, wondering what Portland might look like.
“I have something for you,” says her dad, digging into the front pocket of his pants. He produces a quarter, displaying it in the palm of his hand. “I want you to have this, for good luck.”
He gives the quarter to Katie and then holds her hand inside his for a moment.
“Thanks, Dad.”
She folds her fingers over the quarter and closes her eyes. She imagines the black mass of fear inside her chest, takes the deepest breath she can, filling her lungs to capacity, and then exhales, breathing the black mass through her mouth, releasing it. Then she opens her eyes, winds up, and tosses the quarter into the fountain.
She looks over at her dad. His face is shocked, pale.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” he says.
“What? I made a wish.”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“What did you want me to do with it?”
“I dunno. I didn’t expect you to get rid of it.”
“I made a wish.”
“Good, honey. I hope it comes true.”
“Me, too.”
They stand there a bit longer before finding the car, beneath the warm, sunny sky, scared and hoping together.