After I hung up on Shannon, I flicked on the television to try to distract myself. Even though I expected a marriage proposal and would accept, it still scared the hell out of me. Each time I forgot my keys or became irrationally pissed about someone leaving their dog’s shit pile on the walking path, I worried. Was I on my way to becoming my mother? Was it just a matter of time before I turned on Keith… on our eventual kids? But I also knew I couldn’t postpone my future forever.
My phone rang again, but this time I didn’t recognize the number. I sat up.
“Hello?”
“Is this Samantha Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
* * *
I’d driven straight over to the hospital, and like the dutiful daughter they all thought me to be, I stood bravely as the sheet was pulled down to reveal my mother’s body still cloaked in a hospital gown. I gasped. She was skeletal. My mother had been dwindling back when I was in high school, but now she was nothing more than skin and bones – dead skin and bones.
Aspiration pneumonia? What did that even mean? It had been fast, I’d been told. By the time she’d called the ambulance to take her to the hospital, she’d only had hours left. And since I was listed as her next of kin, it became my job to sort through the details of her life – and death.
As if identifying my dead mother’s remains and dealing with her death weren’t enough, the real kick in the gut came when her doctor pulled me aside to tell me the shocking truth. My mother’s mental illness wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill schizophrenia or manic-depressive disorder. Apparently, she’d been suffering from a progressive brain condition known as Huntington’s disease.
I listened in horror as he described Huntington’s as an inherited disorder that resulted in the death of brain cells. There was no cure. In its earliest stages, Huntington’s disease manifested with jerky movements, a lack of coordination, and severe behavioral disorders. And, although symptoms of Huntington's disease most commonly became noticeable in one’s thirties or forties, they could begin as young as infancy. Everything began falling into place. Sullivan’s severe lack of coordination; his mood swings. Had he carried the gene? And what about my occasional clumsiness? Did I?
As I sat there and listened to the doctor explain the disease, I could feel the four walls closing in on me. It was a death sentence.Ihad a death sentence. At twenty-eight-years-old, I was fast approaching the age of no return. How had I not known such a horrible disease, one that slowly robbed the sufferer of his or her mind, was being passed down from generation to generation? Why had my relatives hidden this condition? Or had they even known?
In the midst of all the horrifying information settling in, my mind wandered back to Preston’s mother. She really should demand her money back from the investigator she’d hired to gather dirt on me. He’d only provided her with half the truth. If only he’d dug a little deeper, Preston never would have asked me to be his barren plus one.
* * *
Armed with the devastating news, I gathered my mother’s meager belongings and drove to the home I’d shared with her – the place once owned by my grandmother, who’d most likely passed away from the same degenerative disease that had cut a swath across my lineage. With the key I’d found in her bag, I opened the door and, by habit, peeked inside for the all clear.
The house remained largely the same, with one glaring exception – a heavy layering of dust. It was as if my normally perfection-oriented mother hadn’t had the strength in her final days to tidy up, and from the look of her emaciated body, I could certainly see why.
Like a trespasser, I slowly made my way through her house. It wasn’t that I was necessarily looking for something. Perhaps I just needed some sort of closure. But that was not what I found. While the rest of the house was tidy, her bedroom appeared to have been touched by a hurricane. Flashes of red caught my eye. All over the white walls were words, and phrases, and ominous warnings.Die.Never grow old.Be Afraid.Death sentence.
My hands shook as I read the inner ramblings of a diseased mind, and for the first time, I felt pity for the woman who’d birthed me. She hadn’t been evil by choice. She hadn’t asked for this disease. Maybe she would have been a lovely woman without it. Knowing that her cruelty couldn’t have been helped brought me some measure of comfort… until I opened the bathroom door.
The writing was no longer on the wall. As I stared into the mirror, my reflection was covered in blood. Instead of using lipstick to communicate, my mother had chosen her own plasma. And the words she’d written weren’t the cryptic ramblings of a crazy woman. No, this message was clear: my name written in blood.
Sam
And it was followed by two little words that put an end to the beautiful life I’d imagined with the man I loved.
You’re next
Screaming, I sank to the floor.
32
Keith: No Easy Fix
The image of Sam all dressed for the Oscars last night made me laugh. She had obviously been expecting something, and it gave me the slightest bit of pleasure to make her squirm. After all, she hadn’t made asking for her hand in marriage easy. It felt like I’d been jumping through hoops for five very long years. But no matter the restrictions she’d placed on us, I’d never been deterred either. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice in the matter. I loved her. Only her. So, I was forced to wait out her ultimatum.
Now it was her turn to wait, if only because the ring I planned to propose with hadn’t been ready until today. And now here it was gleaming under the lights. I picked it off the silver tray and inspected its brilliance from all angles. It was perfect – beyond perfect, actually. This ring was Sam.
The jeweler caught me salivating. “She must be one special woman.”
“Oh, she is,” I agreed, running my finger over the smooth stone. “I’ve proposed twice already.”
He studied me more closely. “And you’re finally buying her the ring?”
