We go through the legalese that matters.Consent must be the patient’s, not mine.Counseling is not optional.Results will be delivered in a manner agreed upon in writing.
I give my details and hang up with an appointment on my calendar and a PDF of pre-test materials in my inbox.
My hands are still on the desk when the stupidity of relief hits me.I laugh once—too loud in the quiet of my office—and then rub my eyes.The line between fixing and controlling is slim.This falls on the right side of it only if I mean what I told myself I mean.That it’s her choice, not mine.The appointment is a door.I hand her the key and step back.
For years I tied my existence to the act of fixing.You needed the guy who would answer at three a.m., drive without headlights, tell you when to duck and when to stand.I stepped into that shape so hard it fused with my bones.It served me until it didn’t.It kept me from feeling like the kid in Dad’s office falling to the floor while trying to protect a friend.
A friend who was more of a father to me than that stranger who pulled the trigger.
Now?
What is fixing, really?
Fixing doesn’t reallyfixanything.It just rearranges the cracks into a pattern we can live with.
What if I can’t fix Daniela?What if shedoescarry the gene?
I can still do something.I can love her.Take care of her.
I can talk to Raven about adding Huntington’s research to her Raven’s Wings foundation.
My phone vibrates again.My heart leaps.
Maybe it’s from Daniela.Or more from Raven.
Instead it’s a bland automated message from the clinic with a secure link.
I pace.I look at the time.Two p.m.gnaws at me.Plenty of time to ruin things by thinking.I consider the Nintendo again and reject it.I don’t deserve a break right now.
I check the burner phone.Still dead-eyed blank.Good.Reyes bought the photos.Maybe I can now have six hours where I get to be a human man again and take care of the woman I love.
Time to text Daniela.
I’ve got a medical appointment reserved at 2 in Austin.It’s for you.It’s elective.If you say no, we cancel and go get something to eat.If you say yes, I drive and keep my mouth shut until you want it open.Your call.
I stare at the screen.I put the phone face down on the desk.I pick it up again.
Dots.No dots.Dots.Disappear.
Finally—
What kind of appointment?
Genetic testing.HD.Counselor on site.Private entry, no waiting room hell.No pressure.
The dots again…
Don’t book things for me without asking.
You’re right.I’m sorry.I wanted the option.That’s all.
Another pause.
A long one.
Tick.
Tock.
