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I settle for an answer somewhere in the middle. “I’ve been . . . okay.”
“You’re back at school, right? And you’re still playing the viola?” she asks, and I nod. “Good. Like I said before, Adina, the majority of patients I see who test positive have been able to carry on with very regular lives. Most of the time, symptoms don’t manifest until your forties.”
I widen the hole in the knee of my tights. “Is there any way to know when symptoms will show up?”
“Unfortunately, that’s the most challenging and frustrating part of getting tested so young. We have no way of knowing when symptoms will manifest for you. They started for your mother in her early forties. It might be the same for you, or it might not.”
“I read online that sometimes people start showing symptoms much earlier than my mom did. Like . . . like in their twenties.”
“It’s unlikely that you’d exhibit symptoms that early.”
“But it happens.”
“Well. Yes. But it’s also possible they don’t show up until you’re seventy or eighty,” she says. “We’ll be keeping a close eye on you. You know to tell us—me and Dr. Simon—if you start experiencing anything like what your mom went through, but each person is different. Your symptoms might not be the same as your mom’s.”
“So we each get our own special version of Huntington’s.”
“I suppose that’s one way to think about it.” For the remainder of the session, she talks about symptoms and youth organizations and support groups. But what I focus on is this: The next few times I drop something, the next time I lose my temper, it could be that I’m simply clumsy. It could be that I’m premenstrual. Or it could mean the end is beginning.
In the back of the bus on my way home from counseling, I compose a message to Arjun.
Can I come over tonight?
Part of me wanted to tell Tovah everything about Arjun when we were in Canada. He was the reason I was so calm on my family trip, after all. Tovah used to know everything I couldn’t tell our parents, like when I borrowed Ima’s razors and secretly started shaving when I turned eleven because I hated the dark fur covering my legs. There are a hundred reasons I can’t tell her this, but above all else: she wouldn’t understand.
Tovah apologized for guilting me into taking the test, and perhaps I can forgive her. Rationally, I know it is not her fault that I tested positive. Still, I cannot get rid of the feeling that I would be happier now if I didn’t know.
But maybe Arjun would still be hiding his feelings for me.
At yesterday’s lesson, during which no actual music was played, our mouths and hands rediscovered what they learned how to do the previous week. We haven’t slept together yet; we haven’t had enough time. It is inevitable, though, and I cannot wait.
I’m halfway between Maureen’s office and home when he finally replies.
Teaching until 9.
Those three words land in a heavy pile in my stomach.
Tomorrow?
This week isn’t good.
My hand tightens around the phone. What the hell does that mean? What makes this week bad? Is he having doubts about us?
He is the only person who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass. I’ll do anything to keep him from changing his mind.
Don’t make me do all the things I want you to do to me all by myself. That sounds lonely. . . .
His response is quicker this time.
Come over next week after your showcase rehearsal.
I’ll be done at 6. Will you cook dinner for me?
I’m testing him.
I can do that. And then maybe you can show me those things you do by yourself.
He aces it.
