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“What did she mean, clinical trial?”
He’d known it might come up sooner or later. But for some reason, the simple question sent a rush of emotion through him. Thank the good Lord he’d put on his sunglasses. He waited until they reached the car and were seated inside to answer.
“How much do you know about Huntington’s?”
“A little. It’s a genetic condition, which impacts muscle control and cognitive function.”
“That’s right. My mom’s participating in what’s called a gene silencing treatment. She’s been getting shots every eight weeks. The treatment is supposed to decrease the protein in her brain, which will reduce her symptoms.”
“Has her condition improved?”
“Not enough to make a noticeable difference. Her recent fall is proof of that. Unfortunately, the study ends in two weeks.”
He pressed Start and backed the car out of the parking lot without looking at her.
She touched his arm. It was only a light touch—nothing to get excited about. Still, for some reason his pulse shot to the moon and back. He frowned at the steering wheel. Must be lack of sleep causing him to react this way.
“Tristan, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He detested pity—it didn’t solve a damn thing.
“A disease like that is difficult to cure.”
Anger, hot and furious, erupted inside him like a festering blister. “There is nocure. As a nurse, you must know that.”
She shrank in her seat, her hand falling from his shoulder.
He dragged a hand through his hair. It wasn’t fair to take his frustration out on Zoey. She didn’t understand how hard he’d been working to find a cure and how difficult it had been to watch his mom’s declining health. His mom had been the only constant in his life, the only one who loved him without expecting anything in return.
“I’ve tried everything to find a cure. It doesn’t exist. This is not the first time my mom and I have been through this rodeo.”
“How bad is she?”
He stole a breath, and the fierce pressure in his chest eased a little. “She has trouble speaking and walking. She can’t remember simple things, like what day it is.”
Zoey hesitated, probably afraid to say anything more after his outburst. “You’re fortunate to be so close to your mom. I’m sure that makes it difficult to watch her decline. It’s a helpless feeling.”
“Yes.” He tightened his lips. There was no one else. His father abandoned Tristan when he was five. His stepfather was an abusive alcoholic who came damn near to killing his mom until the day Tristan was old enough to fight back. That was the day he and his mom had packed their bags and fled. That was the day they’d made a pact to always look out for one another. That was the day he’d sworn always to protect her.
“Huntington’s is genetic. Have you been tested for the disease?”
Tristan pulled onto the road toward home. Why hadn’t he changed the subject? That’s what he normally did with strangers. But seeing Zoey’s struggle with her friend’s illness, he had the urge to confide his own. “No. What’s the point? No effective cure or treatment currently exists. After watching the hell my mom’s been through, I’d rather not know.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
He nodded, but he didn’t say anything. He’d already said too much. She was quiet, too.
He turned on the radio to fill the silence. The Beatles were singing “Help.”How fitting.Worry had been his relentless companion the past ten years. When his mom first complained of clumsiness and not being able to think clearly. When she couldn’t remember how to get to the grocery store and said her joints hurt. When he’d taken her to one specialist and then another and another.
He got off the exit and turned right toward home. Huntington’s cursed its victims with a relentless and slow death. The disease was slowly killing the nerves in his mom’s brain and stealing her personality with it. She rarely smiled or laughed these days. The best he could hope for was to prolong her life.
He drove the car up to the entrance. The guard recognized him and opened the gate. A few minutes later, he pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. Silence settled between them, broken only by the click of Zoey unlocking her seatbelt.
She opened the door and got out, and he followed suit. They were almost to the front entrance when he noticed the footprints. The landscapers had been told to keep to the sidewalk.
“What’s the matter?” Zoey turned, giving him a puzzled look.
“I recently had grass seed planted, and someone’s stepped in it.” He pointed to the footprints, which stretched around the perimeter of the house.
