Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Medicinal junk food,” I announced.
“Just what the doctor ordered.” His eyes lit up, but the rest of him remained dimmed, curled over the big bed like a book-pressed flower.
Plopping on the recliner, I speared him with a chiding look. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, mister. You should’ve told me.”
He coughed into his fist before tucking into the pizza, not meeting my eyes. “You’ve been busy recently. Plus, I don’t go advertising my sickness for all to see.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I followed him with my gaze. His movements were slow and labored. “You know bloody well I’m not talking about your illness. Though we’ll get to that too.”
He sighed, dropping the pizza onto the paper plate. “Fuck.”
So it was true, then. My chest felt like someone was trying to wring it dry.
“Language,” I said haughtily. “But yes, fuck sums it up nicely.”
“I guess someone needs to know.” Charlie looked around us, as if making sure we were indeed alone. “And I guess that someone must be you, since you’re the one constant person in my life.”
“Don’t sound so depressed. You could’ve had worse company. Have you met my roommate?” I wiggled my brows.
I watched his reaction hawkishly. He let out a tired laugh but stopped quickly. It must’ve hurt his lungs. I had no idea what he was here for. I assumed it had something to do with his episode earlier that week.
“Can we talk about it in a second?” He gulped, his face wrinkling with anxiety. “Because what I have . . . it’s bad, Duffy. Really bad.”
“Alcohol-poisoning bad?” I asked. He’d been moved from the ER to the ICU, but I still had no idea what he was here for.
“No.”
“Cancer bad?”
He shook his head. “Huntington’s disease.”
My spine went rigid. Huntington’s disease? The name was familiar, but I knew nothing about it. Only that it was quite rare and deadly.
“You look so surprised you’d think I told you I was pregnant.” He reached for his nightstand to pop open the can of Coke. “To make a long story short, it’s a disease in which the nerve cells in your brain rot progressively, until you can barely move, think, or speak.”
“You mean . . . like ALS?” I gulped.
Charlie unleashed a soft smile. “No. ALS at least leaves your mind unaffected. Your healthy mind is essentially trapped in a body that deteriorates. Huntington’s disease is an overachiever. It robs you of your mind and your body.”
I had so many questions. So many things I wanted to know. But the one big thing that stood in front of me was the realization that Charlie was dying. Dying and lonely. The only people who’d visited him were Riggs and me, and we lived next door.
“How long have you been suffering from this?” I tucked my hands between my thighs so he wouldn’t see me shaking.
He blew out air, swinging his gaze up to the ceiling. “Probably close to six years, I’d say.”
“I never saw you looking . . . uh . . .” I trailed off. I wasn’t sure what the warning signs were.
“Yes,” he said, and I noticed that his speech was slower than usual. “I’ve been good about taking my medication, keeping up with my appointments . . . did everything right. I’ve even stopped traveling because I needed to be close to my health care personnel.” His eyes gleamed with unshed tears, and now he did look at me, but I almost wished he hadn’t. His misery sucked away whatever sunshine I still harbored. “Just because you didn’t see it, didn’t mean it didn’t happen. I suffered through all the phases. Big and small. The memory lapses, the clumsiness, the muscle spasms, the impaired speech.”
“How did you hide it?”
“I got good at slinking away whenever it was necessary.” He smiled grimly. “I disappeared on the few people I was in contact with. And I wasn’t always in such pain. The time from the first symptom of Huntington’s disease to death is between ten and thirty years. I’ve been dodging the real bad stuff for a while. Looks like it finally caught up with me.”
I closed my eyes, drawing a deep breath. This was why he’d soiled himself the other day. He had little control of his muscles. It took everything in me not to cry.
“You’ve been coping with this alone for six years?” I pressed my lips together to stop myself from crying.
He tried to nod. “Though each year felt like a decade.”
“Well, what are they planning to do to help you here?” I demanded, rising up. “There’s a lot to be done. You’ve been practically fine before this week!”
He looked at me sympathetically, like I was in complete denial.
“I wasn’t fine, and there’s not much they can do. Huntington’s disease is incurable. You can slow it down and sometimes manage it, but I’ve already done those things before. They don’t work anymore. This is my final act, I’m afraid.”