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look at her, surprised.

She smiles. “What’s stopping you?”

“I—I can’t,”

protest. “I couldn’t leave you, not

now …”

“Nonsense!” She laughs. “I’m quite capable of

looking after myself, thank you very much. And you can

afford it—you know Trudie put that money aside for you.”

“What? No, Nana. can’t. That’s for the future.”

“The future starts today, Rosie,” Nana says firmly.

“If Trudie’s taught us anything, it’s that life’s too short to

put things off. We mustn’t waste

single precious

moment.”

“Nana—”

“Rosie,” she interrupts, her eyes serious. “You’ve

put your life on hold for far too long. You’re nearly

eighteen.” She squeezes my hand. “Have you thought any

more about taking the test?”

“What?” look up, surprised.

“The predictive test—for Huntington’s. You can’t let

it overshadow your life, Rosie—”

The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” say quickly, jumping to my feet and

darting past her, my head throbbing as the walls of lies

close in.

How can tell her? How can possibly tell her don’t

need the test results anymore, because

know it’ll be

negative because Trudie wasn’t my mother—I’m not her

granddaughter after all—I’m just some stranger an

imposter

fraud

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can’t tell anyone, realize with jolt. I’ll have to lie,

have to live with this secret—this terrible, awful secret—

for the rest of my life

open the front door to find Andy shivering in the

cold morning sunlight. stare at him in surprise.

“Reckon I’m the last person you want to see right

now, huh?” He looks at me nervously. “I’m really sorry—

about yesterday.”

shrug. “Forget it.”

“And about your mum—having Huntington’s—

about thinking …” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. No

wonder you couldn’t come traveling, couldn’t call

should’ve waited, should’ve stayed, should’ve been there

for you.” He looks at me, his eyes pained. “I’m so sorry,

Rosie.”

shake my head. “It’s okay.”

“I looked up Huntington’s online—I haven’t slept.

Have you been tested? Do you have it too?”

“Rosie?” Nana calls from the lounge. “Rosie, who is

it?”

“It’s just Andy, Nana! We’ll be in in minute!” call

back, pulling the front door closed behind me.

“Well?” he asks urgently. “Have you had the test?”

“Andy, …” hesitate as his blue eyes pierce mine.

“Yes.”

sigh, already weary of lying. All that sneaking

around, going to the clinic for counseling, taking the test

without anyone knowing, any pressure, anyone to talk me

out of it

and all along I’d only had to ask Sarah.

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He looks at me fearfully, his voice whisper. “Have

you got the result?”

shake my head. “My appointment’s tomorrow,

but—”

“I’ll come with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll come with you. I’ll drive you there.”

“No, Andy, thanks, but—”

“Please, Rosie,” he says earnestly, his eyes clear,

intense. “Let me go with you. Let me be there for you this

time.” He takes my hand in his. So soft, so warm. “Please,

Rose,” he begs. “I feel like such shit.”

squeeze his hand. “You’re not,”

whisper. “You

didn’t know.”

“But

do now.” He gazes down at me. “I’m here

now.”

My chest aches as look up at him.

It couldn’t hurt, could it? To go to the clinic, to get

my results—though already know what they’ll be. It’d

put Nana’s mind at rest, after all, and it would mean one

less lie to tell

And it couldn’t hurt to double-check, to be

sure

“Okay,” whisper.

Andy’s face lights up, and he pulls me suddenly into

tight hug. let myself relax in his strong arms, my face

buried against his chest, inhaling that familiar warm

musky Andy smell.

No, it couldn’t hurt.

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The clinic waiting room is daffodil-yellow and filled

with bright posters and big, leafy potted plants, the coffee

tables strewn with glossy magazines covered with

beautiful smiley women—every trick and tactic possible

to lift the spirits and thoughts of its occupants.

They needn’t have bothered. I’ve probably leafed

through every one of these magazines—and never read

single word. No distraction works when you’re waiting to

discover your fate. Not really.

When mum was first diagnosed did what Andy did

and looked Huntington’s up online. I’d never heard of it

before, so was amazed at how many sites there were

offering information and advice.

Essentially,

gathered, Huntington’s is

genetic

mutation that causes

progressive degeneration of your

brain cells—something along the lines of the physical

effects of Parkinson’s plus the mental deterioration of

Alzheimer’s—slowly stripping you of your ability to walk,

talk and reason. Most people develop symptoms between

the ages of thirty and forty-five, but there’re also juvenile

and late-onset forms. Mum had the latter.

was surprised to read that there are currently

about 6,700 reported cases in England and Wales, and

around 30,000 in the United States, though most of the

websites

looked at seemed to think that there are

probably twice as many cases as the “official” numbers

reported, because people often hide the condition due to

stigma, insurance or family issues, or just decide not to be

tested. Once the symptoms start it usually takes ten to

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twenty years to kill you—although the suicide rate is

scarily high—and children of parents with HD have fifty-

percent chance of inheriting it. Oh, and there’s no cure.

Basically, it’s the worst thing could possibly have

imagined.

The more

read, the more surreal it felt—the

discovery of the disease, its progression

None of this

could really be happening to my mum, could it? But when

got to the symptoms, several seemed to jump out at me:

involuntary movements (chorea), slurred speech, mood

swings, outbursts of anger, difficulty multitasking,

forgetfulness, clumsiness, slow reactions, weight loss,

depression, paranoia

Suddenly the last few years

seemed littered with signs, each screaming out at me that

there was something wrong.

But they’d all seemed so trivial, so unimportant at

the time. Mum had always been flighty, forgetful, easily

flustered—she couldn’t cope if changed my plans at the

last minute or asked her to do several things at once, like

test me on my revision while she cooked dinner or

washed laundry. remember got so cross with her for

dyeing my school shirt pink once, then she’d blamed me—

said I’d been distracting her—and we’d had

huge row

and I’d stomped up to my room, slamming my door

behind me.

But that was normal, wasn’t it? Teenagers are

supposed to argue with their mothers, aren’t they? Bex

certainly did—she had screaming rows with her mum.

Fortunately, my mum always calmed down really

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quickly—way before me. She’d just get very upset, have

huge outburst, and then it would be over. Friends again.

just thought she was going through the menopause.

But after her diagnosis suddenly had to reassess

every argument, every fight we’d ever had, trying to

untangle Mum from the disease, the terrible things I’d said

echoing guiltily in my ears.