Even the physical signs, like the chorea, I’d never

noticed.

thought nothing of the familiar jingle of

bracelets announcing her approach, used to nag at her for

fidgeting while watching TV

and even as far back as my

childhood, there were little things. Like, Mum was never

any good at Snap. Her reactions just weren’t quick enough,

and I’d always beat her, hands down. It was one of my

favorite games—because always won.

And now

look around the waiting room guiltily,

wondering who’s affected, what stage they’re at. Half the

people in this room will have the disease, statistically.

But not me.

I’d decided months ago that needed to know, once

and for all. I’d had bad day with Mum, lost my temper,

and dropped bowl of pasta, smashing, to the floor. And

then

panicked.

started analyzing everything

did,

scouring myself for symptoms. It drove me crazy. So rang

the clinic and booked my first counseling session. You’re

usually supposed to be eighteen, but as was only few

months off they let me in

bit early, so long as the

counseling went well. They had to be convinced that was

psychologically ready, that

knew what

was letting

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myself in for, whatever the result. Because there is no

going back. There’s no cure. There’s just knowing or not

knowing. Having it or not. Fifty-fifty.

Unless, of course, you suddenly find out that you’re

not actually related to anyone with Huntington’s after all.

They didn’t cover that in our sessions.

“Rosalind Kenning?” The nurse looks up from her

clipboard.

Andy squeezes my hand, and we follow her in.

“Nice to see you, Rosie,” Dan, my genetic counselor

says. “And you’ve brought friend. Good.”

introduce Andy, and he sits next to me, gripping

my hand tightly. I’ve never seen him so nervous.

“Now, we’ve had your result back,” Dan begins.

“And it’s good news Rosie.” His face breaks into

wide

smile. “You do not have the gene that causes

Huntington’s!”

exhale deeply. hadn’t even realized was holding

my breath.

“Are you sure?” Andy asks anxiously.

“Positive. By analyzing the number of CAG repeats

on her chromosome four—fifteen and seventeen—we can

determine that Rosie has definitely not inherited the gene.

If she had, one of her counts would be somewhere up

around forty. Rosie is well below that. She’s completely

unaffected.”

“Oh, God!” Andy grabs me in tight hug. “Oh, thank

God!”

78

let him hug me, my body limp and numb in his

arms.

Fifteen and seventeen

Mum’s were forty- five and

nineteen— don’t share either of them …

knew. Of course knew, but now

it’s real.

don’t have Huntington’s.

never will have

Huntington’s. Everything dreaded and feared will never

come true. It’ll never happen to me like it happened to

Mum.

Because she wasn’t my mother.

Hot tears trickle down my cheeks.

“Hey.” Andy pulls back gently and wipes my eyes.

“Are you okay?”

nod and look away, swallowing hard.

“Rosie, this is fantastic!” Andy grins.

force tight smile.

Yep. Fantastic.

“It’s normal to experience

sense of shock,” Dan

says gently. “With the relief can come sense of disbelief,

and even guilt. It’s perfectly normal, Rosie.”

smile at him, the tears still streaming down my

cheeks.

She was right. Sarah was right. There’s no going

back. You either spend your life wondering, worrying,

pretending

or you find out for sure.

And now know.

For sure.

79

stare at the little plastic wand, waiting for my fate

to be decided—revealed, really. It’s already decided, after

all. Positive or negative. This is just proof. Scientific

confirmation of what already is—or isn’t.

Despite everything, can’t help praying, can’t help

hoping that somehow it’s all been

coincidence—a bad

case of food poisoning,

belated growth spurt,

late

period

squeeze my eyes shut, wishing, hoping, praying

hold my breath as force one eyelid open.

My heart stops and

snap my eye shut again

quickly, as if I’ll get second chance

bite my lip and open my eyes.

But it’s still the same. Of course it is. Wishing can’t

change it. This isn’t

magic wand—it can’t perform

miracles.

Hot tears trickle down my cheeks and bury my

head in my hands.

knew—of course knew. But now know For sure.

Completely and irrevocably and scientifically.

Positive

I’m pregnant.

My life is over.

80

Chapter Six

Negative

Not at risk

Not my mother

God, it’s true. It’s all true. Everything Sarah said.

Though, as it turns out, she needn’t have told me after

all—they didn’t compare our results, didn’t find out.

close my eyes, my head reeling.

Negative

How can one word bring so much joy and so much

despair?

“What’s it to be? Red? White? Rosé?” Andy grins,

putting on French accent as he surveys the wine bottles

in his kitchen. “Rosé for Rosie?”

smile weakly. “No, thank you.”

“No?” He frowns. “I know! Champagne!

think

we’ve even got some flutes somewhere—this is

celebration, after all!”

He disappears through the doorway and

look

away, out of the window. Black clouds gather menacingly

over the fields, blotting out the sun.

thought I’d be pleased to get the all-clear, that it

would set me free

but instead

just feel

lost

It

seems like whenever

finally get an answer to one

81

question,

million others pop up right behind it: don’t

have the disease, I’m not Trudie’s daughter— so who am I?

And who’s this girl, this Holly Woods, my real mother? Is

she still around? Why did she run away? Why did she

abandon me?

“Okay

champagne and flutes!” Andy returns,

proudly flourishing bottle and two glasses. “Now all we

need is cake!”

“No, really, don’t want—”

“What have we got?” He opens

cupboard. “Swiss

roll

flapjack …”

“Andy—”

“Battenberg! Do you like battenberg?”

“Andy, I’m fine! Really.”

“Really?” He turns. “Really.”

“Really? Because you’ve barely said two words since

we left the clinic, Rosie.” He looks at me. “You don’t want

to go out, you don’t want to celebrate …”

look away.

He sighs. “I could understand it if the test were

positive, but you’re acting like you’ve got the weight of the

world on your shoulders—and it’s negative! You’re

healthy!” He sits down beside me. “Why aren’t you happy

about it?”

shift uncomfortably.

“And don’t say it’s that guilt bollocks the counselor

was on about.” His tone softens and he covers my hand

with his. “Rose, you’ve suffered enough—your mum

would be thrilled that you’re in the clear.”

82

pull my hand away. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” he sighs. “You’re right, don’t.”

“Andy—”

“I don’t understand, because you never tell me