Coming In From the Cold(27)

* * *



Dane had heard the car pull into Willow's driveway, and then the sound  of women's voices. He steeled himself against what was coming. Even so,  his palms began to sweat. There were two knocks on the door, and then it  opened. Callie appeared on the threshold.

His mouth went dry.

Coach popped up off the couch. "I'll step outside," he said, before Callie could even ask.

"Actually-" the doctor cleared her throat "-I might need you nearby."

"No, you won't," Dane spit out. "Coach, this is private." He wiped his  hands on his T-shirt and took a deep breath in through his nose. Steady,  he coached himself. Whatever the doctor said, it didn't change  anything. The die had been cast a long time ago.

Still, he found himself studying Callie's stony face, looking for clues.  Doctors gave out test results all the time. Callie probably had plenty  of practice delivering bad news. But she couldn't know how desperately  he wished he could duck the truth a little longer. Just a few more years  of not knowing-that's all he had wanted. And now he couldn't have even  that.

Quicker than Dane would have liked, Coach put on his coat and disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

Callie approached the sofa, where Dane sat with his broken leg propped  onto a chair. She took something out of her bag and held it up to show  him. A syringe. "This is a sedative. If you can't control your reaction,  if I think you're going to hurt either one of us, I'm going to sedate  you."

"You won't need it. My test results won't really be news." In spite of the brave words, his chest felt tight.

With a grim face, Callie drew a piece of paper out of her purse. Fuck. He locked a defiant stare onto his face.

"Your test came back, Dane. You're negative for Huntington's. You're don't have the gene."

A second passed, then two. Dane, his jaw cemented together, was having  trouble understanding what she'd said. For a long moment he replayed her  words in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then he felt his face  sag, and the room got fuzzy around the edges. "No," he heard himself  say.

Callie knelt down into his line of sight. "Yes. I have the lab report  right here." She handed the paper to him. "You don't have it."

Dane's throat clenched as he took it from her, curling his fist around  it, crimping the paper. "It's wrong." It had to be. And whenever the  correct diagnosis was eventually revealed, this moment of uncertainty  would come back to burn him like a hot poker. He knew how badly  misplaced hopes could cut a man. He'd spent his teenaged years waiting  for someone to tell him that there'd been a mistake - that Finn would  live.

But the disease always won. He'd seen it too many times to believe that he'd be any different.

Callie reached into her purse again and took out a second sheet of  paper. "I did two different labs, Dane. Two results, from two different  states. Same answer. You're going to have to get old like the rest of  us."

"You're a liar," he whispered. It wasn't fair, trying to make him think that.

She shook her head. "I'm not lying."

"Bitch." He stared her down, looking for any sign of weakness. Watching for a flinch.

She returned his gaze with clear eyes. "I did what you asked. Now it's all on you."

When he spoke again, his voice cracked. "You're just fucking with me."

"No, I'm not. And that means every other ugly thought you've ever had,  every muscle tremor, those weren't symptoms, okay? You're fine, and now  you have to figure out how to live with yourself."                       
       
           



       

Throwing the beer bottle in his hand was purely a reflex. As he watched,  it went whistling past Callie's head, landing with a bright crash on  the other side of the room. Along with the sound of shattering glass, he  heard a scream of frustration from his own mouth. Then the door flew  open and Coach ran inside. "Don't FUCK with me!" Dane yelled.

"Dane!" Coach cried, running across the room. He laid a hand on Dane's shoulder.

But Dane swatted him off, and then swung himself unsteadily to his feet.  The room was too hot, and there were too many people in it. He couldn't  think. If he could just get outside, the world might become a  recognizable place again.

"Sit down," Coach ordered.

"I'm leaving," Dane said, his heart galloping around his chest.

Coach tried to press him back toward the couch, but Dane wasn't having  it. He swung an arm into his coach's gut, sending the older man  stumbling. But because he was standing on just one leg, the swing put  Dane off kilter, too. He began to topple.

That's when Callie dove at him, aiming his body back into the sofa.  "Hold him!" she yelled, and Coach fumbled towards them both, leaning  onto Dane's shoulder, pinning him awkwardly to the couch.

And then he was trapped there, like an animal. His broken knee throbbed,  and bile crawled into his throat. The room spun, and he closed his eyes  to blot it out.

"Can't believe you made me go there," Callie hissed. He heard a plastic  snap, and then felt a hand snatch the back of his sweatpants down. A  second later, there was a sharp stab in his ass.

"Oww … " he roared. "Get OFF me." His chest felt as if it would break apart, and the next breath came out as a heated sob.

"You owe me seven-hundred dollars. And you owe Willow an apology,"  Callie muttered behind him. Her warm hand pressed into his back. Dane  wrapped one arm around his face and focused on not throwing up. His  limbs began to feel strangely heavy.





* * *



At the sound of shouting, Willow shoved her feet into her shoes and  threw open her kitchen door. It was only five quick paces to the  apartment door. But when she arrived, it was hard to make sense of what  she saw there.

Callie held a syringe in one hand, its plastic top still between her  teeth. As Willow watched, she let go of Dane and replaced the cap over  the needle.

"What's happened?" Willow demanded. Dane lay on the couch, his head buried, his chest heaving.

"Willow, look at me," Callie said. Willow found her friend's comforting  face. "It's okay, honey. Everything is okay," Callie repeated.

But it couldn't be. Because Coach snatched a piece of paper off the  floor as if his life depended on it. After scanning it, he sunk to his  knees on the rug and covered his eyes. "My God. I can't believe it."

"Coach," Callie warned. "You're scaring Willow."

Willow strode into the room and took the paper out of Coach's hands. It  was a lab report, with a strange name at the top. "Who's Igor Maniac?"

Callie jerked a thumb at Dane, who had melted into the couch. "I made up  the name … " Callie's head dropped, as if exhausted. "Willow? The  prisoner got let out of jail. I'm not sure what happens next. But right  now I need us to go and sit in your kitchen. Put the kettle on, and I'll  be there in a minute."

Willow nodded, but her feet wouldn't un-root from the floor.

"Coach?" Callie asked, picking up her purse. He looked up at her, his  eyes wet. "Did you know about this?" Callie walked over to Dane, picking  up his arm to check his pulse.

Coach nodded. "I dug up his mother's obituary on a hunch."

Callie replaced Dane's arm beside his head. Then she tipped his shoulder  against the back of the sofa, so that he wouldn't roll off. "He won't  wake up until tomorrow, okay? The next few days will be tough." She  handed him her card. "Call me if you think you're in over your head."

"Thank you," he whispered.





* * *



"It's really an amazing disease, in a sick sort of way," Callie told  her. "You're absolutely fine for thirty years or so-the symptoms are  undetectable until well into adulthood. At first you begin to have  muscle spasms, and you become forgetful," Callie said. "And then it just  goes downhill from there. Your body fails, and your personality  darkens. You can't chew your food or speak. But you don't lose all your  marbles until the end, so the patient is always aware of every bit of  suffering."                       
       
           



       

Their cups of tea sat untouched on the table. "Oh, my God," Willow said.

"It's extremely rare. His mother died of it."

"And his brother died," Willow said. "Last month."

"Jeez," Callie said. "He didn't bother to tell me that. No wonder he's  batshit crazy. I swear to God, Wills - the guy could not have been a  bigger asshole to me if he'd tried."

"So … " Willow put her hands on her belly. "He thought the baby … "

Callie nodded. "Dane never had the test, because he didn't want to know.  But then you were pregnant … " She rolled her eyes. "If I didn't have to  listen to all his bullshit, it would all sound quite noble. He did it  for you, Willow."