The Problem With Crazy Read Online Free Page B

hair.
    Mum put her arm around his shoulder, and he moved closer to her. After all her comments about him previously, after all he’d done, she was letting this happen. This sickness must be something really, really bad.
    A chill ran through my body.
    “Kate, your father has a terrible disease. At the moment, he’s having trouble controlling his movements and his speech.” Mum recited the words as if she’d written them down. “However, in time, he’ll lose the ability to control them entirely. His memory is affected. He is going to require constant care and supervision.”
    My eyes widened. What? My father was going to—
    “Dad’s going to go … to lose his mind?”
    The room fell silent. No one answered me.
    “Well, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s not going to be able to control what he does, how he speaks, what stays in his mind and what doesn’t. Isn’t that kind of the definition of the concept?”
    I was on my feet now, shouting. Why was I so angry? I tried to slow my breathing, calm my heart rate, but my body ignored me.
    “How could you have let this happen? You’re not old enough to be—to be just having this happen. And you left. You left us!” I jabbed my finger toward him, stabbing the air in front of his face. I was yelling so loudly I was sure the neighbours could hear.
    “Kate, calm down.” Mum shook her head. Dad didn’t say a word, just kept up his full-body sobs as he cried, tears for a life he would never lead.
    Shaking, I nervously backed my way over to the couch.
    “So. Okay. How does this work? Why are we only hearing about this now?” I slowly lowered my body, letting the pillows support me as I felt the will to move drain from my limbs. Take in the facts, Kate. Gather information. Process. Breathe .
    “It started more than a year and a half ago. Small signs, at first. Nothing you or I really noticed, like involuntary movements of his body, depression and slurred speech.” Mum’s forehead creased. “Or, if we did notice, we blamed it on his drinking.”
    “It’s why I was drinking.” Dad raised his head to look at me, his tears momentarily subsided. “A … addiction is a common trait when you have H … Hunting …”
    “But you left,” I cut him off.
    “He did, yes,” Mum said. “He knew something was wrong, so he went to get some tests done. He found out he had the disease, but didn’t want us to have to deal with—this. The next day, he sold his car to pay for treatment at a care centre, which is where he’s been living the past year.”
    “So, you just didn’t tell us? And decided to come back to ruin my graduation?”
    Another awkward silence panned out as Dad glanced sheepishly at Mum, then back to his hands that were quietly writhing away, clenching and unclenching in his lap.
    “I c … couldn’t afford the treatment anymore,” Dad said. “I wanted to see you graduate. But I had—I had a few drinks.”
    Fact check: My dad was back, and he was sick. Real sick. Drinking was a part of the problem. A disease was destroying his brain.
    I felt removed from the situation, like I was watching the news. This sort of thing didn’t happen. Not to normal people like me.
    “Couldn’t drinking deplete your brain cells? What were you thinking?”
    Dad started to cry again, a new wave of tears, and I brought my hands to the bridge of my nose. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? He was sick, and he was my father. And I was hardly being understanding.
    “Are you—okay?” I tried again, even though it was clear he wasn’t. No one answered. There was nothing even remotely okay about this.
    We sat there in silence for a few moments, me leaning back in my chair in shock, Mum stroking tiny round circles on Dad’s back as he shook some more.
    In books, people say that bad news can make you look older. I hadn’t really seen evidence of that before, but looking at my parents, I could definitely see the toll of time wearing on their faces and bodies: slumped