Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova Page B

room—baby photos on the fireplace mantel, more baby photos on the side tables, pictures of Joe and Rosie on their wedding day on the hutch. He likes the pictures. It’s all the other crap he could do without.
    Scattered among the standing frames are all sorts of figurines—­angels, babies, Snoopy and Woodstock, Jesus and Mary, St. Patrick, Miss Piggy and Kermit, too many frogs. Rosie has a thing for frogs. And then there’s the year-round Christmas carolers, which might not seem too out of place now in January but are plain ridiculous in August. Rosie loves them all.
    Years ago, Joe actually considered staging a burglary, a clean heist of all the knickknacks, a mysterious crime that would gounsolved. But Rosie only would have replaced every little statue with more of the same, and so in the end, the plan would’ve left Joe back where he started but with less money in the bank.
    All this decorative crap makes the room feel crowded and tacky if you ask him, but no one ever does, and it makes Rosie happy, so he’s resigned himself to living with it. As long as he has his chair, the TV, and his side of the bed, he doesn’t complain. The rest of the house belongs to Rosie.
    When Joe lived here as a kid, this living room looked and felt much different. The couch and chairs were wooden frames with thin cushions, much less comfortable than what they have now. He remembers each year’s awkward school photo hung on the wall on either side of Jesus on the cross: Joe on the left, Maggie on the right. There were no figurines.
    His parents were chain smokers, and every wooden surface held at least one ashtray, many made and painted by Joe and Maggie in school as holiday gifts (ah, the seventies). There was the tube TV with two dials and rabbit ears, the TV trays, and always an issue of TV Guide and the newspaper on the coffee table, which was permanently stained and almost spongy to the touch with waterlogged rings all over. Some of the many scars left by his mother’s drinking.
    Joe holds the remote but doesn’t turn on the TV. Today’s Patriot Bridge is on the coffee table, unopened, but he doesn’t feel like reading the paper. He drinks his beer and watches Rosie. She says nothing and frowns. He says nothing and waits. He waits.
    Ice-cold dread in his veins.
    Ominous chanting in his bones.
    Purgatory has followed them home.

CHAPTER 8

    J oe is in the kitchen wielding a screwdriver, tasked with replacing the cabinet hinges that are bent beyond repair. He begins with tightening the ones that are merely loose. The cabinets, like everything else in their house, are old and worn out, but Rosie blames Joe for the broken hinges, says he’s been too rough when opening them, yanking too hard on the handles. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t care either. It’s not worth fighting about.
    He’s actually grateful for the job, something to keep him busy and out of Rosie’s hair for a bit. Ever since Rosie shared with Joe what she learned on the Internet about Huntington’s disease, Joe’s been trying to scrub every word of it out of his mind. None of it rings true. He doesn’t have some friggin’ rare and fatal disease. No fuckin’ way.
    Huntington’s. It’s pure malarkey, and Joe won’t give it any stock. Police officers deal in facts, not speculation, and the fact is, this doctor threw out this big, scary medical word without having done any real medical tests, without knowing a damn thing. It was an offhand, irresponsible remark. It’s practically malpractice, to put a word like that out there, into their innocent heads, with no facts to back it up. It’s complete bullshit is what it is.
    While Joe refuses to think about Huntington’s beyond calling it bullshit, Rosie has done pretty much nothing but thinkabout it. She hasn’t confessed her new obsession to Joe, but it might as well be tattooed across her forehead. A Sunday