snatching
precious objects from their curious hands, moving crystal tumblers and blown-glass
elephants and a multitude of framed snapshots from arms reach. There were no toys
to keep a child occupied in Althea’s grandchild-barren home. The blame for that
rested its full weight on Jem’s shoulders.
Jem sat in an antique wing chair in the
corner and shifted against the unyielding upholstered seat. She watched the
kids run. Her heart was lightened by their smiling faces, the ease with which
they laughed.
What would her and Finn’s children be like?
Their daughter would be statuesque and lean, but curvy like her mother. Their
son would be tall and strong, handsome as his father. They’d both be brilliant
and beautiful and kind and honest. They would have the best of both parents.
The noise in the room shook her from her
thoughts and her cheeks warmed. Where did that come from? The idea of having
Finn’s babies. Befitting little fantasy to have at Gerald’s mother’s house on
the eve of his funeral.
Hours later, when most of the mourners had
vacated the house, Jem sat on the sofa with Marjorie. Althea and Doctor Lewis
stood near the mantle. With one too many merlots fuelling her confidence, Jem
was in the mood to push her luck.
“Sid, was it you who told me schizophrenia
is genetic? It runs in the blood?”
Althea’s stare bore into her.
Doctor Lewis cleared his throat and
loosened his tie. “Well, yes, yes I guess I did.” Sweat beaded on his brow. He
stole a glance at Althea and then took a gulp of gin and tonic. “Several genes
are implicated in schizophrenia. There are new studies that show that it’s not
entirely genetic though.”
Althea crossed her arms and smirked. “There
you go Jemima. I told you he didn’t get it from my family.”
Did she just admit he had it at all?
“Although.” Sid turned to Althea. “People
with first-degree relatives who carry the gene or have the disease are much
more susceptible.”
“What does that mean, ‘first-degree?’”
Althea paced.
“It means it’s more likely that a
schizophrenic has one or more schizophrenic parents than has an aunt or a
cousin who is schizophrenic. And the incidence of the disease in people with no
genetic history is quite small. So if we were betting folk, we could place
money that someone else in Gerald’s close family has the disease.”
Jem nodded. “Or carries the gene.”
“Yes. Or that.”
“Bullshit.”
“Althea!” Marjorie gaped at her sister.
“Gerald wasn’t ill. Was not schizophrenic.
I’ll believe that until the day I die.”
“Mrs. Wolfe, please.” Doctor Lewis pulled a
handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his brow. “We’ve been over this a
hundred times. The diagnosis was sound. Gerald improved with medication. If
he’d stayed on it, things might have turned out differently. He could have
coped, could have managed. Could have even continued his research.”
Althea dropped into the brocade wing chair,
her shoulders slumped. “Bullshit,” she said under her breath.
“Maybe it runs in his father’s family?” Jem
looked at Althea. “Did your husband show any signs?”
Althea stood and glared at her. “Damn you,
Jemima, why must you push this? What does it matter now? Gerald’s father is
dead. Gerald is dead. You never got around to giving me grandchildren. Even if
any of it was true, and it’s not, there’s no one left to pass it down to. No
one left to lose their goddamn mind.” She went to the front door and opened it.
“Time for you to go. I need to sleep if I’m to survive tomorrow.” She headed
for the stairs. “Show yourselves out.”
The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed
in the silent room. Jem ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass. What the
hell was wrong with her? Maybe Althea was right, maybe it didn’t matter. She
had to get over this incessant need to push Althea’s buttons and make her face
the truth. Althea’s own truth wasn’t many years
precious objects from their curious hands, moving crystal tumblers and blown-glass
elephants and a multitude of framed snapshots from arms reach. There were no toys
to keep a child occupied in Althea’s grandchild-barren home. The blame for that
rested its full weight on Jem’s shoulders.
Jem sat in an antique wing chair in the
corner and shifted against the unyielding upholstered seat. She watched the
kids run. Her heart was lightened by their smiling faces, the ease with which
they laughed.
What would her and Finn’s children be like?
Their daughter would be statuesque and lean, but curvy like her mother. Their
son would be tall and strong, handsome as his father. They’d both be brilliant
and beautiful and kind and honest. They would have the best of both parents.
The noise in the room shook her from her
thoughts and her cheeks warmed. Where did that come from? The idea of having
Finn’s babies. Befitting little fantasy to have at Gerald’s mother’s house on
the eve of his funeral.
Hours later, when most of the mourners had
vacated the house, Jem sat on the sofa with Marjorie. Althea and Doctor Lewis
stood near the mantle. With one too many merlots fuelling her confidence, Jem
was in the mood to push her luck.
“Sid, was it you who told me schizophrenia
is genetic? It runs in the blood?”
Althea’s stare bore into her.
Doctor Lewis cleared his throat and
loosened his tie. “Well, yes, yes I guess I did.” Sweat beaded on his brow. He
stole a glance at Althea and then took a gulp of gin and tonic. “Several genes
are implicated in schizophrenia. There are new studies that show that it’s not
entirely genetic though.”
Althea crossed her arms and smirked. “There
you go Jemima. I told you he didn’t get it from my family.”
Did she just admit he had it at all?
“Although.” Sid turned to Althea. “People
with first-degree relatives who carry the gene or have the disease are much
more susceptible.”
“What does that mean, ‘first-degree?’”
Althea paced.
“It means it’s more likely that a
schizophrenic has one or more schizophrenic parents than has an aunt or a
cousin who is schizophrenic. And the incidence of the disease in people with no
genetic history is quite small. So if we were betting folk, we could place
money that someone else in Gerald’s close family has the disease.”
Jem nodded. “Or carries the gene.”
“Yes. Or that.”
“Bullshit.”
“Althea!” Marjorie gaped at her sister.
“Gerald wasn’t ill. Was not schizophrenic.
I’ll believe that until the day I die.”
“Mrs. Wolfe, please.” Doctor Lewis pulled a
handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his brow. “We’ve been over this a
hundred times. The diagnosis was sound. Gerald improved with medication. If
he’d stayed on it, things might have turned out differently. He could have
coped, could have managed. Could have even continued his research.”
Althea dropped into the brocade wing chair,
her shoulders slumped. “Bullshit,” she said under her breath.
“Maybe it runs in his father’s family?” Jem
looked at Althea. “Did your husband show any signs?”
Althea stood and glared at her. “Damn you,
Jemima, why must you push this? What does it matter now? Gerald’s father is
dead. Gerald is dead. You never got around to giving me grandchildren. Even if
any of it was true, and it’s not, there’s no one left to pass it down to. No
one left to lose their goddamn mind.” She went to the front door and opened it.
“Time for you to go. I need to sleep if I’m to survive tomorrow.” She headed
for the stairs. “Show yourselves out.”
The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed
in the silent room. Jem ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass. What the
hell was wrong with her? Maybe Althea was right, maybe it didn’t matter. She
had to get over this incessant need to push Althea’s buttons and make her face
the truth. Althea’s own truth wasn’t many years
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