"Actually," Da offered hesitantly, "I'd like to move to Ireland."

"Wow. Do you still know anyone there?" Sean felt as if he'd dodged a familial bullet.

"None I've kept up with. But you know, it's not people I want to see. It's the island."

"Blasket? But there's nothing there anymore, is there? Everyone moved to the mainland."

"Yes, well, some went more happily than others." He tipped his head, a little self-scoffing gesture. "It's silly, really. But I need to. I have to get back there while I've still time."

"Well, I hope you have a great trip."

"Yes," he said, digging a wallet out of his pocket. "So do I." He tossed a twenty on the table. Sean went for his own wallet, but Da's stronger hand went out. "Wouldn't hear of it," he said, and Sean didn't have the energy to disagree.

They walked out to the parking lot-his father to a nondescript compact rental car. Sean put his hand out to shake, and Da took it in both of his own. "God bless and keep you, lad," he said. "And thank you."

Sean sat in the Caprice and watched his father pull out onto the roadway. When the small car disappeared from view, Sean had the strange feeling that maybe the breakfast hadn't happened at all, that it was some sort of fever dream, and when his temperature came down he'd see that it hadn't been real. In fact, at the moment none of it-IHOP, Belham, his prolonged stay in the States-seemed entirely plausible. A Talking Heads song from his high school days started to play in his brain. Something about suddenly being in another part of the world . . . driving a large automobile . . . You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

Holy shit, he thought. How did I get here?

Going back to Aunt Vivvy's felt entirely wrong-like it would compound his disorientation. The Tree of Life Spa was just down the road. Sean drove over to see if he could catch Rebecca between clients. He just wanted to see someone real.

Cleopatra sat on her ergonomic throne behind the reception desk. When she saw him, a look came over her face as if someone had just passed some particularly bad gas.

"Just tell me where she is," said Sean.

"Uh, this is a spa? So she's, like, giving a spa treatment?"

"I'll leave her a note."

Cleopatra pushed a pen and piece of paper toward him. He scribbled on it and handed it back. She pinched it between her finger and thumb, dropping it onto the desk like a used tissue.

Sean got back in the Caprice and started driving east down Route 9, for no other reason than that Tree of Life Spa was on the eastbound side, and it was illegal to make a left turn and go west. The road took him through Natick and into Wellesley. His mother had gone to Wellesley College, though she'd told him once that it hadn't been her first choice. She would have preferred to go to a co-ed school in a city. Wellesley had been her parents' first choice for just the opposite reasons: close to home, no boys.

Route 9 took Sean through Newton and into Chestnut Hill, not far from Boston College. His mother had often visited a high school friend who'd gone to BC. At the same time, his father had lived in Brighton with a guy who also went there. Martin had joined the merchant marine by then, but didn't miss the chance to go to college parties between runs. That's how they met.

The BC Mods were townhouse-style apartments with small adjoining yards that created the perfect venue for multiunit bashes. Martin and Lila had each come with their friends and gotten separated from them in the happy, raucous confusion of the party. Lila was standing next to the keg on the patio, knowing her friend would eventually turn up there, when Martin thrust his plastic cup at her for a refill. She had never used a keg tap before and ended up dousing a boy standing next to her, who was inebriated enough to consider this a kindness.

"Your poor mother was mortified," Martin had told Sean when he was a boy. "I fell in love with her on the spot."

Sean veered off Route 9 onto Hammond Street toward BC. He circled down past lower campus and pulled over where he could glimpse the Mods behind the newer high-rise dorms.

That's where it started, he thought. This whole godforsaken mess.

His anger surged at a God who would set in motion such a series of heartbreaks-a God Sean barely believed in anymore, yet who was still real enough to be furious with. He slammed the gearshift into drive and pulled out, coming quickly to Commonwealth Avenue. If he turned left, it would eventually take him directly into Belham.

Hell no, he thought, and turned right.

Comm Ave had plenty of traffic lights, giving Sean ample time to stare out the window, stewing on his family history. A domino effect of misfortune had been set up on the day his parents met, one tile toppling into another over the course of the next forty-five years.

The Caprice seemed to make its way down Comm Ave of its own accord. In Allston the graffiti on the side of a building said, GOD IS LOVE.

"You idiot," Sean told the graffiti. "God is a cruel son of a bitch with a twisted sense of humor. And by the way, you defaced a fucking building with that crap." His vitriol surprised even him. For so many years, God had been the loving parent he'd so desperately wanted and missed, a guide and protector through all that was sad and frightening about his life.

And now he saw it differently: God had tricked him into doing the hardest kind of work, in sort of a protracted practical joke. It was embarrassing to realize he'd been gullible enough to fall for it. Pranked by God.

Wanting to get off the city streets and drive hard and fast, Sean pulled onto the Massachusetts Turnpike at the Allston tolls. He got confused at the point where it goes into the tunnel toward the airport and several other exit ramps spin off in various directions. Somehow he ended up in South Boston. And then he was headed up Broadway out toward the ocean.

Castle Island is the easternmost point in South Boston, and his mother had loved the place. She'd taken her children there often, especially when Da was at sea. Jutting out into Boston Harbor, it was a gorgeous vantage point for both the ocean and the airport across the water in East Boston. "Look," she'd say as they stood along the fence that ringed the promontory, "we're as close to Da as we can get right now. And when his run is over, he'll either be sailing back into this harbor, or landing right over there at the airport."

She also loved listening to the occasional brogue that could be heard from the newly arrived Irish in South Boston. "You don't get to hear a brogue very often when Da's not home, now do you?" she'd remind them.

Sean got out of the Caprice and walked. To his left was Fort Independence, a site that had been used for coastal defense for as long as Boston had been a city. To his right was Castle Island Park, where picnicking families laid out their lunches and children skittered around the playground. He followed the walkway out until it turned north along the seawall.

It was a hot August day, and the sun had burned the haze out of the sky. Gulls swooped and screamed, diving down on the occasional dropped hot dog or bag of chips. Bare-chested young men grasped the hands of their tank-topped girlfriends; an elderly couple in matching jogging suits walked purposefully by.

Sean sat down on the grassy lawn and stared out to sea. What if just one of those dominoes had somehow failed to knock the next one over? What if his parents had gotten married, but his mother hadn't had Huntington's after all, or she had, but his father hadn't left, or his father had left, but Aunt Vivvy had been warm and loving? What if they hadn't each been driven to escape-Deirdre into the imaginary world of drama, Hugh into drugs, and Sean to any corner of the world that wasn't home? What if Hugh had gone to the hospital sooner?

What if Sean had made different choices himself-had taken up his career at one of the numerous Boston hospitals, had married someone who didn't mind not having kids and was willing to take a chance on his odds of living to a ripe old age?

The test for the Huntington's gene had become available in the late 1980s when Sean was in nursing school, and he'd decided not to take it. He didn't want to know when and how he would die.

But what if he had taken it?

CHAPTER 36.

Sean woke up to an unpleasant tickling feeling around his nose and chin.

"Rowdy, come!" he heard someone call. "Leave that poor man alone!"

Sean sat up quickly, and saw a large, short-haired dog with no tail and huge testicles trot away from him. He wiped his face with his arm and spit a few times.

His cheeks felt tight and sore. Sunburned. How long had he been lying there?

The sun was behind him now, so it had to be well past noon. He was starving, and went into Sullivan's, the same little eatery by the parking lot that had been there when he was a kid. He ordered fish and chips; they tasted exactly the same as they had thirty-some-odd years ago: fishy-salty, as if they were the tactile manifestation of the sea air.

He sat down at one of the picnic benches and watched a couple of little brown birds peck at crumbs, scattering whenever someone walked near. In all his ruminations about his family, there was one strange fact that he kept coming back to, questioning it, puzzling at it. . . .

His mother had been happy.

Certainly there must have been things that she'd kept from him as a child, things she'd worried about or fought over with his father. When her mind started to go and her movements got jerky, he saw her fear and anger and sadness. But up until that time, she seemed as happy as anyone he knew. She laughed and joked; she did as she liked. She always seemed delighted and proud of her children. And there had been a strong affection between his parents, simmering below the surface of their casual gestures and comments. It used to give Sean a slightly queasy feeling, once he'd learned about sex, and made him suspect that they might even do it sometimes when they weren't trying to have another baby.

Based on what he knew of the history of Huntington's research, it was likely that his parents didn't know the 50 percent likelihood of her carrying the gene when they were married in the 1960s, nor when Sean was born in 1968. But they almost certainly would have known by the time Deirdre was conceived.

They rolled the dice and hoped for the best, thought Sean. And they lost.

It was late afternoon by the time he pulled into Aunt Vivvy's drive-way. The house was quiet, and for this he was grateful. As he stood in the foyer, a thought popped into his head: the note from his mother about mowing the lawn-the last thing she'd given him before her mind had been hijacked by Huntington's. He'd kept it in a box in the basement; suddenly he needed to see it.

Rushing down the stairs, the same ones on which she'd fallen and later died, he panicked that the box was gone. Aunt Vivvy would have thrown it away without a second thought. But on the far side of the basement, on the shelf behind Hugh's old tent, he found it. His box of treasures.

He dumped it out searching for the note and rifled through old report cards, his high school yearbook, his driving learner's permit. There was the picture of him and Cormac holding their tennis trophy. He slid that into his breast pocket. And there was Hugh's fishing lure, which he also put aside. There was a pink glove and a signed baseball, and finally there was the note.

Sean, I'm taking Deirdre for her one-year checkup. Auntie Vivvy is watching Hugh. Would you please mow the lawn? Love, M.

Hi Mom, he thought. And he sat down on the damp cement floor and wept.

A little while later he loaded everything but the note, the picture, and the fishing lure back into the box. When he picked up the pink glove, he remembered it was Chrissy's. She'd left it in the bleachers that time he'd put his arm around her, shortly before her future ex-husband popped him one. He pitched it into the box with the rest of his ancient history and put the box on the shelf, no longer worried about hiding it. Aunt Vivvy didn't come down here anymore, and even if she did and decided to get rid of it, there was nothing in it that meant that much to him.

Walking up the stairs, he realized that included the pink glove.

Exhausted, he wandered into the den in search of his book. He was up to The Last Battle in The Chronicles of Narnia series, and the thought of immersing himself in a mythic kingdom where good always prevailed seemed like a balm to his frayed emotions. He couldn't immediately locate the book, so when he saw Deirdre's laptop sitting there, he absently clicked into his new e-mail account and found a message from Claire Lindquist, Kevin's teacher.

Hi Sean, I was very happy to get your note. I assumed you would have returned to Africa by now. It's great that you're staying and taking an interest in Kevin's education.

Kevin's a wonderful boy, a pleasure to have in class, but he does have his challenges. I'm very concerned about Before Sean could read any more, he was distracted by the slam of the front door and footsteps coming quickly toward him.

"Hey," said Deirdre breathlessly, appearing in the den and reaching for the laptop. "I need that."

"Sure, can I-"

"I'm in a wicked hurry. Can you just get off?"

"Yeah, but this e-mail is from-"

She gave her head an annoyed shake. "Jesus, Sean, I really don't care. I have to go!"

"Dee, it's from Kevin's teacher."

"Okay, last I checked, it's summer and he doesn't actually have a teacher at the moment, so it can't be all that critical." She leaned over him and hit the little X at the top of the screen.

"Christ, are you really that self-centered?"

"Whoa, little pot. You are at least as black as me," she said, clicking the Shut Down function. "So fuck off."

"Fuck off yourself, you raving bitch!"

Aunt Vivvy appeared in the doorway. "What on earth is going on in here?" she demanded. George was at her side, ears standing straight up and twitching agitatedly.

"Nothing, Auntie," said Deirdre breezily. "Sean just needs to come down off his high horse, stop mooching off other people, and get his own stuff." She yanked the cord, grabbed the laptop, and sailed out of the room, the front door slamming moments later.

"I don't appreciate that kind of language, Sean Patrick," said Aunt Vivvy. "And I'll thank you to conduct yourself with some consideration for other people and their belongings."

"Hold on a second." Sean stood up. "Consideration for other people was in short supply around this house long before I got home."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Her scathing tone rattled him as it always had-as it was meant to. But his anger, stoking all day and fueled by Deirdre's attack, seemed to rise out of his belly like some sort of volcanic eruption. He blazed back at her, "It means that you drove my father out of here, for one thing."

"How dare you," she growled.

"I was with him today. And I can see a little more clearly how it went down. You never liked him. And when he started falling apart, you said exactly what you knew would make him leave-that we'd be better off without him."

She smiled coldly. "And you were."

"Christ, how can you say that? Look around!" His finger flew out in front of him, indicting her. The dog started to bark, and Sean turned up the volume to be heard. "Deirdre has the interpersonal skills of a rattlesnake! Kevin's practically raising himself-small wonder Social Services hasn't yanked him out of here! And you! You won't even go to the damned doctor. You're just as happy to lose your mind and leave me with the whole freaking mess!" He was yelling now, and the dog's barking ramped up in response.

"I've had enough of your childish vitriol," Aunt Vivvy said, and turned to walk out. She stumbled against the door and nearly fell. Sean caught her elbow. "Leave me be!" she commanded. But raising her voice-something she almost never did-seemed to increase her instability, and Sean didn't dare let her go.

"Just sit down on the couch," he said as he followed her through the living room. But she was determined to go up the stairs, and he wasn't about to release her so she could fall and break a hip. The dog lunged, nipping at Sean's calves as he buttressed his aunt's ascent.

"Stop!" yelled Sean. "Make her stop!"

"Make her stop yourself," she muttered at him. "You're her master now."

Aunt Vivvy pulled away from him at the top landing, and shuffled down the hallway to her room. The dog continued to nip and bark. Sean grabbed her by the collar and dragged her toward Kevin's room, bracing all his weight against her as her paws slid across the oak floorboards. With one final heave he got her into the room and shut her in.

His back . . . that unhitching feeling, as if the pieces of his spine were railway cars that had suddenly become uncoupled . . . The ibuprofen was in the kitchen, and he clutched the banister as he made his way down the stairs, every movement stabbing at him.

He made it to the foyer, but lay down for a moment in hopes the spasm would subside. Prostrate on the floor, listening to the dog bark rabidly from Kevin's room, back throbbing like hammer blows, he felt despondence fill his head like acrid smoke.

This is hopeless, he thought.

If there had been a wound to suture or a med bag to hang, it would've been so much simpler. But here in this house, with this family, there wasn't even a diagnosis. Just a seemingly unending stream of ever-worsening symptoms. And the impact of his efforts seemed negligible. At what point did you stop fighting and let the situation run its course?

Lying there in the fog of pain, he heard a knock on the front door. He didn't answer. Another knock, slightly louder. He waited for the person to give up. For the love of God, he thought, just go away.

The knob turned, and the door opened slowly. In his peripheral vision, Sean could see the outline of a face peeking in. "Hello?" it called. "Sean?" Then the voice was coming toward him. "What happened?"

Rebecca's face came into view, and he started to laugh a little-not at her, but at the absurdity of the picture before her: him lying in the middle of the floor with the damned dog going mental upstairs. He shook his head, unsure of where to start. Aunt Vivvy and her hellhound? Deirdre and the computer? His trip to Castle Island? Breakfast with his father?

She stood there for a moment waiting. When no explanation appeared forthcoming, she came down next to him, lay on her side, and propped her head against her hand. "Got your note," she said. And she smiled.

He could've kissed her. And he might have actually done it, if he could've turned toward her without what felt like shards of glass twisting further into his back. A confusing rush of urges that ranged from deeply emotional to highly sexual to desperately painful ran through him. But none of that seemed to matter. She was here. Somehow it would be okay.