someone

else's life

Katie Dale

For my wonderful parents.

Thank you so much, for everything.

And for all those whose lives have been touched by

the shadow of Huntington’s disease. Your courage

and strength are humbling and truly inspirational.

May a cure be found soon.

Prologue

“Are you turned on?” Josh whispers, his breath

tickling my ear in the dark.

“Shh,”

chide, my eyes glued to the screen as

Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore sit at the potter’s wheel,

their hands sliding over each other in the slippery clay.

“It’s romantic.”

“And very suggestive …,” he says, delicious shiver

thrilling down my spine at his touch in the dark—secret

and sensual.

Is this how it feels?

gaze at the screen as the lovers’ kisses get

stronger, deeper, the pot long forgotten, goose bumps

tingling all over my body as Josh’s skin strokes mine.

bite my lip. Is this what I’ve been waiting for?

watch as the lovers come together for the last time

in this life—their love for each other real and passionate

and achingly visible.

Is that what we have? True love?

look at Josh.

love that will last forever, no matter what …?

He smiles, his deep brown eyes sparkling in the

dark as he gently cups my face.

“God,

love you,” he whispers, his gaze deep in

mine.

stare at him, my heart thrumming madly against

my chest. He’s never said it before—neither of us has.

This is it …

“I love you too.” smile, my grin splitting my face,

my stomach erupting with butterflies as dissolve in his

arms, pulling him closer than ever before

This is really it …

PART ONE

Someone Else’s Footprints

What’s in a name?

That which we call a rose by any other

name would smell as sweet.

—William Shakespeare,

Romeo and Juliet

Chapter One

Sunlight dances over the little girl’s dark curls as she

toddles clumsily through the dry grass. Her rosy cheeks

dimple as she grins, her green eyes sparkling as she lunges sticky fingers toward the camera. Suddenly she trips

The picture immediately jolts and twists into the

grass, continuing at

skewed angle as

chestnut- haired

woman rushes over to the child. But she is not crying. The

screen fills with silent giggles as her mother scoops her up, her beautiful face filled with tenderness as she cuddles her daughter tightly, protectively, holding her so close it seems she’ll never let go The picture begins to blur …

click the remote and the image flicks off, plunging

the room into darkness. stare at the blank screen. It’s

weird watching your memories on TV, like watching

movie. It’s like somewhere, in some wonderful world,

those moments are trapped, bottled, to be enjoyed again.

wonder if heaven’s like that—if you get to choose the best

moments of your life and just relive them over and over.

hope so.

The world outside looks different already.

desert

of white—the first white Christmas Eve in Sussex in years.

The snow hides everything, glossing over the lumps and

dips and tufts to leave perfect, smooth surface. Like icing

7

on

Christmas cake. It’s all still there, though. The dirty

gravel that hisses and spits as you drive over it, the jagged

rocks in the garden, the muddy patch where nothing

grows—they’re all still there, hidden, sleeping, beneath

the mask of snow.

Like my mother.

Nothing on the inside changed, the doctors said. She

could still understand what we were saying, she just

couldn’t respond like she used to. Couldn’t hug me and tell

me everything was going to be all right, like she always

had. Like needed her to. Because everything was not all

right.

pull the blanket tighter, but it makes no difference.

I’m already wearing three sweaters. Ever since Mum got

ill I’m always too hot or too cold—I can’t explain it.

Yesterday was one of the hot days, even though it snowed

practically nonstop. Everyone looked at me like

was

crazy, standing in the snowy graveyard in Mum’s strappy

stilettos and my red velvet dress among the whispering

sea of black, disapproving sighs rising like smoke signals

in the frosty air. But didn’t care—the biddies could tut all

they liked—she was my mother and the dress was her

favorite on me. She called me her Rose Red.

The shoes were her favorites too—I remember her

dancing in them at my cousin Lucy’s wedding. was about

four or five at the time, hiding beneath the buffet table in

protest at the fuchsia meringue I’d been forced to wear as

flower girl. But when Mum started dancing

forgot all

about that.

crawled out and just stared at her,

8

mesmerized. God, she was graceful. Everyone stopped to

watch her whirling, swirling form as she glided around

the room, those heels clacking like castanets.

When the song ended she stopped, breathless and

slightly dizzy, and looked around as if unsure where she

was. Then someone started to clap. Embarrassment

flushing her cheeks, she ran hand through her hair and

scooped me up into

tight hug, her eyes shining with

tears. It was only later that discovered it was the first

song she and Daddy had danced to at their wedding.

The stilettos were one of the first heartbreaks of the

diagnosis. remember hearing Mum crying in her room

one day and padding up to find her sitting on her bed,

placing them carefully into

silver box like

coffin,

shrouded with beautiful rose-colored tissue paper. The

doctors said high heels were just an accident waiting to

happen, and that, with everything else, was something she

really didn’t need.

watched as she kissed each shoe

before pressing the lid down gently and tying the whole

precious package together with blue ribbon. The first of

many sacrifices to Huntington’s.

That was

long time ago, though. That Mum died

long before her heart stopped beating last Tuesday. The

real Mum. The way I’ll always remember her, wearing

those precious shoes and swirling and whirling away to

her heart’s content. Not lying alone, small and frail and

empty, in hospital bed.

9

The sharp ringing of the telephone makes me jump.

count the rings—one, two, three—and the machine kicks

in.

“Hello!” Mum’s voice sings, and my heart leaps.

“You have reached the Kenning residence. Trudie and

Rosie are out at the mo, but if you’d like to leave

message—you know what to do!”

swallow painfully. Aunt Sarah’s been on at me to

change it—and

know

should—but

just can’t bring

myself to erase her voice. She sounds so happy. So alive.

The caller clears his throat uncertainly.

familiar

trait, no matter how much time’s passed. My eyes flick to