“Autism?” Jeff clarifies, his shock evident in his tone. “You think Grayson is autistic?”
“I think he falls somewhere on the spectrum, yes. But he’d need testing to accurately diagnose him.”
They both look at each other then back to me. Emotions flitter across their expressions, anger, denial, shock, and so on. “Some things I’ve seen that concern me are the way he always lines things up. How he doesn’t respond when you call his name; even when you’re right in front of his face, he won’t look at you while you say his name. But if he hears his favorite cartoon come on he goes running. Hyperness can be another indicator.”
“He’s just an active boy,” Jeff defends.
“He’s not just active,” I point out. “He’s constantly moving. When a child struggles to communicate, they can become frustrated and seem . . . distracted.”
“He’s not autistic,” Jeff insists. “You’re . . . you’re just wrong.”
I expected this reaction, but I can’t say it doesn’t hurt a little. Do they think I would just toss this around without really looking into it? “Jeff, I work with autistic children. I know what the signs look like.”
“Then how come you haven’t said anything until now?” Wendy pipes in, disbelief thick in her tone.
Now, I feel guilty. I should have noticed before now. “I haven’t been around the kids as much as I would have liked. Otherwise, I would have.”
Jeff walks to the fridge and grabs a beer, twisting the cap off of the bottle and tossing it in the bin. He shakes his head before putting one hand on his hip and taking a long swig. I say nothing, waiting for one of them to ask me anything. Finally, Jeff turns to us, and his expression reads one way. Denial.
“I don’t mean any disrespect Demi, but I think you’re wrong.”
The blood drains from my face with his words.
“I’m going to let you deal with this Wendy.”
I’m stunned silent as we watch him walk out of the kitchen, beer in hand. I stare after him, shocked a little myself. But not completely surprised.
At least not until Wendy says, “You should probably go Demi.”
My mouth drops open in shock. No matter how bad I saw this conversation going, I never thought she’d kick me out of her house. “I know this was hard to hear, but please Wendy. Please have him tested. I can help you get it going. If you test him, and I’m wrong, then you’ll know. But I’m telling you, he needs help and the sooner you get it for him, the better he’ll be in the long run.”
Wendy doesn’t respond but gives me a curt nod. “I’d like to get the girls a few weekends from now before school starts. Would you be okay with that?”
She stands and takes her mug to the sink. “Yes. Give me some time to talk Jeff down. I know you mean well, Demi. It’s just . . . hard to hear.”
I nod in understanding, as I walk toward the front door, but stop at the kitchen entrance. “Let me know if you have any questions. I love Grayson. I just want to see him reach his full potential.”
“I’ll call you,” she answers, staring out her kitchen window.
As I pull out of their driveway, I know deep down I did the right thing. And if they’re mad at me, I can’t help that. But even knowing I did the right thing, I just can’t understand why I feel so damn bad.
Tuesday morning I bid farewell to my youngsters for the remainder of the summer. I will miss them, but it will be nice to have a few weeks off before the school year begins again. After I finish cleaning up my classroom, it is with great dismay and trepidation that I head over to my mother’s house for lunch. She called last night saying she was going to ‘stop by’ and visit soon. Not wanting her to just show up and possibly be rude to Connor, I offered to stop by and break bread with her after my last day at work for the summer.
We do the usual small talk as we get lunch ready. She fills me in on how her garden is doing and how her golf lessons are going. Then we get into the real stuff.
“You look thin, Demi,” she notes, as she stares at me over the rim of her glasses that are halfway down the bridge of her thin nose.
“I’m the same weight I’ve been for years,” I assure her before sipping my sweet tea.
She purses her lips and sits beside me. She’s managed a nice spread on the table of store bought fried chicken and potato salad. She was never the best cook, but she always made sure we had a decent meal growing up.
“I hear you’re involved with someone. I love having to find out my daughter is dating a man from Mr. Grenier of all people.”
“It was the first date. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you immediately to make you privy to my personal life. But yes, I guess we are dating. His name is Vick.” I know she already knows his name, but I tell her anyway.
“He’s a house painter,” she grumbles looking up at me, her fingers working at ripping meat from the chicken breast in her hand. “Not exactly the best career.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care.”
“I know,” she surmises before stuffing the meat in her mouth. After she chews and swallows, she adds, “And what about this Connor?”
“What about him?”
“When will he be moving out?”
I finish chewing the potato salad in my mouth before answering. “He has an open invitation to stay.”
Mom leans back in her chair and wipes her mouth. “He needs to move on and find his own place. He shouldn’t be mooching off of you.”
“He’s not,” I argue after wiping my mouth. “Blake had everything set up. You know that. I don’t have to worry about anything.”
Shaking her head, she lets out an aggravated sigh. “Blake was a good man, but for the life of me I’ll never understand why he put you in this position.”
“He didn’t put me in any position,” I clarify, sternly, looking her straight in the eyes. “Connor is a good man, and I’m happy to help him.”
“Demi,” she sighs as if exhausted with my naivety.
Standing, I take my paper plate to the trash and toss it. “I know you’re worried about me, but please stop this,” I beg. “I’m a grown woman. I’m not an idiot. Connor may have made . . . mistakes in the past, but people can change, mother. He is a good man, and I’m telling you right now, if you meet him and show him anything but the utmost respect, I will be very angry.”
Pursing her lips in annoyance, she starts working on her chicken again, not looking at me. “Between you and Lexi, I don’t know who is worse.”
I smile a little. It’s time to give Lexi a taste of her own medicine. “Well, Lexi is dating this really nice guy named Bob.”
My mother’s gaze flies to mine. “She is?”
“Says he’s the man of her dreams. Next time you see her, ask her to show you a picture. I think you’ll love him.”
I stay a bit longer, and we both dance around the subjects my mother really wants to discuss and stick to the more mundane ones; her next hair appointment, bingo night, etc. And when I leave, as we hug, she says, “I’ll stop by soon.”
Guess there’s no avoiding it, eventually my mother will meet Connor. God, help me. And Connor.
When I get home, the garage is closed, and I see no sign of Connor. For some reason, I feel restless. Being around my mother always puts me in a mental tizzy. Add to that I still haven’t heard from Wendy, and I’m worried that I may have damaged our friendship irrevocably. Connor cut the grass a few days ago, but it looks like it’s starting to get a little shaggy, so I decide to change into some old cutoff jeans shorts, a tank top, and pull my hair in a messy knot on my head, and gear up for a little exercise.