by Emily Duvall
“Nothing’s ever done, Mr. Allan. People change.”
“Maren can’t.”
“I wasn’t talking about her.”
I go silent, letting her words sink in me like bags of sand.
“What is it you had hoped would happen after the two of you spoke?”
“That she would forgive me.”
“Mmm. That’s a lot of expectation on one encounter.”
“I’ve got a lot of stuff in my life…I have—I had a daughter who died, and I told Maren about her. Maren meant something to me. I could be this other person around her. I had fun. I didn’t focus so much on my loss.” A tear rolls down my cheek.
“Death is a heavy burden to carry on your own.”
I wipe the tear away. “What if I don’t want to carry it anymore?”
“I think you know that you don’t have to. Listen, if you’re ever interested, the support group I mentioned takes place on Thursday nights at seven at the United Methodist on Old Georgetown Road. My colleague, Doctor Randi will be leading them until I return. In the meantime, I’m going to give you the number to someone who you can talk to about your daughter. She’s a grief counselor who helps clients learn how to cultivate support after loss. Do you have a pen?”
I write down the number. I tell myself I don’t need this. “Will Maren be at the support group?”
“These meetings are for families, friends, and caregivers. They’re a way to connect with each other and support someone in their life on the spectrum. We talk about strategies for relationships and deeper communication. Many of these people are spouses of someone with Autism. Think about it, Mr. Allan.”
“I will.” I hang up before she says another word.
The idea of attending makes me anxious. Since when have I needed support?
Since I met Maren. Since I opened up to her.
Darcy’s name is like a bright red flare. I push the thought away. Even if I took Doctor K’s suggestion, I’m not in Maren’s life. There’s nothing that can help. What I need is a drink. I need to get to a bar.
I spend my evening doing exactly this. I keep a low profile, wearing a baseball hat and not making conversation. The more I drink, the more I think about Doctor K’s phone call. The idea of joining other people and talking about feelings and what did she say? Strategies? I struggle with this one. Maren is stubborn. Does she need help with this? Do I? I finish my beer and order another. I’ll do this mind-numbing day over again. This is my life now. I’d better get used to it.
Thursday evening comes around and I can’t believe I’m contemplating going to the support group. I have less than a minute to commit.
I stand, and I go.
The Metro ride to the church is filled with thoughts about Maren. There’s no chance of us working out romantically, but if we can be friends, that will be enough. What if, all I get from her is to know she doesn’t hate me? What were my intentions with her anyway? Dating? Sex? Love? Marriage? Kids? No, not having children. Darcy is my daughter. She’ll always be.
But what would she say? What would she tell me to do?
The point is, I haven’t wanted those things for some time.
At least I didn’t think I did, but maybe calling Doctor K’s colleague would do me some good in figuring this all out.
I get off at the stop and take the escalator up to city level. The church is old and stone, it sits like a giant statue and is surrounded by thick green trees. The front door is painted bright red and lights illuminate a bell tower that reaches the sky. There’s still time to choose differently. I can go back home. I can put this chapter behind me. Or, I can go forward. I don’t have to go again after tonight if it’s bullshit. I go through the front doors and there’s a sign.
Autism Support Group
Basement Level
The arrow on the sign points downstairs. The worn red carpet leads the way and I go down the steps. The hallway smells like a musky basement from another time. Voices carry from the open door and a plump brunette greets me. “Hello, welcome. Are you here for group?”
“I am.”
“Excellent. Please, grab something to drink. There’s coffee, soda and desserts. We’ll start in five minutes. Sit wherever you like.”
I skip the drinks and cookies and making small talk with anyone else in the room. A circle of folding chairs has been set and I take a seat.
There’s a brochure on each of the chairs. I skim through the reading material, a bunch of websites and a blurb about the group. I don’t look when someone stands in front of me.
“You have no business being here,” says the harsh voice that only a mother can pull off.
I angle my head up to find Ellen Cole glowering at me.
Great. I stand up.
“Hold on,” she says scornfully, grabbing my arm with her hand. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“Is this a game to you? You’re no longer in Maren’s life, you have no reason to be here.”
If she’s backing me into a corner, I’m more determined to stay. “I’m here for my own reasons. None of which I will share with you.”
She takes a seat and wiggles in her chair with her purse on her lap. Much to her annoyance, I sit next to her. People take their seats and I’m relieved we’re going to get started. “Good evening,” says the woman who greeted me at the door. “We have a full house tonight. For those of you who are joining us for the first time, my name is Doctor Rochelle Randi. I have been leading groups like this for over ten years.”
She has that much experience? She looks to be in her early twenties.
“I created this group, along with Doctor K, as a way for families and friends of adult children on the spectrum to connect. Many of you are spouses. This is a time for us to talk and share and support one another. I’d like to begin by asking if anyone has had a positive experience this week?”
The woman across from me raises her hand. “Hi, my name’s Missy. My son is twenty-three and he asked a girl out on a date. She said yes. This is a first for him.”
The stories go on like this for the first hour. I give a sideways glance at Mrs. Cole. Her face is steel, and her expression is hard. I look back to Doctor Randi and she’s watching me, expecting me to say something, and I don’t. All I know is, Doctor K was right. I am not alone.
Chapter 29
Maren
Caleb Allan. Caleb Allan. Caleb Allan. The name is on a loop I can’t turn off. My heart beats fast at the thought of him, standing at the crosswalk and my stomach flips and flops. I don’t like anything he’s done and yet, there I stood, unable to walk away. How is that possible? The pit of my stomach is an ugly mess and my thoughts related to Caleb feel like two opposing sides in a battle, except with tiny weapons drawn and a stampede racing across my brain. War has broken out inside me and I crave and reach for the familiar black-and-white, and for things to be defined and concrete.
I stare at the television screen, a cooking show about ten ways to cook shrimp, and my smile has never been further from my face. Running into Caleb has put my routine out of whack and I find myself keeping busy. I enrolled in a culinary class that meets Sunday afternoons and I look forward to going on my own. Work has kept me at the office later than usual, I have decided to turn down Mr. Williams invitation once-and-for all. I do not like speaking in front of people, the trial cleared up any gray area on that matter.
I have never felt more alone, which is why I re-opened the dating app and made a couple of connections this week. I have a date tonight with an accountant named Joe. We’re meeting at an Irish Pub downtown.
Libby is staying with me for the week and she’ll be home from having lunch with a friend any minute. My parents are out visiting friends. Much as they love their palm trees and beaches, they have been coming back to visit more frequently and for larger chunks of time. They’re vacation days are none of my business, but they have to be nearing the end of their paid days off. I decide to make cupcakes,
with extra icing, and sit at the table counting the minutes.
The doorknob turns, and Libby walks in holding a coffee. “Oh, thank God. I hoped that delicious smell was coming from your apartment,” she says, smiling and going over to the stove to inspect the goods. “Chocolate and chocolate. I’ll take this one.” She plucks the treat off the plate and walks over to the table.
We sit together, and I pour myself a glass of milk. “Where did you go for lunch?”
“I went to Bread Basket.”
A giant basket with a variety of loaves of bread come to mind. Baguettes, French Bread, cornbread, cheese bread, sour dough. “Is all they serve bread?”
“Sandwiches and soups.”
“Maybe we can go together next time you’re in town.”
Her hand pauses midway to her mouth. “I’d like that. Or, you could visit me in New York. What about Labor Day weekend?”
A weekend away from this place sounds…good, different, needed. I pull the cupcake wrapper back making a pattern of loosening the edges. I get up and go over to the bookshelf and open a drawer. I take out an envelope.
“What’s that?” Libby says.
“Remember when Sara’s wrist got cut on that glass?”
Libby’s ponytail swings as she shakes her head. “Not that again.”
“I wrote her a letter of apology, but I also wrote you a going-away letter. Sorry it’s taken me so long to write it.”
She takes the envelope with greedy fingers. “Maren, you didn’t have to.”
“I did. Don’t read it now though.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been busy this trip.” Libby takes a huge bite of the cupcake. “How is everything going?”
“Caleb and I spoke.”
Her hand stops midway to her mouth. “Where? When?”
“By the Metro. Southside. Last week.”
“You should have told me.”
“I didn’t want to say anything.”
“How did he seem?”
“He seemed upset. He apologized.”
Libby stiffens. “How convenient for him to run into you and say what’s on his mind. Tell me exactly what he said.”
I review the conversation practically word-for-word and I wait for her to dish her great Libby advice. Instead, she gets up, grabs another cupcake and begins working on round two. “I know he was devastated about his job, but I don’t know if he’s what you need. Next time you see him, go the other way. You don’t owe him anything, not even a conversation.”
“I don’t think that’s quite accurate. There was this one time I went out with Andy and he invited his three friends back to my place.”
The cupcake topples out of Libby’s hand and rolls, sticking topside down on the table. “What are you talking about?”
“On one of my dates with Andy, he brought his friends. They wanted to come back here. I didn’t feel right about being outnumbered by big dudes in my apartment.”
Her hand shoots out to mine. “You didn’t let them in, did you?”
She’s holding her breath, so I talk fast before she stops breathing altogether. “Caleb was at the bar and he got in the middle of it. He walked me home.”
“Oh, he did. Did he?”
“That’s the first time we had sex.”
“Maren! You and Caleb had sex?” Libby’s smile is contagious and then it’s gone. “Sorry, that’s not fair. The two of you had a connection, even I could see that.” A shadow falls over her face and her eyes have gone dark. They remind me of Caleb when he’s trapped in his thoughts. There’s no light. Only its absence. She dips her finger in the smashed icing and tastes. “What do you think about Caleb now?”
My bones grow cold at the question. “There’s a feeling I can’t reconcile, that I can’t explain. Not disappointment, but emptiness. I feel that way every time he’s in my thoughts. Like nothing is as it should be.”
A smile spreads across Libby’s face. “That’s…wow.”
“Why am I still thinking about him? Why do I miss him? There’s something missing now. I wonder if this is how he feels about his daughter.”
Libby’s eyes flicker and her jaw drops. “Daughter? What are you talking about?”
“Her name is Darcy Allan. She died from throat cancer,” I say like this isn’t new information. “She was eight.”
Stuck in awe, Libby sits back in her chair and stares at me. “He never mentioned a blessed word. Not at the office. Not while we worked together. I—I, wow, no wonder he’s such an ass.”
“Did you ever ask him about his life?”
Her mouth opens and closes like a spring. “No. We always talked about work. He keeps a fence around his personal life, no wonder. Was he married?”
“No. Darcy’s mother was a girlfriend. They don’t talk anymore.”
“This makes complete sense. He makes so much more sense now. How much has this killed him, keeping this inside?” She rubs her jaw aimlessly.
“I think I love him, Libby.” The words just come out. They’re real, even if they feel out of my reach. “It doesn’t make sense.”
She squeezes my wrist. “Sometimes that’s all the proof you need.”
“Can we get out of the apartment today? I don’t want to sit and talk.”
She grabs her coffee cup. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll clean up the cupcake first.”
We spend the afternoon at the National Zoo in D.C. The air is heavy and sticky. We check out the animals and get ice cream. Libby tells me about New York and another promotion she’s been given.
“I want to go there and see you,” I say, tossing my empty water bottle away.
“You’ll love the city. I have so many places I want to take you.”
“We should go up to the Empire State Building. There’s 102 floors.”
“I’ve got you beat. One World Trade Center is 104 levels.”
“We’ll have to go to that one.”
“How long do you plan to live there?”
“I haven’t decided. The job is great, but the hours are tough.”
I try to imagine Libby crisscrossing through the streets of her new city. “Have you met someone?”
She laughs. “You haven’t asked me that before.”
“Doctor K says I have to pay attention to people. I should ask them what they ask me. What’s the answer?”
“No one yet, unfortunately. The men in my office are stuck-up. They’re snobs,” she clarifies. “Slightly worse than Caleb.”
I snort. “They like money and they’re not nice.”
“Exactly.”
“You told me Caleb was a jerk.”
“I did describe him that way, didn’t I?” She bumps my elbow. “Can you at least try to forget something one of these days?”
“Why did you call him that though?”
“I saw how Caleb was with other people. Of course, this was all when we first started at the firm together. He was different, mean, even. When it came to our jobs, he wasn’t always fair in his tactics either. Now though? I think he’s changing. He’s a nicer version of himself and he’s lost so much. The way he looked at his house, after the trial—”
I stop walking. “You went to see him?”
Her lips press together, and she looks oddly young, like how she did as a teenager. “I did, I’m sorry. I asked him to put distance between the two of you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I say firmly. “Why did you do that?”
“I thought you needed space. I thought he wasn’t good for you. I had no idea how you really felt.”
Our brief interaction at the crosswalk is in the front of my thoughts. “Libby, I accused him of not making an effort to see me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “You should call him, if you want. Maybe the two of you should talk instead of running away.”
My phone dings. A reminder that I have reservations. “I’ve got dinner plans tonight.”
“With me, right?”
“With Joe.”
“Wait. I thought we were grabbing dinner. You have a date?”
“With a man named Joe,” I repeat my words slowly. I bring up the text from him on my phone.
Her eyes scan the dinner confirmation Joe had sent me. “What about Caleb?”
“He’s still very much part of me, but I should see what else is out there.”
“Well then, we should get home and get you ready.”
She talks me into taking another shower and she helps transform my hair into soft, loose curls. I don’t think about Caleb as I get down the elevator and exit the apartment building. Joe might be the next Caleb, and if not, someone else. Before Caleb I didn’t think anyone would ask me out to dinner.
I take the Metro to Cleveland Park and use City Walker to find the restaurant. The building is old and the interior, crowded and small. The noise level is high and my stomach rumbles at the garlicy dough smell. The hostess asks how many in my party and I tell her two.
I give her my name, stating, “I’m waiting for Joe.”
“We only seat complete parties,” she says, and nods to a row of chairs. “You can wait there if you like or at the bar.”
I take a seat and check my phone. He’s already five minutes late. Then thirty. Then forty-five minutes. Is he delayed? Did he get lost? I text him again and there is no response. Five more minutes, I tell myself.
Chapter 30
Caleb
The chocolate cookies with the fudgy center are my favorite snack at group. The person who brings these is a guy close to my age, and also, a lawyer. I take two, a napkin, and the rare evening coffee.
Ellen Cole sits next to me as she’s been doing with a frown on her face. It’s not like we speak. She doesn’t say a word to me and I treat her the same. I didn’t think I would come back after my first meeting and I’ve found myself filling in the gaps of Maren’s life by attending. I hear stories from families and friends and I realize how much I didn’t know about her. This group isn’t about Autism, it’s about people sharing stories.
I break my silence. “How come Ryan doesn’t come to these meetings?”
Ellen’s eyebrow raises. She shifts in her seat and looks away.
“What about Libby?” I persist. “Did she ever attend?”
