“I’ll check with my dad.”
“Fine.” I open the fridge and grab a bowl of grapes. “Tuesday at six, unless your dad can’t feed your pets. Then you feed them, and we’ll have dinner at seven instead.”
“But what time does Roman go to bed?”
“Eight.”
“So I’m coming over for an hour? Two if my dad feeds Wilbur, Orville, and Gemma?”
“You can stay later than his bedtime.”
“Why?”
I chuckle. “I don’t know. To talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Maybe you can tell me about your emus.”
“I can tell you about them while we’re eating dinner.”
“True.” I have no great response. She makes nothing easy for me. “I guess if we have nothing to talk about after Roman goes to bed, then you’ll go home.”
“Okay.”
Okay. So difficult and agreeable at the same time.
“Okay. I’ll text you my address. Maybe I’ll see you around the hospital this weekend.”
“Okay.”
I grin again.
Not true. I just haven’t stopped grinning.
“Goodnight.”
Dorothy
“Hey.” I plop down into my dad’s recliner since he’s chosen to sit on the sofa with my mom. Apparently they will have sex tonight. My mom let it slip that Dad only sits next to her on the sofa when he wants sex.
Things I never, ever, in the history of mankind, needed to know. So basically, walking in on them sitting on the sofa together always feels like the opening credits of a porn film not appropriate for anyone of any age.
They pause their Netflix show and glare at me with wide, expectant eyes.
“What?” I shoot them a wrinkled-nose look.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks, setting her bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
“I’m sitting in this chair.”
“Why?” She prods.
Funny story … my uncle died (not the funny part) and left me a lot of money.
Me.
Not my mom or my grandma. Not my other cousins.
So I bought some land with a small house on it and added a parents’ quarters off to one end. I figure since they housed me for twenty-six years, the least I can do is return the favor. Besides, I like having them there. It’s not that we spend hours bonding, watching TV together, and sharing meals. I just like having the company. So we share the kitchen and laundry room, but they have their own bedroom, bathroom, and family room.
“I just got off the phone with a doctor from the hospital.” Did I mention the only time I visit them in their family room is when I have something to share?
They return slow nods in unison—good listeners—another bonus to having them in close proximity.
“He wants me to do some babysitting for him. He has this three-year-old son named Roman. You’d love him. He’s really adorable. But now he’s invited me to dinner next Tuesday to get to know Roman better. I guess so he’s comfortable around me before I watch him. I respect that. Do you know how many parents don’t think twice about leaving their kids with strangers?”
More nodding from them.
I wait for more than a nod. “So?”
“Oh …” Mom jumps. “It’s our turn to speak?”
I roll my eyes.
“That’s great, Dorothy. I hope you hit it off with the little guy. He’s in your preferred buddy age range.”
“No …” I shake my head while retracting it a bit. “What’s that supposed to mean? And that’s not what I was asking.”
“You do well with people a lot older or a lot younger. That’s all.”
“That’s not true.” It is one hundred percent true. I understand mentor-mentee relationships. They feel clearer to me. One teaches. One learns. Black and white. Interacting with people closer to my age gets a little murky. Am I to impart my knowledge upon them? Do they think they have something to teach me? Who is the mentor? Who is the mentee? It just seems like an awkward power struggle and competition for knowledge.
“Okay. Whatever …” Dad clears his throat. He hates conflict even more than I do. Mom will bicker with me longer, until I get frustrated and stomp out of the room.
My dad is a get-to-the-point kind of guy. “What was the question? I think we missed it.”
I sigh. It’s like they don’t even know me. The question is perfectly clear. “Dinner at his house. No restaurant. No menu to study online before Tuesday. He said it’s spaghetti. But does that mean with meat? Meatballs I can handle. Those can be slid to the side … unless they’re greasy and they leave a pooling of oil on the pasta. But if it’s ground meat … like what if it’s a meat sauce? Or what if the sauce is too spicy or too chunky. Ugh …” I gag on my tongue. “Chunky tomato sauce. Gross.”
It sucks being a thirty-year-old woman on the autism spectrum. I obsessed over my diagnosis for years, my obsession being another confirming factor.
Autism.
OCD.
ADHD.
Depression.
I’m a cluster-fuck of issues. My parents sighed with relief when I received an official diagnosis of Asperger syndrome. For them, it’s a label to explain everything that isn’t quite right with me. A catchall.
She’s too messy.
Too organized.
Too energetic.
Too lazy.
Too picky.
Too indifferent.
Basically every time I’m “too” anything to them, it gets filed into the “she’s an Aspie” catchall category. Of course, as with all labels, Aspie’s political correctness became extinct years after my diagnosis. Everything got dumped into ASD—Autism Spectrum Disorder. But to my parents and even myself, I will always be an Aspie. And let’s be honest, aside from the word “ass” phonetically present in the word Aspie, it at least has the possibility of being something extraordinary, like savant or genius.
ASD … not cool at all. Even if the average person can look past the autism spectrum part, the second anyone hears the word “disorder,” game over. Something is clearly wrong with an ASD person. A fault. A defect. Not normal. Just … wrong.
So while I’ve spent many hours studying autism, to the point of feeling like an expert, I still can’t always hide the fact that I am, in fact, on that fucking spectrum. I mean … you don’t have to tell someone you’re a diabetic. You can keep that a secret until you pass out from low blood sugar. Then it’s like, “Oh, yeah … sorry I passed out on you. Did I forget to mention I’m diabetic?”
My “disorder” doesn’t cause me to pass out. It just contributes to really poor social etiquette choices and occasional meltdowns over things like spaghetti dinner invitations. But unlike the diabetic, I never say, “Oh, did I forget to mention that I’m autistic?”
“Just tell him you’re a vegetarian.” Mom smiles her see-I-just-solved-your-problem smile.
“So, I’m supposed to call him just to tell him I’m a vegetarian? What about the spice level and the chunkiness? He’s not going to ask me to watch Roman. He’s going to think I’m crazy. Especially since his mom is a talk doctor. You guys are no help.”
I march out. Why? Why did I think they could help? I give them too much credit for understanding things they clearly don’t understand.
Chapter Six
Emoji Confusion
Dr. Hawkins doesn’t work every weekend. And the one weekend I need him to work … he isn’t scheduled. That means I have one day, one chance to talk to him about the spaghetti dinner. Friday is my day—my only day.
I type out texts, but delete every single one. It isn’t something that can easily be discussed with a text no matter how many emojis I use to convey my feelings. And my feelings are strong. I want him to invite me to dinner.
Thanks for the dinner invitation. (high-five emoji)
* * *
I don’t eat meat. Cheese is my drug of choice. (living cow emoji, cheese emoji, smiley face emoji)
>
* * *
If you and Roman like meat, maybe consider balls instead of a meat sauce. (eggplant emoji) LOL. (wink emoji)
My humor isn’t everyone’s taste, but I feel a connection to Dr. Hawkins, like maybe he might appreciate it.
I’m not great at picking out wine, but I could bring the sauce. (spaghetti emoji, tomato emoji, high-five emoji)
* * *
Something not too spicy—for Roman. (high-five emoji)
* * *
JK about the wine. Ice water is great. (water emoji, high-five emoji)
It’s a lot of high-five emojis, which is great if he likes that emoji. But what if he doesn’t? Then I’m the girl obsessed with high-five emojis. And while I know it isn’t a date, I like him enough to care what he thinks of me.
Which is why I need to handle the spaghetti situation in the most neurotypical way possible.
Face-to-face.
Forcing eye contact.
Reciting my words just as I’ve practiced them.
I want to help him out with Roman. I just don’t want to seem ungrateful for his efforts if the meal involves a meaty, chunky, spicy sauce.
“Dr. Hawkins!” I chase him out the door just before 7:00 p.m. He gets off an hour before me. Lucky.
He turns, a grin immediately finding his lips. It plunges into a flat line as he looks over my shoulder. “Is she your patient?”
I know who has his attention—Layne Gibson and her possible concussion from a gymnastics accident. We were on our way back to her room when I saw Dr. Hawkins leaving for the day.
“No. I don’t have patients. She’s Dr. Freeman’s patient.”
“Waiting in the atrium for you. Did you abandon her? I think that’s a big rule. Don’t ever leave a patient unattended in a wheelchair.”
“Gary’s watching her. If she looks like she’s about to puke, he’ll give me a heads-up.”
“Who’s Gary?” Dr. Hawkins cocks his head to the side.
“Security guard.”
“Why don’t you get Dr. Freeman’s patient where she’s supposed to be and call me when you get off work?”
“I can’t. That’s why I ran after you. If what I have to say could be said over the phone, then of course I would have just called you. Not really. I would have texted you.”
His focus stays glued to Layne. “Make it quick.”
“I’m a vegetarian.” By some miracle, I manage to hold back the full vomit—my love of cheese, meatballs verses meat sauce, and tomato chunks.
His attention shifts to me, and the smile returns. “That’s what you couldn’t say over the phone or in a text?”
I nod. “See … I’m smiling.” I point to my face. “I still want to come to dinner. I’ll bring my own sauce if it makes things easier. Or even plain spaghetti is great. If you have parmesan cheese, I’ll put that on it. I love cheese. God … I love it so much. All dairy really. I just didn’t want you to mistake me for a vegan.”
He blinks so many times, I start counting them. By ten, he slides his key fob from his pocket. “Get back to work, Dorothy. I won’t feed you the hog.”
“Not just pork!” I call as he turns, heading toward his car. “Beef. Poultry. Fish …”
It didn’t go as planned. I hate when things play out one way in my head and another way in reality. One of my many special gifts involves either giving zero shits about something or completely obsessing with a laser fixation on whatever catches my attention. I’m easily distracted one minute, and the next the world could be ending, but if I have something to say to someone, the world will just have to end.
Yes, by thirty I have a solid grip on my personality traits even if I don’t get why some of them seem so odd to everyone else. It’s the difference between empathy and sympathy—imagining and experiencing. Under certain non-threatening situations, I can look at myself with a small percent of objectivity, but it’s not a superpower that changes my thoughts or actions.
I should have texted him. Instead, he’s driving off while I have ten more emoji faces to express and a half dozen high fives.
During the last hour of work, everything intensifies to a degree I haven’t experienced in years. All of my coping mechanisms for dealing with sensory overload fail me. Flickering lights in the hallways, excessive chattering, Dr. Overton’s bag of spring rolls sending bile up my throat, the contour of my new shoes rubbing just below my ankle, a fraction off from where all of my other shoes hit my legs, just … everything.
“How was work?” Mom asks from the kitchen, the second I walk in the door.
I make no effort to respond. Instead, I march into my bedroom and lock the door. Floor to ceiling bookshelves cover the wall opposite my bed. I’m a voracious reader, but I also have rows and stacks of journals.
My sanity lives in those journals. I sort my life out in words on pages. Sometimes just one word on each page for big problems. After my uncle died, I used four journals to describe the funeral, each page with one word. Four hundred and thirty-one words later, I had my feelings neatly sorted into those four journals. My script size matches the size of my problems. So my journals aren’t just a compilation of words with meaning. The way they are arranged on a page says as much as the actual words themselves.
I grab a brand-new journal (I purchase them in bulk and in various colors to match my mood) and deal with everything swimming in my mind, rescuing each thought one at a time until the waters calm into a manageable ebb and flow.
Spring rolls should be banned from the hospital.
LED lights on dimmers should be used in every work place.
Shoe designers don’t need to redesign a shoe if the original design works.
Humans talk too much.
Layne Gibson didn’t have a concussion, therefore, Dr. Hawkins didn’t need to worry about me leaving her with Gary the security guard.
Spaghetti should be the most simplistic dish in the culinary world—one box of pasta, one jar of non-chunky, mild marinara sauce. Why did Dr. Hawkins insist on making it so difficult?
Ask Dr. Hawkins if he grew up on a farm. Who says, “I won’t feed you the hog?”
I will eat before I go to dinner at his house. After all, I don’t need to eat to get to know Roman.
Problem solved.
“Bad day?” Mom asks as I emerge from my room, trekking a straight line to the front door to go take my walk.
“Yes. No. Just … ugh!” I slam the door behind me.
No more late-afternoon honking horns and bumper-to-bumper traffic. No chattering coworkers. No antiseptic smells. No flashing monitors. Just … quiet.
“Woof!”
Except for Gemma. I open my eyes. “Hey, Gem.” I bend down and give my chocolate Labradoodle some love before making my way to the three acres of fenced-in field with a pond at the far end. Orville and Wilbur race out of their shed when they see me open the gate. I press music on my watch and click on my Max Richter playlist.
Space.
Solitude.
Air.
Setting sun.
Sky.
As I walk the parameter of the fence with my dog and two emus in tow, the lingering stress of the day evaporates from my mind, unburdening my senses. My lungs welcome a full breath of air since I’ve spent most of my day holding my breath to keep it together. With each step, my day unscrambles into manageable moments that I can piece together in my own way, free from the urgency to quickly process the onslaught of … everything.
Ninety minutes later, I feed Wilbur and Orville and push through a gate behind their shed that opens to rows of raised-bed gardens. Dad tosses a handful of weeds into a bucket and scratches his chin as he glances up at me. It leaves a smattering of dirt clinging to his short, gray whiskers, only slightly shorter than his buzzed salt and pepper receding hairline.
He was army, police force, and private security before retiring to spend part of his day gardening and the other part driving my mom crazy.
“How was your walk?” He sits on the
edge of one of the garden beds and wipes his hands on his dark gray cargo shorts.
I shrug. “Good. How was the reheated lasagna?” I smelled the burnt grease the second I got home. My mom can’t even use a microwave properly.
“Well, considering it was frozen when your mom bought it and she’s served it and reserved it for the past three days … it was disgusting. Nuked mush.”
“How do you flirt with a girl?”
He blinks several times before his lips curl into his usual smile. My dad has one smile. Nothing that beams, nothing tiny like a smirk, just a cheesy, one-size-fits-all smile. “Are we going to have the lesbian talk? I feel like this conversation is better suited for your mom.”
“What is the lesbian talk?”
He scratches his head, leaving more dirt in places it doesn’t belong. “Rewind, since I’m not really sure what that is. How do I flirt with girls? Well, very carefully if I want to keep my nuts intact. Your mom acts like a confident woman, but she has a lethal jealous bone.”
“How did you flirt with Mom?” I sit on the edge of the opposing garden bed.
“Are you asking me how to flirt? Again, this might be a subject that you should discuss with your mom.”
“No. I don’t need to flirt. I’m sure I can flirt if the situation arises. I’m just wondering if this doctor at the hospital has been flirting with me. I’m sure he hasn’t been flirting with me because he’s older and really successful and his ex-wife is my idol, but while I was walking, the thought came to mind. But …” I shake my head. “Just forget I asked.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing … I don’t know. He just smiles at me … a lot. Maybe excessively. I’m not sure.”
Dad chuckles. “Remind me again why you’re having this conversation with me?”
“Because you’re a guy. Who better to know how guys flirt?”
Keep This Promise Page 172
