The Girl He Used to Know

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  My mother squished me with her hug. “This has been a truly wonderful Christmas. I got everything I ever wished for this year, Annika. Everything.”

  I don’t know why I worried so much, because those dish towels were obviously the perfect gift after all.

  * * *

  “Why have you been so nice to me?” I asked Will on the way back to campus. It was calming not to have such an antagonistic relationship with my brother, but I didn’t understand how it had happened and I wanted him to explain it to me.

  “Maybe I understand you better now. I’m not sure I really did before.”

  “I don’t really understand anyone.”

  “I want you to know that I’m here for you if you ever need me, Annika. Someday, when Mom and Dad are gone, it’ll just be the two of us.”

  “Okay, Will. Thanks.”

  I had no memory of ever hugging my brother, but before he left he reached out his arms and I stepped into them, and his hug was every bit as crushing as my mother’s.

  * * *

  Two years later, when I completed my education at the University of Illinois, I had earned my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I started looking for an apartment in the city and began interviewing for the librarian career I’d coveted for so long.

  And when I walked across campus for the last time, I held my head high.

  33

  Jonathan

  CHICAGO

  AUGUST 2001

  I wake up wrapped around Annika the morning after our dinner with Nate and Sherry. We finally abandoned the couch and moved to the comfort of Annika’s bed for rounds two and three, and we collapsed in a heap of exhaustion a few hours later. She’ll be tired for days. When she finally stirs around noon we take a shower together and after making coffee and tea, we go straight back to bed.

  Annika tells me she’s sorry for forgetting to take her birth control pills. Before they rushed her into surgery, she hadn’t been in any condition to read the expressions of the medical staff, and it’s doubtful she would have understood what they meant. But I saw something on the doctor’s face when he laid it all out and explained how the pregnancy had happened, and everyone else in the room would have recognized it easily: it was thinking you had your life all planned out and then standing by helplessly while the universe laughed in your face.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” I say. “We’re not the first couple to have a lapse in birth control.”

  “I have the implant now.” She holds up her arm and points to the spot where the doctor inserted the small rods under her skin. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  I take a drink of my coffee. “We were so young. I had this idea that we’d conquer the city together. That we’d wake up beside each other every day in another crappy apartment. But I wasn’t thinking about what would be best for you. All I could focus on was why you stopped loving me.” Here’s her chance to remove that pebble once and for all.

  “I was just in a really bad place that summer after I lost the baby. Worse than what you saw. A dark place that scared me so much. I thought maybe I’d go to sleep and if I never woke up, I wouldn’t have to hurt anymore, and I wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

  I understand what she’s saying and it guts me. For a split second I can’t breathe as the weight of her words settles on me. I feel like I might throw up. “I’m so sorry for what you went through,” I say.

  “I never stopped loving you, but I couldn’t go to New York. I had to prove to myself that I could finish something on my own without you and Janice.”

  I set my coffee cup on her nightstand and reach for her. I don’t trust myself to talk, so I hold her tight and rub her back, thinking how selfish my thoughts were because all I wanted when I landed in New York was for her to be there with me.

  “You never gave up on me,” Annika says.

  “Yes, I did.”

  When I met Liz at a mixer for new employees, she was everything I thought I wanted. The high school valedictorian from a small town in Nebraska shared more with me than her Midwestern roots. She had student loans to pay and ambition to burn, and she was also working on her master’s at night. We spent hours together studying, promising ourselves that when we’d earned those degrees, there was nothing that would hold us back. In the meantime, we clawed our way higher and higher in the company, working more hours than any of our peers. Liz was every bit as smart as I was, and it didn’t hurt that her intelligence was wrapped in a pretty package. She knew what she wanted, and she had the answer for everything. Eventually I would find her direct approach abrasive, her confidence bordering on arrogance. But that came later. In the early days of our relationship, she thought I was something special, and to me, it felt like a life preserver thrown from the sinking ship of my failed relationship with Annika. I grabbed for it with both hands.

  Annika wasn’t ever going to join me in New York. I’d known it for a long time, but until I met Liz I still held out hope that she might. In early December, I called Annika and got her answering machine again. “It’s me. I wanted to let you know I met someone. I just thought I should tell you in case you thought you might still come. I’d love to hear from you, but I’ll understand if I don’t. Bye, Annika.”

  I would never have left such an important message on a recording, but she rarely picked up the phone, and the last time I’d called, she hadn’t called me back. I told myself that being honest with her had to count for something.

  It was the last time I ever dialed her number.

  “That message devastated me. I wanted to call you back and tell you I still loved you,” Annika says. “But I just couldn’t. I knew what I had to do for myself, but I didn’t think about how my decision would make you feel. I didn’t understand that you could be hurt by my actions until Tina explained it to me.”

  “It’s okay. I got through it.” It seems almost silly now, the extent of my heartbreak. The hours I spent listening to songs that reminded me of Annika. Her pillow that traveled to New York with me and that I laid my head on every night, missing her. The blond girls on the subway that all looked like her.

  “I did call you back, but it was years later and whoever answered said you were no longer at that number. I probably could have tracked you down by calling information, but even Tina couldn’t help me figure out what I wanted to say, so I didn’t. I focused on what I’d accomplished by then, living independently and my job at the library, but I missed you terribly. When I ran into you that day at the grocery store, I was so happy to see you again.”

  “Seeing you was like seeing a ghost. I wasn’t sure it was you at first.”

  “I knew right away it was you,” she says. “And I’ve been grateful ever since.”

  34

  Annika

  CHICAGO

  SEPTEMBER 2001

  I’m meeting with Tina today to tell her about the results of my evaluation. I took Jonathan’s advice about getting tested and when I told Tina I’d finally decided to do it, she referred me to a neuropsychologist named Dr. Sorenson. Tina said autism is a developmental disorder and not a mental illness, and diagnosing autism-spectrum disorders is something neuropsychologists specialize in. When I called to make my appointment, I learned that testing would take four or five hours but that they would split it up over two sessions. They would also mail me a multipage questionnaire that I would fill out in advance and bring to my appointment.

  Dr. Sorenson’s office was nothing like Tina’s. The furniture was stiff, the lights were bright, and there was a lot of chrome and glass. I kept catching my reflection on the shiny surfaces, and every single time I’d startle, wondering who the other woman was. Finally, I just looked down at my hands, which were folded in my lap, and tried not to flick my fingertips.

  The tests were grueling and they exhausted me, but I felt good afterward. Like I’d finally confronted an issue that had plagued me my whole life. When I speculated about the results of my evaluation, my nervousness returned. What if the fears I shared w
ith Jonathan were about to come true? What if there was nothing wrong with me and I really was just a weird girl whose childhood tormentors had been right on the money?

  When I returned for my follow-up appointment to hear my diagnosis, Dr. Sorenson sat down behind his desk and opened a folder. “The testing shows that you fit the criteria for someone who has an autism-spectrum disorder. You’re very high functioning and likely employ a number of coping strategies and work-arounds, but there are things we can do to make it easier to manage your everyday life. I believe you’re also suffering from a generalized anxiety disorder and that it’s causing more difficulty for you than being on the spectrum.”

  “I have an anxiety disorder too?”

  “They often go hand in hand. My point is that you don’t have to go through life feeling this way.”

  What I learned that day in Dr. Sorenson’s office made me feel peaceful. Hopeful. I had known for a long time that my brain worked differently, but to hear it confirmed provided immense relief.

  I wished I’d sought an official diagnosis years ago. If I’d known then what I know now, I might not have spent so many years convinced there was something horribly wrong with me. I could have developed better coping skills at a much younger age. With the knowledge I gained in Dr. Sorenson’s office, I might have excelled instead of merely gotten by.

  I certainly would not have been so ashamed.

  * * *

  “Dr. Sorenson also prescribed an antianxiety medication,” I tell Tina after I fill her in on everything I learned. “He said it might help calm the chatter in my brain. Make my thoughts clearer.”

  “And has it?” Tina asks.

  “I haven’t been taking it for very long and he said it could take up to a month before I see the full effects, but I already feel different. Calmer.” I was starting to not second-guess everything I said and did. I felt more confident in my interactions with other people. Or maybe I just wasn’t as worried about saying the wrong thing.

  “Have you shared the results of your evaluation with Jonathan?”

  “Yes. I told him everything, and I told him how happy I was that he encouraged me to go through with it. I wish my mother had had me evaluated when I was younger.”

  “Knowing what I know about your mother, she more than likely tried. There were fewer resources and there was even less awareness of spectrum disorders back then. I think your mom did the best she could to prepare you for the world.”

  “I should have pursued an evaluation when I first started seeing you. Why can I only see that now?”

  “Because hindsight is a wonderfully illuminating thing.”

  “There’s a woman I work with at the library. Her name is Stacy. People smile at her in our staff meetings and everyone’s always wandering into her office to chat or offer her cookies they’ve brought from home. I’ve been trying to make friends with her since she started working at the library a few years ago. I always tried to copy everybody else’s behavior, but it never seemed to work when I did it. The other day, when we were in the break room, I felt so much calmer that I just said hi while I waited for the microwave to heat water for my tea.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “She said hi. And then she asked me how my day was going and I said fine. Then the microwave dinged and I took my mug and told her to have a great rest of the day before I walked out.”

  Tina seems delighted by this revelation. “How did that make you feel?”

  “I can’t describe how it felt other than to say it felt natural. In the past, I would have misread her signals and started rambling. Then I would worry about what I’d said, which would make me ramble even more, making it worse. This time I didn’t. A couple days later, Stacy and I were walking out at the same time and she held the door for me and asked me if I had plans for the weekend. I told her I’d probably do something with my boyfriend and she asked me his name and how we met. I told her a little about Jonathan and how we’d dated in college. She thought that was so romantic. Then, before she got into her car, she said, ‘Have fun with your boyfriend,’ and I said, ‘Have fun with your boyfriend too!,’ because of course I did.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Tina asks.

  “Stacy is married,” I say.

  “So close,” Tina says, and then we both crack up and we are still laughing when my time is up.

  35

  Annika

  CHICAGO

  SEPTEMBER 2001

  “You are … not great at this,” Jonathan says when I try to pull his car up alongside the curb and bounce off it instead.

  “Sorry!” I say.

  “It’s okay. You can’t really hurt it unless you hit something big.”

  Jonathan’s car is nicer than the old truck he used to drive. It’s a shiny silver color and when I asked what kind it was, he said it was a sedan.

  He doesn’t drive it that often because he usually takes the train. I like the way it smells inside: new, although Jonathan said he bought it when he moved back from New York.

  “I told you I was a bad driver. If I remember correctly, those were my exact words.”

  “You’re not that bad. You just don’t do it enough.”

  We’re visiting my parents this weekend, and Jonathan decided the town of Downers Grove would be the perfect place for some basic driving lessons before we tackle something harder. I don’t tell him I’m hoping he’ll give up on me before we reach that point. Chicago traffic has a paralyzing effect on me; I literally cannot drive the city streets. Between cabs, the L, and my own two feet, I shouldn’t have to, but Jonathan thinks I need to broaden my horizons a little.

  “Annika, stop!” Jonathan slams his foot down on the floor in front of him, hard. It startles me.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask, stopping so suddenly my seat belt locks up. Oh. Maybe because that wasn’t my light that turned green.

  “You don’t know how much I wish there was a brake pedal on my side.”

  * * *

  Another fifteen minutes of jerky starts and sudden stops is all either of us can take, and Jonathan switches places with me. I’m limp with relief and slump against the seat as he drives us back to eat lunch with my parents.

  My mom and dad were thrilled to hear that Jonathan and I had reconnected, and even more thrilled when I told them we were driving over to see them. That’s how this whole driving-lesson thing got started. I told Jonathan that my mom and dad usually drove over to Chicago to pick me up whenever I wanted to come home.

  “It’s only half an hour,” he said. “Why don’t you get a Zipcar and drive over yourself? It would be good practice.”

  “Because I hate driving. I found a job and an apartment downtown so that I wouldn’t have to do it.”

  “It’s not about the driving.”

  “It’s not? What is it about?” I seriously didn’t know.

  “It’s about doing one thing every day that scares you. Wasn’t there a famous woman who said that? I feel like there was.”

  “It was Eleanor Roosevelt and you know it. And I’m not scared.”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  “I know what that sound means.”

  “Then you know there are going to be more driving lessons in your future.”

  * * *

  Jonathan wants us to head home by four so he’ll have time to go into the office for a few hours. He said something this morning about Brad wanting him to get a jump on Monday, which sounded like a good way to ruin a perfectly lovely Sunday. We say good-bye to my parents and get back in the car. I’m thrilled that Jonathan doesn’t suggest that I get behind the wheel.

  “Why can’t you tell Brad you don’t want to work on Sundays?” It would be nice if he and I could watch a movie or do some other relaxing activity together when we get home.

  “Nobody would admit that to their boss. It would mean we weren’t team players and that our personal lives are more important.”

  I wrinkle my forehead in confusion. “Aren’t they?”<
br />
  “Of course they are, but we can’t admit it.”

  “I don’t understand this at all, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the way my brain works.”

  Jonathan laughs. “It’s corporate culture. No one has to understand it as long as we play by the rules.”

  “It sounds horrible.”

  “It’s just the way it is.”

  “What if you decided you didn’t want to do it anymore? What else could you be?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. What would you do if you decided you didn’t want to work in a library anymore?”

  “I would write plays. All day long, just”—I mimic pounding on the keys. “But I can’t imagine ever leaving the library. I love it too much.”

  “You’re lucky,” he says.

  I shrug. “I just know I couldn’t spend my life doing something that doesn’t make me happy.”

  36

  Jonathan

  CHICAGO

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2001

  “That’s not going to help us at all,” Brad says after a junior member of the team makes a suggestion that contradicts what Brad has proposed but will, in fact, help us quite a bit. Our petulant boss punctuates his statement by throwing a stack of reports across the conference room table like a child throwing a tantrum. Brad suffers from a raging case of impostor syndrome, and he’s terrified someone will discover that, most of the time, he’s talking out of his ass. But he’s what they call “good in a room,” energetic and animated, and it’s masked his overall incompetence and made him look smarter than he is. It doesn’t hurt that the solutions I generate for this team, through my own hard work, are often delivered via his big mouth, making him look like the superstar he only wishes he could be.

  The whole team is catching the last flight to New York tonight so we can be sitting in our seats in a conference room by eight thirty tomorrow morning to give our presentation and, even more important, dazzle our clients. Unfortunately, we’re not adequately prepared, which is why our fearless leader is in such a rotten mood. During our last five-minute break, I ducked into my office, shut the door, and called Annika.