Page 11 of Breathing Under Water

“You said I don’t have to talk about everything I think inside my head if I don’t want to.” His finger speeds up on the wheels of the plane. “Don’t want to, don’t want to, don’t want to.”

“That’s correct. But I would prefer if you didn’t lie. Peopledon’t like being lied to, remember? So instead of saying nothing is bothering you, a more appropriate response would be, ‘I don’t feel like talking about that,’ or ‘Thank you for asking, but I’d rather discuss something else.’”

Phil has reemerged and is entering the kitchen in cargo shorts and one of his many Middlebury t-shirts. His curls have gone wild again.

When our eyes meet, he says, “Look at you. You’re like a professional social coach over here.”

It’s all I can do not to throw the box of Wacky Mac at him. The whole point is that the coach can’t always be me. Trained professionals could offer Leo so much more than I know how to teach him. Plus, I have a job and career dreams of my own that I’m hoping to finally achieve. Phil shouldn’t be the only one among us whose career matters, even if he earns much more than I do.

Instead of acknowledging his words, I turn back to Leo. “I understand and respect your position. If you change your mind, I’d love to try to help.”

Leo nods and takes his seat at the table. I’m not sure if he knows how much I worry about him. When his longtime therapist declared Leo was suffering from depression, Phil and I were both surprised by the diagnosis. Leo had only been in eighth grade at the time. We thought it was normal adolescent moodiness, but his therapist explained that depression is common among people with autism. Social discomfort, loneliness, bullying, rejection, never once feeling like you fit—it takes its toll. And middle school is hard for everyone, but for a kid who speaks differently, walks differently, acts differently, and processes differently, it’s a minefield.

Once Leo started taking the Zoloft, everything seemed to get better. He still had a laundry list of unique behaviors, but he seemed steadier. His mood improved, as well as his appetite. His obsessive-compulsive behaviors decreased, he had fewer emotional outbursts, and he discovered his love of all things aviation-related.

It wasn’t until six months later that he connected his trouble sleeping with the medicine. Instead of telling his dad or me that the meds were messing with his dreams, he simply stopped taking his pills. Within a week, everything spiraled. The erratic moods came back with a vengeance. He got so vulnerable to sensory stimuli that he’d sometimes sit in his room with the lights off, refusing to go anywhere. When I found him smashing an airplane model that had taken him six and a half weeks to complete, I knew something was really wrong. We went back to the therapist thinking we needed different medicine, but Leo confessed to Dr. Zelnick that he hadn’t been taking the medicine at all. Meanwhile, the fix for the sleep disturbances was as simple as moving his daily dose from nighttime to morning.

When I plunk the steaming bowl of cheesy pasta down in front of Leo, he picks up his spoon but doesn’t eat.

“I would like to perform an aerial survey of Wisconcet Manor,” he says instead.

“Okay,” I answer tentatively. Leo flies his drones off to one location or another almost every evening, so I’m not sure why he’s shared this particular destination with me. “Is there something special about Wisconcet Manor?”

“There’s something special about every site I fly to.” He doesn’t sound affronted that I would imply otherwise, just direct and businesslike, as usual.

“Well, what piques your interest about that manor?”

“It’s where they’re having junior prom.” He puts a spoonful of food in his mouth.

“Oh, sweetie.” I pull out the chair beside him and lower myself down. My girlfriend Dayna has a son in the eleventh grade. She told me the girl who invited Leo had been asked to go with another boy mere hours after Leo ran off.

“Sienna is going with Erik Fiore,” I tell him as gently as I can.

“I know.” Leo bobs his head in that way of his. I wonder how he came to possess this information about the replacement date, and I just hope it wasn’t by way of taunts. “I don’t want to go this year. Not this year. Not to Wisconcet Manor. Not yet.”

“Do you want to go next year?” My heart clenches wondering if another girl would be willing, or if he’d feel bad about going alone.

“I don’t know.” He nods again. “That’s why I want to see it. To see the prom. That’s why. Just to see it.”

“Well, you don’t need my permission to operate your device, but you absolutely have my blessing.”

Maybe with a year of prep time before his own prom rolls around, we could figure this out for him. With a social skills coach, everything could fall into place. But I know for certain Leo won’t go to prom if he doesn’t have even one friend. I decide in that moment that I’ve had enough of arguing with Phil, and I’m just going to do what needs doing. Marital bliss be damned.

8

McKenna

June 2023

I’ve been hiding in the ladies’ locker room at Hollyhock, making calls to home health agencies. What I’ve learned is that everything will be more affordable if a doctor verifies Glory’s needs, but now I have to figure out how to get Glory to another doctor’s visit without tipping her off. I’m due back at the pool deck though, so it’s a question for later.

As I hurry out of the changing area, I overhear a woman at the other end of the hallway reprimanding her child. Even as they turn the corner ahead of me, their voices carry.

“The only birthday party you’ll be having is one where the whole second grade is invited,” she says in a frustrated tone, as if she’s already told the kid several times.

Right away, I know it must be Mrs. Cushing, Parker’s mom. During mini-camp this morning, Parker told me he’s having a pool party to celebrate his eighth birthday. He’s very excited, save for the fact that his mom is forcing him to invite a boy who Parker finds, as he put it, “so annoying!”

“But why are you making me?” Parker’s whine drifts back toward me as I follow behind them. “Nobody wants him there.He’s going to ruin the whole party.” They exit to the sunny pool patio, and I miss whatever is said next. But as I push the door and step outside myself, I hear Parker say, “And he doesn’t even know how to swim!” The kid drops his towel to the slate patio and marches off toward the shallow end of the pool.