7 Berry
Berry
Once we’re back in the car, the act is over. We spend the entire ride home repeating the same tired arguments. Phil thinks
Leo is ready to stand on his own two feet, that he should go to college, yes, but not a specialized program for kids with
ASD. He should just apply as a regular student, Phil says. If we keep hiring coaches and therapists, he thinks we’ll stunt
Leo’s development. Then in the next breath, he suggests sending Leo to a school close to home so we can visit all the time.
“So are we trying to help him stand on his own or aren’t we?” This is the third time I’ve asked the same question.
Leo has come so far, sure, but he has much to learn before he can ever make a real life for himself. A supervised college
program would provide the perfect safety net for him while he practiced spreading his wings. And we have only two more years
to prepare him. Now is the time to get him those additional supports—while he’s still in high school, under our roof, and
about to start a new school year without a single friend his age.
“Our son ran away from a girl who asked him on a date, for crying out loud!” I twist my whole body toward the driver’s seat as I explode.
“But he got asked! That’s proof enough of the progress he’s made!” Phil’s voice is filled with exasperation as he looks over
at me and then returns his attention to the highway.
“You know as well as I do that he’s going to regress without Sebastian as a buffer.”
Around and around we go, neither of us bending. When we finally reach the house, Phil parks in the driveway instead of the
garage, which means he’ll be going back out.
“We’re home!” I call out as I walk inside.
Leo’s been at the house by himself for a couple of hours now. One thing the kid is great at is being alone. That’s the problem.
He was busy at the Y for most of the day, doing audiovisual work for one of their theater productions. He loves all that tinkering,
so I don’t feel too bad that Phil and I were otherwise engaged. But I do wish he’d find some activities that are a little
more interactive.
“I’m hungry,” Leo says as he appears at the top of the staircase. His noise-canceling headphones are hanging loosely around
his neck, and he’s shoving a small plastic airplane the size of a Matchbox car into the pocket of his jeans. I take a split
second to admire my handsome boy. With those butterscotch waves and a strong Roman nose like his father’s, of course a girl
would want him in her prom pictures.
“Mac and cheese?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, making his way down the stairs and marching directly to the kitchen.
Kicking off my espadrilles, I follow him to the kitchen. Phil heads upstairs like I’d been hoping to do. It would have been nice to change out of my dress before standing at the stove over a pot of Wacky Mac, but the look on Leo’s face tells me he’s got something on his mind.
He doesn’t sit in his usual chair at the table but stands awkwardly at the counter for a moment before removing the little
airplane from his pocket. I watch as he begins rubbing his finger against the wheels of the plane, one of his coping mechanisms
when he’s feeling stressed.
“Tough day?” I ask, opening the double cabinet below the oven where we keep cases of peanut butter, mashed potato mix, and
the macaroni. Leo has a relatively short list of foods he’s willing to eat, so I stock up on items that are safe bets.
“No,” Leo says, his tone even flatter than usual. “Why did you ask me that?”
I turn to face him, and as usual, I try to be as clear and honest as possible, to show him respect while also teaching him.
“Well, first of all, you’re stimming.” I point to the way he’s still rubbing at the airplane wheels to self-soothe. He doesn’t
meet my eyes as I continue. “Secondly, you’re standing in the corner of the room instead of sitting in your seat like you
normally would. And thirdly, you’re not even trying with the eye contact.”
Leo has never been a fan of direct eye contact, but we’ve been working on the skill for years. He’s generally pretty good
about it with immediate family, even if he still struggles with everyone else. His discomfort meeting my eyes right now tells
me something is bothering him.
“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. People don’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.