9 Berry
Berry
Thank goodness for Harrison. That’s what we always say. A mantra we’ve been repeating for close to sixteen years. Every time
I think that I have too much on my plate, that I just can’t hack it, Harrison reappears to save the day for me, or Phil, or
Leo, or all three of us.
Ever since Opal Carter announced her retirement, I’ve been putting in longer hours at work, doing what I can to keep reaching
for that principal position. I see it all day long, dangling in front of me like one of those snacks that gets stuck halfway
out of the vending machine. I want it so badly that I can taste it. If only it were as easy as slamming my palm into the machine
to make my bag of Fritos come out, I’d finally be in a position of control, where my competence and leadership could make
a real impact. Barring any interruptions from my personal life, of course. The board’s putting more effort into the replacement
process than I expected, searching for other options extensively enough that all my hemming and hawing about biting off more
than I can chew may just be wasted energy anyway.
“I’m home!” I call out as I step into the mudroom, my arms laden with binders and textbooks. I’m greeted by the sweet smells of oregano and basil as I swing my hip to close the door.
When I round the corner into the kitchen, I find Harrison at the center island drizzling olive oil over a bowl full of spaghetti
primavera. The sleeves of his light blue button-down are rolled up, and he’s got one of my old aprons tied around his waist
to protect his dress pants. I notice he’s set a bowl of plain spaghetti to the side for Leo.
“You didn’t have to stay to make dinner,” I tell him, dropping my books on the counter and moving toward him for a hug.
“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug as I give him an extra squeeze. “I had nothing to do tonight anyway.”
“You should be going on a date. What about one of those singles nights out in Huntington? You could still make it if you go
now, spritz on a little of Dad’s cologne and drive over there. Cara and I used to go back in the day, and we were—”
“Mom.” He cuts me off.
“What?” I bat my eyelashes up at him in false innocence and then sigh. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to babysit us.” It’s
the umpteenth time I’ve said something like this to him.
At twenty-four, Harrison has already been climbing the ranks at the coastal preservation firm he joined after graduating from
the SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry. We were thrilled when he announced he was moving back to the Island
after four years upstate. He’s been talking about starting his own company, an ecotourism outfit with a big farm-to-table
component, but I don’t see how he’ll ever have time for something like that if he keeps devoting so many hours to taking care
of everyone but himself.
I bring my hand up to his face, patting my palm against the soft scruff of his short hipster beard. “How long are you planning to keep this thing?” I ask. I suppose the beard is trendy, but I prefer his face clean-shaven.
“My face, my choice,” he says. “Leo’s upstairs showing Dad the Wingnut model. That cockpit is so intricate. Cool, cool stuff.”
“Agreed. The rigging too,” I say with a nod. The Wingnut Wings 1/32 scale WWI model took a few weeks for Leo to complete, and it is, indeed, quite cool. The rest of us hadn’t been particularly
knowledgeable about aviation before Leo adopted it as his pet hobby. In the few years since he developed an interest, he’s
gone whole hog, not just making models and flying drones around town, but also learning about flight patterns, FAA rules,
the steps to building commercial jets, which airlines have the most outrageous accommodations in first class, you name it.
After listening to Leo talk about planes so often, we’ve all come to fancy ourselves minor experts too, or “AvGeeks,” as Leo
prefers. Apparently that’s a complimentary term to those in the know.
I ask Harrison about his day at work and the field study he’s been conducting at Hempstead Plains.
“I’m still getting used to working further inland,” he says as he heads over to the cabinet for a grinder of sea salt. “But
the grassland ecosystem is phenomenal, a whole new way to dig into the impact of urban development.”
I love hearing Harrison talk about his job, seeing him light up about the science and the ramifications of small changes,
but before I can ask for more details, my phone rings.
“Give me a sec,” I say as I reach for my tote.
Karyn from the Y is calling. I hope there isn’t a problem.
I don’t know what Leo would do if he couldn’t spend weekends with the Y’s audiovisual team, helping them do heaven-knows-what with speakers and spotlights for various events.
Karyn’s been looking out for him ever since he was little, back when he did their STELLAR program.
Over the years, the Y has been a godsend.
Not to mention that Leo’s even earning some money over there now.
He uses it to buy himself more aviation gadgets.
All those simulator apps and drone attachments don’t come cheap.
“Hello?” I answer on speaker.
“Hey, Berry,” Karyn says, her voice, chipper as ever, catapulting into the room. “An opportunity has fallen into my lap, something
I think you might like for Leo if you wanted to give group recreation another try.”
“Oh?” I share a look with Harrison, who’s leaning against the counter, watching me.
Karyn has been around for so many of our failed attempts at getting Leo “involved.” I’d have figured she’d be ready to throw
in the towel, but she keeps coming back from time to time with new suggestions for us.
Maybe she’s forgotten the “movement games” class four years ago, when Leo spent several sessions rocking his body back and
forth in a corner while the other kids did obstacle courses and stretching routines. He eventually refused to return at all.
Before that was the interactive storytelling club, when he ran and hid in another classroom to avoid participating. It took
the STELLAR staff almost an hour to find him. Granted, these things happened when Leo was much younger. Now he goes to class
at the public high school without complaint, but he still shies away from anything that requires significant interaction with
peers.
It doesn’t seem to make any difference that I keep talking with him about the importance of trying.
I’ve explained all the reasons why it would benefit him to connect with kids his own age, like improving his emotional well-being and building the support networks he’ll need in adulthood.
Never mind that life is simply more fun with friends.
He’s old enough to understand now why these things matter. But he still insists he’s not ready for more.
This is what keeps me up at night.
As I ready myself to decline whatever Karyn is offering, I can’t resist asking for details first.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I happen to know a Division 1 swimmer working over at Hollyhock Country Club. She’s putting together a small group of elementary-aged
kids on the spectrum for swim lessons. I thought Leo could join them.”
I feel a quick flutter of excitement. Younger children don’t bother Leo. In fact, he’s quite good with them, and even stops
to chat with some of the little ones we see at the Y. But my hopes deflate just as quickly.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, even though I do know. “Leo might not be comfortable being so much older than the other kids,
so far behind for his own age. It’ll only highlight his delays to him.”
When Leo was fourteen, we convinced him to let us sign him up for a summer nature camp where most of the kids were neurotypical.
After Leo finally agreed, the director declared she’d be putting him with the eight-year-olds because the younger groups had more staff.
When Leo heard this, he flat-out refused to attend.
As much as he likes younger kids, he doesn’t want to be treated like one.
He’d be the first to tell you his ASD doesn’t make him less mature; it just makes him unique.
“Hold on,” Karyn says. “He wouldn’t be going as a student. It would be a volunteer position.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought he could be a helper for the teacher, like a teacher’s aide. And he’d learn to swim,” Karyn explains. “The teacher, McKenna—her only expertise is swimming, not teaching kids with special
needs. So Leo could be a real asset to her. And in return, he gets to learn to swim.”
Harrison jacks up his eyebrows looking at me, as if he thinks this idea has legs.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” I say, thinking Karyn might have found the perfect spin to get Leo into lessons appropriate for
his skill level.
“Oh, and it’d be free,” Karyn adds.
“Free?” I repeat. We could certainly pay for reasonably priced swim lessons, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like free stuff
as much as the next guy.
“It’s a community service project,” Karyn explains. “The young woman creating the program is a college student. You know how
they are, a bunch of adorable little do-gooders.”
Harrison starts shaking his head almost frantically, and I know why. Leo would hate to think of himself as anyone’s community
service project.
“Oh, okay, I see,” I say. “I’m still not sure it sounds right for Leo . . .”
“What doesn’t sound right for me?” Leo asks as he comes down the stairs. He’s got his Bose headphones resting on his neck as usual, and the empty cardboard box from the airplane model in his hands.
“Do I hear Leo there?” Karyn asks in an exuberant tone that tells me she knows he can hear her. “Can I tell him about the
job offer?”
“What job offer?” Leo asks. He walks closer to where the phone is sitting on the counter and checks the name on the screen.
“I have a job already,” he says, staring down at the phone. “I work at the YMCA doing tech support.”
“Oh, I know that, Leo, dear,” Karyn answers. “This would just be a small thing on the side, something for the summer. A young