19 Berry
Berry
It was a long day at work, filled with faculty interviews for the few positions that opened at the end of the year. We also
had our annual policy review, and then multiple pain-in-the-neck emails from awful Neil Rumson. I’d swear that man is trying
his level best to keep me tied up with insipid tasks so I can’t do anything productive. I’m relieved to finally be pulling
into my garage, picturing a night on the couch with a cold glass of chardonnay. With any luck I’ll get to watch a couple of
hours of Dancing with the Stars while Leo’s busy with his flight simulator. Phil never wants to watch competition shows and reality TV, which is part of
why I’ve moved it to the top of tonight’s list.
I’m just pulling off my pumps when I get a call from McKenna. Leo’s been in much better spirits ever since I told him about
my text exchange with her, explaining that she wasn’t angry and that she’d love to have him come back to the lessons. The
fact that she’s calling the night before he’s due to return has me worried she’s changed her mind.
“McKenna, hi!” I try to sound cheery. I stay in the mudroom, hoping Leo won’t overhear my reaction to whatever’s coming next.
“Hi, Berry. I’m sorry to be calling with unpleasant news, but the lesson for tomorrow is canceled.”
“Oh, okay, no problem.” I’m sure Leo will be disappointed, but that’s not nearly as bad as telling him she doesn’t want him
to return. “They’re still fixing the pool?” I’m already sorting through options in my head about the best way to keep Leo
busy in the morning.
McKenna lets out a long sigh.
“No, the pool’s all taken care of. It has a spiffy new filtration system and, I don’t know, a bunch of other upgrades, but
that’s not the issue.” She sighs again, and I brace. “They’re trying to shut down our lessons.”
I gasp in spite of myself. “What, why?” I ask, even though I feel I know the answer.
“Some club members complained, saying it’s disruptive to the calming vibe the members seek. They don’t feel Hollyhock’s an
appropriate venue for a group of children with autism to be using the pool.” She sounds disgusted as she says it. But then
her voice perks up. “I’m not going to stand for it though. I’m meeting with my manager in the morning, and I’m going to fix
this. It’s straight-up bullshit. Sorry for the language, but I’m not accepting it.”
I appreciate her outrage, and I get it, but I don’t want to stoke the flames.
It must be the first time she’s seeing this kind of discrimination.
What I want to tell her is that we’ve been through it—Leo, Phil, and I.
Even Harrison. There have been plenty of times over the years.
The toddler classes that wouldn’t take Leo because they “couldn’t meet his needs.
” Or the neighborhood barbecues we were excluded from because Leo’s presence would just “change the dynamic.” The restaurant that wouldn’t serve us because they were aiming to provide a fine dining experience, and our fourteen-year-old clearly didn’t belong. The list goes on and on.
But who knows—maybe this time will be different? That’s what I’ve told myself on each occasion we’ve run into something like
this. So far, I have yet to be surprised by good news, but I appreciate McKenna trying.
“I understand,” I say, keeping my voice calm. I fight the urge to rant about the insensitivity, how hurtful the behavior is,
how I can’t understand people who’d begrudge a group of children thirty minutes in their hallowed pool in the mornings. Instead,
I hold all my frustrated, irate feelings down in my gut, where only I can feel them. I say lightly, “I’ll wait to hear from
you.”
After ending the call, I stare down at the phone in my hand. Somehow the intolerance still manages to take my breath away.
I need a minute to recenter myself before I face anyone inside. How many times can I tell Leo to keep his chin up if I’m not
doing the same? If I want my sweet son to feel safe and secure, I have to keep my shit together.
A text arrives from Phil while I’m still looking at the phone.
Got held up at the building site. Won’t be home for dinner. Sorry.
Held up at the building site? He went out to Westchester this morning to look at a new spot for a branch office. At least,
that’s what he said. I click over to the “Find My” feature on my iPhone to track my husband’s location. It’s the first time
in our marriage that I’ve opened this app with suspicion about what I might find.
My heart pounds as the map zooms in and the icon for Phil’s phone appears.
He’s in Westchester, just as he said. But as I enlarge the map, I see he’s in an area that looks like a shopping center, not an office park.
I zoom back out a little, trying to get my bearings.
Even though he’s not far from where his dad lives, I don’t know the area well enough to build a new hypothesis about what he might actually be doing.
I exit the app and shake my head. Whether or not he’s lying to me, Phil and I are clearly not the couple we used to be.
Once Leo and I are a few bites into our dinner, I break the news to him about Hollyhock. Not the part about the club turning
special-needs kids into literal outcasts, but the less offensive information that lessons will be on hold a bit longer than
expected.
“Oh,” Leo says, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Can we do the lessons at the Y? You could call her and ask.” I don’t know
if he’s saying to call Karyn or McKenna, but either way, it’s a nonstarter.
“McKenna still has other work to do at Hollyhock, so she can’t be over at the Y teaching lessons. Hopefully by the end of
the week, everything will be sorted and you guys will be back in business.” Who knows? Maybe this situation will be the unicorn,
where pushing back actually makes a positive difference.
“I was going to swim tomorrow. I wasn’t going to bring my whistle.” He lifts the mini airplane from its spot on the table
and runs his finger over its wheels. “Now I’m not swimming tomorrow. Not swimming. Not swimming tomorrow.”
He looks so disappointed that I almost suggest calling Harrison to see if the two of them can do something special in the
morning instead, but then I have a different idea.
“Maybe you and Dad could use the morning to go visit Grandpa Hollis?”
There’s clearly something of interest to Phil in Westchester.
He could drop Leo with Hollis and then scurry back to whatever’s been keeping him so busy.
It’s been too long since Leo’s had a good visit with his grandfather anyway.
They’ve always gotten along nicely, except lately we’ve all been so busy that it’s been hard to make plans.
“I would like to see Grandpa tomorrow. I can show him my drone.”
I decide to call Hollis right after dinner. Phil never says no to his father. Once Hollis is on board with a plan, it’s as
good as set in stone. My dear husband can like it or not, but Leo will be spending a lovely morning in Westchester.
The next day, I don’t have more time to dwell on Phil’s increasingly evasive behavior. I’m too inundated with work. I was
warned, years ago, that the elite Stillwell Elementary Academy doesn’t give administrators the same long summer break as most
other schools. It’s one of the things that makes our private institution unique, how much we change and grow every summer.
It’s also one of the reasons we earn better pay than most academics. But it sure is exhausting.
Had I more time on my hands, I might be wondering why Phil barely said hello when he walked in the night before and instead
went straight to his home office, where he stayed until after I was in bed.
By day’s end, I’m still fielding calls from board members. One of them is disappointed in the summer reading list, how it
doesn’t include enough stories for kids interested in STEM, and the other has fundraising ideas she wants to run by me.
When I finally get home, Phil’s car isn’t waiting in the next garage bay.
His absence hits different than it did yesterday because I know that tonight, he’s on his way to get Leo.
The two of them did spend part of the morning with Hollis, and then Phil dropped Leo at the Y, where he’s been helping prepare them for some consortium about health and wellness.
Once I’m inside the house, I head to the fridge, then grab a wineglass from the cabinet. I’m so desperate to unwind, I fill
the glass nearly to the top. The generous serving resembles what Phil would call “a country club pour,” where they’re supposedly
quite heavy-handed with the drinks. I didn’t grow up like he did, so I wouldn’t know. I settle onto a stool at the kitchen
island and chuckle as I consider that now Leo might be better equipped to speak to what goes on at fancy clubs than I am—but
then my smile falls thinking about how those a-holes have determined he’s actually not country club material.
When Phil and Leo arrive, I’m just pulling steaks out from the broiler.
“Smells good,” Phil says as he kisses my cheek perfunctorily.
There was a time not so long ago when I would have leaned into that kiss, when Phil’s mere presence in the kitchen would have
been a balm that calmed my frenetic pace. But now he’s just one more stressful situation I have to manage when I’m ready.
And so far, I’m not there yet. In fact, I’ve lost the energy to keep chasing him, trying to have the tough conversations we
need to. I’m getting more afraid of what those discussions could reveal.
Leo walks into the kitchen behind his father and catches sight of the eggplant spread in an open container on the counter.
“Did you put baba ghanoush on my steak?” he asks, a look of panic on his face.
“Of course not.” I laugh. Leo won’t even eat ketchup. He’d certainly never go for the Middle Eastern eggplant and tahini dip I get from the local market. “I was snacking while the steaks cooked. Not to worry.” I give him a quick wink.
As I reach into a kitchen cabinet to pull out a serving dish, I catch sight of Phil with his back to us, jiggling the mouse
on the computer desk.
“I just want to check the weather,” he says. “I thought maybe Leo and I would take a ride over to Smithtown after dinner for
some new views from his drone. Maybe even some of the buildings at Meadowbrook.”
As I watch the computer come back to life, I panic that my email might still be open on the screen. The message from the admissions
counselor at Whitby College isn’t something I’m ready to discuss, especially when Phil has suddenly gotten it in his head
that Leo should apply to Meadowbrook and live at home. But when the monitor lights up, only the web browser is open to the
homepage of Target displaying “summer essentials.”
I haven’t told Phil yet that I had a thirty-minute call yesterday with the director of the MIRAGE program at Whitby College.
I’ve known for several years about specialized programs aimed toward supporting kids on the spectrum, but I didn’t realize until I spoke to the Whitby people how comprehensive their offerings could be.
MIRAGE settles kids in college dorms using a coordinator to help them adjust, then provides them with a social worker to facilitate connections with other students.
They offer a dedicated student lounge, specially trained test proctors, and designated safe spaces where the kids can take their exams. The list of accommodations goes on and on, all the way to weekly pizza parties for students in the program.
For a kid like Leo, who’d never integrate into the social aspects of college on his own, a program like this would be a total game changer.
Sure, he has to get accepted to the college first, but Leo’s grades are strong.
And if it all works out, he’d get both the degree and a genuine college experience—so much more than we hoped for even just a few years ago.
The campus isn’t as close as Meadowbrook, but Meadowbrook doesn’t offer any of these specialized accommodations.
Whitby College is only as far as Westchester, and right near Hollis, in case of an emergency.
The reason I’m dragging my feet on talking to Phil about MIRAGE is, ugh, so many reasons. Mostly it’s just that lately we
can’t seem to agree on a single decision about Leo’s future.
There’s also the price tag. Regular college tuition costs an arm and a leg already, and then MIRAGE would be about fifteen
thousand dollars on top of that. But this is what money’s for, right? Education. Launching your kid. Giving them the support
they need to spread their wings and fly. My heart beats faster as I continue rehearsing these statements in my head. If Phil
doesn’t even want to pay a few hundred dollars a month for a social skills coach, it’s pretty easy to guess how he’s going
to feel about paying extra for college.
“I’m just going to go change,” Phil says from behind me, his voice tense and flustered.
Yes, I think to myself, that would be lovely. Go ahead and change. I haven’t been liking this version of you at all.