Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
FINLEY
“I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother.” My good friend, Allie, is sitting across the table from me, busily making lists of things she still needs to buy. She and I only met a few months ago, but we really hit it off. Her parents are my regulars, Margaret and Bob.
“I’m having a hard time believing it, too,” she says.
“It’s certainly not happening the way I thought it would.
” Allie and her ex experienced several miscarriages before he decided to cheat on her and get his mistress pregnant.
After their divorce, she moved home to recover.
She worked at the bakery for several months before she started teaching at the local high school. That’s where she met Margie Flynn.
Allie gave Margie a place to stay when the girl’s parents kicked her out after she refused to have an abortion. They got to know each other very well, so when Margie decided to put her baby up for adoption, she asked if Allie wanted to do the adopting. Allie jumped at the chance.
“How does Noah feel about you becoming a mom?” Noah Riley is Margie’s childhood crush and current boyfriend.
“He’s excited for me.” Her eyes twinkle when she smiles. “I think he’s excited for him, too. Noah loves kids.”
“Do you think the two of you are going to get married?” My friend’s love story has Hallmark Channel written all over it.
Noah moved back to Elk Lake to coach their alma mater’s basketball team.
He coaches the boys and Allie coaches the girls.
I wish I could star in one of those “going home” love stories.
But that would require my moving back to Central Illinois, which is something I will never do.
Allie lifts up her coffee cup but puts it back onto the table without taking a sip. “I’ve loved Noah since we were kids. And while I hope to marry him someday, I don’t want him to ask just because I’m going to be a mom.”
I assure her, “The only reason he’d ask you to marry him is because he loves you as much as you love him.”
Allie’s sigh is long and steady. When it peters out, she says, “I can’t believe how well my life is turning out. After Brett, I thought I’d be alone forever.”
“What a gargoyle,” I hiss. “I hope his legs fall off at the knees. I hope he gets alien abducted and relocated off planet. I hope his new wife leaves him for another woman. I hope …”
Before I can further expand upon the revenge fantasies I have for Allie’s ex, she reminds me, “His wife had quadruplets. Life will be anything but easy for Brett.”
“Good,” I tell her before changing the subject. “Now, if only Noah had a nice friend you could set me up with.” I don’t want to spend my life alone, but the truth is I’ve not had great results dating. Clearly, as I’m still single.
“I made him promise to keep a lookout,” she tells me. Her eyes narrow until it feels like she’s trying to peer inside my soul. “You’re extremely pretty, you know. Quirky girl next door, with a touch of sass.”
“Quirky?” I nearly choke on the word. I work very hard to be normal, and her observation suggests I’m failing.
“Yeah, you know …” She points a finger as I stir my tea three times before tapping the rim of the cup. “You’ve got that tea ritual, for instance.”
My hand stops mid-strike before I can accomplish the final tap. I tell myself not to finish, to be stronger than my compulsion, but I fail. Tap. “Oh, this?” I try to laugh it off. “I guess I’ve always done it this way.”
“Before every sip?” Yeah, clearly she thinks there’s something wrong with me. And while I used to, as well, I’m now much more comfortable being me.
Instead of confirming what she already knows, I ask, “How else am I odd?”
Allie brushes her long auburn hair from her face. “I didn’t mean any offense. I think you’re delightful.”
She sounds sincere, but I still want to know. “How else, Allie?” Not that I’m going to change my ways, but it’s good to get feedback now and again.
She hems and haws for a minute before saying, “You’ve got that texture thing going on.”
“What texture thing?” I silently order my fingers to stop petting my fuzzy pink sweater. They’re resisting. It is my furriest one, after all.
“You’re very touch-oriented,” she tells me. “You like soft things.”
“Most people like soft things.” I know I sound defensive but I can’t help it. “You like soft things, don’t you?”
Allie’s eyes take on an unreadable expression. “I do, but I don’t normally go up and touch people on the street.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Once, maybe twice. But only to compliment them.” And cop a feel of luxurious fabric while I’m there.
“Fourteen times that I’ve noticed,” Allie tells me. Oh, my god, she’s been counting.
“Fourteen?” That sounds like an awful lot, even to me.
“It’s cute,” she says. “People don’t seem to mind at all. In fact, I’m sure they’re flattered.”
Three times is cute, fourteen might be construed as a compulsion. “I didn’t think I did it that often.”
“Artistic people are known to appreciate texture.”
Did she say artistic or autistic? Staring at my tea, I pick up my spoon, stir it three times and tap the rim twice.
Shoot, I’ve done it again! For some reason unbeknownst to me, I decide to distract my friend from my habitual stirring and tapping by blurting out, “I’m on the spectrum.
” While I’m no longer embarrassed about my neurodivergence, I don’t exactly broadcast it. Most people see it as a stigma.
Allie sits up straight and her mouth drops open in what I hope is surprise.
“I’m not mentally challenged,” I assure her. At least not in the way she might assume.
“Of course you’re not.” She sounds like she believes me, which is good.
“But I’m not super smart like in Young Sheldon, either,” I add. How I’ve wished that was the case. If I could multiply seven-digit numbers in my head or invent a new kind of physics, I’d probably be a lot more comfortable broadcasting my condition.
“Finley, I don’t think any less of you now that I know you’re autistic. Heck, life is a spectrum. We’re all on it somewhere, right?”
“In theory,” I tell her. “In reality, most of you fit nicely into the box society has decreed acceptable. Meanwhile, I’m often outside of that box, wondering how to get in.
” With a pointed frown, I add, “But it’s covered in barbed wire and tracker jackers.
” Nod to The Hunger Games, my most favorite post-apocalyptic form of entertainment.
Allie releases a snort at my description. “Why in the world would you want to be like everyone else?” If I didn’t know better, I’d be inclined to believe my friend admires me. Yet there’s just too much social stereotyping for that to be true.
“It’s not that I want to be like everyone else; I just don’t want to be so different as to stand out.”
“Why?” she wants to know.
I lift one finger and announce, “There’s the stirring.
I don’t particularly want to do it, but I have to.
Routine is very reassuring to me.” Another digit goes up.
“Then there’s my love of certain textures—which is pure satisfaction.
But along with that goes my revulsion of other surfaces.
” Before she can ask, I tell her, “Aluminum foil makes me very nervous. I also hate the feeling of sand anywhere on my body.”
“What else?” she wants to know.
“I have a number fixation.” Allie’s gaze narrows in confusion. “I love the numbers three, five, seven, fifteen, and twenty,” I tell her.
“How is that a problem?”
I inhale deeply before explaining, “I like to breathe in slowly to the count of seven, but I feel lightheaded if I exhale the same amount. I can usually only make it to five, then I have to inhale to the count of two and force myself to exhale five, so the numbers work out.”
At this point I’m fully expecting Allie to stand up and tell me it’s been nice knowing me before she runs for the exit, never to be seen again. Instead of doing that, she says, “That has to be a lot of work.”
“It is,” I assure her.
“Can you ever breathe without counting?”
My chin bobs up and down three times. “When I’m sleeping.”
My friend looks moderately panicky at hearing this. “That sounds exhausting.”
“I’ve been doing it for as long as I remember. It’s just normal at this point.”
“I’ve always thought autistic people avoided eye contact. I mean seriously, I would have never known you were on the spectrum.” She hurries to ask, “How did you find out?”
“Like you,” I tell her, “my parents thought I was just a little different. They never guessed I had anything diagnosable going on. But when I was fifteen, I failed math. I was never a straight A student, but I never got anything lower than a C, until then.” I inhale deeply before adding, “My teacher told my parents I was very smart, but I refused to apply myself. I knew that wasn’t the case, but I didn’t want my mom and dad to know I was stupid. ”
“So, what happened?”
“My mom found a tutor who came over to the house twice a week. Four weeks in, she told my parents I was unteachable. She suggested they investigate putting me into a special education program. My mom was so mad, she fired the woman on the spot and drove me two hours away to Chicago to see a specialist.”
“Who said you were autistic.”
“Eventually,” I tell her. “It turns out there’s a lot that goes into the diagnoses.
ADHD, compulsive disorders, and learning disabilities are all individual diagnoses, as well as being common in people on the spectrum.
” I conclude, “It takes time to figure out exactly what they’re going to embroider on your sash. ”
“Embroider on your sash?” she repeats.
“Yeah, you know, like Miss America contestants.”
Allie laughs. “You’re adorable, Finley. Seriously, I’m glad you’re not like everyone else. A world of beige makes for a boring life.”
“You’re not beige,” I tell her.
“Not usually, but I can be,” she says. “I don’t think you could ever be boring.”
My head tips to the side so that my blonde hair sits on my shoulder. After a count of three, I flip it to the other side. I don’t want my left shoulder to feel left out. I respond, “That seems like a weighted compliment, but I’ll take it.”
“Is being autistic the reason you don’t drive?” my friend wants to know.
I hate that question. As far as the world is concerned, a trained monkey in a diaper can learn to drive, so if you don’t, you must be a real idiot. “Autistic people can get drivers’ licenses,” I tell her.
“Then why don’t you have one?”
“I get overstimulated easily,” I confess. “Lights, pedestrians, traffic, horns. There’s a lot going on.”
“I’m surprised you played college basketball. That had to be a lot of stimulation, too.”
“I used to wear clear earplugs to help mute the noise,” I tell her.
“Either the refs didn’t notice them, or they thought they were hearing aids.
Either way, no one mentioned them until my junior year.
After that it became an issue, and I wasn’t allowed to wear them anymore.
Which led to me quitting. That buzzer, man.
It’s like being stabbed in the eardrum.”
Allie laughs abruptly. “It really is.” As the girls’ high school basketball coach, she’d know. “Then there’s all the whistle blowing and yelling in the stands.”
“As bad as all of that is,” I tell her, “nothing is worse than ten pairs of court shoes screeching across the floor.”
Her grimace is one of camaraderie. “Do you have any special interests that are tied to your diagnosis?”
“Like Sam from Atypical?” I ask, referencing yet another television show that has dipped its toe into the neurodivergent well.
Not surprisingly, the only hit programs about being on the spectrum illustrate stereotypical behaviors.
And while I’ve truly enjoyed both shows, neither portrays my particular brand of sparkle.
I’m neither brilliant nor overtly awkward, although the latter takes some work.
Most autistic people pass for normal, most of the time.
“Yeah, like Sam,” she confirms.
“I’m not obsessed with Antarctic penguins, if that’s what you mean. I do tend to hyper-focus, though. When I get into a project, hours can feel like minutes.”
“Give me an example.”
“When I was in college, I took a drawing class. The assignment was to make a sketch of an interesting nose. I started at six o’clock at night and the next thing I knew it was six in the morning, and my alarm was going off.”
“You spent twelve hours drawing a nose?”
“I did.”
“You must have gotten an A.”
Shaking my head, I tell her, “I drew an aardvark nose. My professor claimed to have asked for a human nose. Personally, I don’t think he did but as I was the only one to jump species, he won the argument. He gave me a C for at least doing the assignment meticulously.”
“That seems unfair.”
“I agree,” I tell her before changing the subject. “Any chance we can talk about something else?”
Allie reaches across the little bakery table and takes my hands in hers.
Looking me straight in the eye, she declares, “We can talk about anything you want. But please know, I don’t think any less of you because you have a touch of the ‘tism. If anything, I’m a little bit jealous that you’re such a unique person. ”
A thousand embarrassing memories try to break out of my subconscious at the same time. Pushing them back into the basement of my brain, I reply, “I appreciate that, Allie. I really do. I’m comfortable being me now, but it’s not been an easy journey getting here.”
“I bet,” she says sympathetically.
“It’s hard enough being a teenager without learning that everything you thought you knew about yourself might not be true.”
“Did it cause a big identity crisis?”
Instead of answering directly, I decide to practice my use of metaphors, and ask, “Does a Sasquatch have big feet?”
While I’m truly over feeling embarrassment about my differences, I’m reminded why I don’t like to discuss them. When people find out you’re autistic, they ask a thousand questions that, whether they realize or not, have a tendency to make the afflicted person feel … well … afflicted.