Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FINLEY
I barely slept a wink last night. Instead of nodding off to Dreamland, I kept thinking about Thomas.
He’s such a great guy. The thing is, I’m not sure if all the flirtatious banter was really flirting or if he’s just being friendly.
I’m guessing most people would be able to figure it out.
Yet, as a neuro-sparkly person, I’m left wondering.
When my eyes finally pop open, after what I’m sure is only an hour of sleep, I reach over to my nightstand and grab my phone. I pick it up and call my mom.
“Finny!” She says delightedly before adding, “Hellooooo!”
“Hey, Mom. How are you doing?”
“I am flummoxed.” My mother tends to use words that make her sound like she’s closer to two hundred years old than the sixty she’s nearing.
“What’s got you confused?” I ask.
“I have a chicken in the sink and I’m not quite sure what to do with her.”
“Are you defrosting it for supper?” I ask.
“Oh, no. She’s alive and well,” she says. I hear some splashing in the background.
“You have a live chicken in the sink,” I repeat, hoping that doing so will bring some clarity.
“Bernadette,” she says before explaining, “In my thirty years of owning chickens, I have never had one who behaves as oddly as she has been acting.”
“What’s she doing?”
“I know for certain Bernie is at the top of the pecking order, but she’s been isolating herself lately, and she’s been very noisy. Like she’s protesting her life. But as you know, my girls live a very good life.”
This is true. My mother takes care of her chickens better than most people care for their children. Their coop is practically a miniature palace, full-on with a tiny crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“Anything else?” I ask. I’ve not studied chicken behavior as deeply as my mom, but I did grow up with them. It’s not beyond possible I might have some insight.
“She hasn’t been laying like the other girls. But she’s five. She might just be in henapause.”
“Henapause?” This is not a term I’ve heard her use before.
“Menopause for chickens,” she explains. “But I’m also worried she might be eggbound.”
“Have you ever had an eggbound chicken?” I rack my brain for memories from when I lived at home, and I’m coming up dry. Even so, I know what the term means—a chicken with a stuck egg.
“I have not,” she says. Splash. Splash. Squawk. “But I’m soaking Bernie just in case.”
“And that’s the cure for being eggbound?” I ask.
“The internet says maybe, so I’m trying it.”
“Good luck,” I tell her, thinking now might not be the best time for a heart to heart. Having a live chicken in the sink seems like an all-encompassing task.
“Why are you calling, dear?” my mom asks.
“I, um … I guess I just wanted to ask you some questions. But we can talk later if now is a bad time.”
“So long as you don’t want to know about ornery hens,” she says. “I’m at my wits’ end with this one.”
“I wanted to ask about my childhood. You know, pre-diagnosis.”
“I’m all ears,” she says.
The squawking and splashing suddenly stop, which causes me to ask, “Did you drown her?”
“Huh, will you look at that.” My mom sounds perplexed.
“What happened?”
“This funny little girl has settled right down, and she appears to be enjoying herself.” Before I can comment one way or the other, she adds, “Now, what do you want to know?”
I roll over on my side before pulling the duvet up over my head. Having created my perfect cave, I ask, “Did you think I was particularly odd in my early childhood?”
“No more than any other kid,” she says.
My mom has always been on my side. She’s been my champion when faced with bullies and teachers alike. She’s got my back to the point where I’m not sure if her perception can be trusted. “When was the first time you noticed I was different?” I want to know.
“Aside from the running thing?”
“Yes, Mom. Aside from that.” I’ve seen old videos of myself, and my stride was pretty horrifying.
She exhales loudly before making noises that sound like a staccato grunting—this is her thinking sound. “I suppose in preschool. You didn’t seem to relate to the other kids the same way they related to each other.”
A shiver of alarm shoots through me. Preschool is early. “How was I different?”
“You used to watch your classmates play like you couldn’t figure out what they were doing.” She’s quick to explain, “Not like you were too stupid to understand, more like you thought they were beneath you.”
“Beneath me? Was I a snob?” I can’t imagine such a thing, as I spent most of childhood in pursuit of being liked.
“Not at all, Finny. You were and are one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. It was more like they confused you. Like they were babies and you were an adult.”
“Yet we were all four and five,” I say for accuracy.
“You’ve always been very mature for your age, dear. An old soul in a new body.”
While her comment is disguised as a compliment, I’m not sure there isn’t more to it. “Do you think the other kids hated me?”
I count a full five seconds before she answers. Five. Which is a lot. “I don’t think they understood you, honey. I don’t think they had enough on the ball to actively dislike you.”
Oh. My. God. “Was I a freak?” I ask, full of panic.
“You were and are my special, beautiful girl,” she tells me.
Nothing about this conversation is making me feel better. In fact, I’m now starting to question everything I thought I knew about my life pre-diagnosis. “I didn’t eat paste, did I?” I’m only half-teasing.
“Oh, Finny, don’t be silly. Of course you weren’t a paste-eater. You did occasionally eat dirt, though.”
“Excuse me?” I’m tempted to hang up and go back to sleep and maybe wake up in a dimension where I’m normal.
“You liked its scent,” my mom tells me. “You used to say that it smelled alive and sweet.”
I’m sure it was alive. Alive with bugs and God knows what else. “I hope you stopped me.”
“It never hurt you, so what was the point? You didn’t do it forever.” She sounds so accepting that I can’t quite decide which one of us is more troubled.
Cutting to the chase, I ask, “In your opinion, Mom, do you think kids mostly liked me, or not?”
“I think nice kids liked you, and those lousy good-for-nothing bullies did not. But keep in mind, they’re probably all in prison now.”
“I highly doubt that,” I tell her. “They’re probably making six figures, lording it over their minions, while vacationing in Europe every summer.”
“Not Joelle Stinger,” she says.
Now she’s got my full attention. Whipping the comforter off my head, I sit up and ask, “What’s she up to?”
“About three hundred and fifty pounds, as close as I can tell.”
“What?” I am not a sizest, but Joelle always was. She would tell other girls their jeans were getting tight, and then she’d make mooing sounds at them. She is the last person in this world I would have ever thought would grow out of single digit sizes.
“She’s a manager at Cow Patty,” my mom says. “I guess her metabolism paired with her diet has caught up to her.”
Joelle Stinger is the manager at our old high school hangout.
Don’t get me started on the name “Cow Patty.” For some reason, no one found it odd until after they left town.
“Is she still married to Jacob Smart?” I ask.
In high school, he fully supported her meanness.
As such, I can only imagine what he thinks of her now.
“Sure is. That boy has moved to the plus-size section himself. And he lost his hair. All except for about four strands, which he combs over the top of his head like a horrible scarf.”
“Really?” I don’t want to be the kind of person who takes pleasure in someone else’s misery, but apparently I’m not as evolved as I would have hoped. This news is making my day.
“Yep,” my mom says. “He’s a big, bald fatty.”
A laugh escapes my mouth. Even though I’ve just discovered I was a dirt eater (not previously known to me) and not universally liked (totally known), finding out my bullies aren’t fairing as well as I thought they would helps restore balance to my world.
I throw my legs over the side of the mattress and relish the cool air on them.
Then I ask my mom, “Do you think people thought I was undatable?” I largely ask this because no one in my hometown ever asked me out on a date.
Zero people. Including the nympho who asked everyone to be his girlfriend, even the principal.
Instead of answering my question directly, my mom says, “I don’t think boys in this town were smart enough to realize what a treasure you were.” These passive/aggressive compliments are driving me insane.
Before I can express this, my mom asks, “Are you dating a nice boy now? Is that what this call is all about?”
“I have a new friend,” I tell her truthfully. “But we’re only fake dating.”
“What does that mean, fake dating? Either you’re dating or you’re not.” My mom is pretty literal herself and I once again wonder where she lands on the spectrum.
“His boss is pursuing him, and he needs an out. I’m his beard.”
“Is he gay?” she wants to know. “Because if so, he should just tell her that. She’d have to understand.”
“Thomas is not gay,” I assure her. An image of him as a bronzed construction worker pops into my head and I feel my temperature rise. “He is very, very, not gay.”
“You like him,” my mom speculates.
I don’t see any reason to lie to her. “I think he’s amazing. He’s funny, handsome, personable …”
“What’s the problem then? Saddle up that stallion and go for a ride!”
She can’t possibly mean that the way it sounds. “The problem is that I’m not sure how he perceives me.”
“What do you mean, ‘how he perceives’ you?”
“I mean, does he think I’m weird? Does he feel sorry for me? Does he see me as a woman or you know, just a friend?” I hate that I’m regressing into my insecurities, but I like Thomas enough that I can’t help but worry.
I hear my mom humming lowly in the background, so I ask, “Are you even listening to me?”
She practically whispers her response. “I was just singing to Bernie and she fell asleep.”
“The chicken fell asleep in a sink full of water?” Something like this could only happen to my mother.
“She probably thinks she’s at a spa,” she croons in a sing-songy voice.
I don’t even know how to respond to that, so I repeat, “How do I know how Thomas perceives me? And before you suggest I come right out and ask him, I’m not going to do that. I’d send him running for sure if I were that forward.”
“Then spend time with him and see what happens. Men really aren’t that complicated, dear. They’re very simple creatures with very simple motivations.”
“What are those motivations?” Because as obvious as she thinks they are, I don’t exactly speak the same language.
My mom snorts, “To get you in the sack, Finny. That’s pretty much all that’s going on in their heads for the first few years of being in a relationship.” I’m not about to ask if that’s how it was with my dad because … ew.
When I don’t respond to her immediately, she asks, “Have I answered your questions?”
“Yes?” But like always with my mom, I feel more confused now than when we started talking.
“Is that a yes with a question mark or a period?”
Instead of answering, I ask, “Did you ever wish I was like other kids? You know, did you feel bad that I didn’t fit in?”
“God, no. Children are annoying by nature. I’ve never been annoyed by you, dear.”
My eyes tear up for multiple reasons. The first being that if I had to be born special, thank goodness I had parents who were equipped to handle it. The other being a bit of sadness that I was probably the cause of much parental concern.
I’ve grown to truly like who I am, but being different can mean being misunderstood and often ostracized. People want to be around those they find predictable. Which is something I am not.
“I love you, Mom,” I say into the phone. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Honey, you sound like you’re getting ready to jump off the roof of a skyscraper. You’re not depressed, are you?”
“No. I’m just a little melancholy.” Another turn of the last century word my mother loves. “It’s been a long time since I’ve liked a man the way I think I might like Thomas and it’s scaring me.”
“Don’t obsess about it too much, Finny. Just let things happen. Life is a ride and the more you think about it, the less you enjoy it.”
“I threw up on the tilt-oh-whirl at the county fair,” I remind her.
She snorts. “Life can be nauseating, but also a lot of fun. Have fun, Finny. You’re not as different from everyone else as you think.” Says the woman who’s probably even spicier than I am. Although, I still appreciate her advice.
“I’ll do my best,” I tell her.
“You should come home for a visit soon,” she says. “I can show you how much Bernie likes her bath.”
Watching my mother bathe her chicken is not the tempting offer she thinks it is. But seeing her and my dad is very appealing. “I’ll let you know soon.”
What I’d like to do is surprise them by showing up in town in my very own car with me behind the wheel. Which means I need to get up and make a call to see if my dream car is still available.