21. Elizabeth
Twenty-One
Elizabeth
I don’t have time to dwell on the my amazing experience with Kellen.
It’s obvious he and I have a lot to build on and I want to repeat what we did together, but Jake has a chess tournament this week and he’s perseverating.
That means every few seconds, he asks to review expectations again. And again.
“There’s only one winner, but every participant receives a keychain,” he says, his eyes looking hopeful.
“Right. A chess piece keychain,” I assure him. “Just like last year.”
“But last year’s pieces were red. And they were green the year before.
So it’s not just like it.” Jake tugs at the collar of his polo shirt, frowning.
We’ve been working very hard to find him an outfit that meets the parameters for the tournament but doesn’t bother his sensitive skin.
“This itches,” he says. “It’s burning. I can’t wear it. ”
“Jake,” I squeeze his arm. “Hear me out for a minute. What if you wear one of your preferred t-shirts under the polo? Then you’ll have a nice soft collar but still meet the dress code.”
“That sounds sweaty,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll be sweaty.”
“I’m sure they’ll keep the temperature reasonably low in the library,” I try to assure him. “Event planners usually set the temp lower when they’re expecting a crowd.”
As Jake ponders the potential of this tidbit, I concentrate on my breathing.
When he’s anxious like this, worried about something, the energy of it fills the room.
Everything feels tight. My temper gets short.
He and I have been working on it. We’re always working on everything.
Repeating the expectations helps him feel more in control because there are so many things he can’t control, like the outcome or whether someone at the tournament will show up wearing strong perfume that will make him gag and derail his concentration.
Jake concedes my point and sets out a t-shirt, a polo, and a pair of pants with the least itchy seams I could find.
“And I have good news about the socks,” I tell him.
We subscribe to his preferred brand of socks since he’s so hard on them and they wear out quickly.
“I was able to bump up the delivery, so your new package will arrive tomorrow.”
I don’t tell Jake that I never got through to his father and I have no idea whether he will turn up at the tournament as Jake requested.
I can’t tell if Jake actually wants to see Todd there or if he feels like he needs his dad there in order to fit in.
Dhruv will have two parents present, so Jake might fear he will stand out if he does not.
“I don’t like competing against Dhruv,” Jake says.
“Oh, I know, sweetie. But if both of you play your best, that’s the important thing. Building skills, right?” Jake looks at me like I’m naive, and I laugh. “Okay, okay, I know you both really want to win. But learning how to lose gracefully is also an important life skill.”
He stomps off to his room to study, and it’s unclear to me whether he’s studying chess strategies or school assignments.
I pick Jake up from school early the next day, leaving my walking boot at home.
I keep telling myself it’s not my modesty that keeps me from wanting people to stare at my leg.
I just want as much as possible for Jake to feel like I’m not distracting him.
He and the kids from his regular chess club are competing against teens from all throughout the county.
It’s such a nice tournament, from my perspective anyway, because the atmosphere seems friendly.
We find Lisa, Ashish and Dhruv and get ourselves checked in. The boys don’t look up from their phones to greet each other as they normally would, and Lisa and I share facial expressions communicating that we’re both going through the stress of our kids’ anxiety.
After the boys check in and go off with their coach, Lisa and Ashish and I try to find some seats.
The players are broken into brackets and the first match kicks off.
The parents all sit around sipping drinks, speaking in hushed whispers as the brainy teens compete.
“No Todd, eh?” Lisa wrinkles her nose. I shake my head.
“It’s probably better this way,” I tell her. “Lord knows I don’t want to sit near him and his presence might distract Jake, you know?”
She nods and our conversation drifts between each of their jobs—stressful—and my job search—stalled. “But hey,” I say with a shrug. “I didn’t have to use any PTO to be here today!”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than we hear a commotion at the door. I groan, knowing before I turn my head fully that Todd is the source of the racket. I groan louder when I see that he’s brought the strumpet with him.
“Oh no, he’s not trying to come over here,” Lisa huffs, following my gaze. Todd and the tramp are noisily weaving between spectators. They’re dressed to the nines, clearly en route to a formal event and thinking they’d make some sort of pit stop for appearances.
I glower at them, suspecting they’re heading to one of the grand hotels nearby for a fundraiser. “There’s not even a valet,” the tramp says, flouncing into a seat a few rows behind me, deliberately avoiding eye contact with both me and Lisa.
Lisa can’t help herself. She turns in her seat. “Of course there’s not a valet,” she hisses. “It’s a teen chess tournament at the library.” Some other parents sitting nearby chuckle. Tramp makes a duck face and squints at my friend.
“Elizabeth,” Todd says, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your description of this event was misleading.”
Is he trying to get a rise out of me? I trace a finger along my slacks where they hide my ivy tattoo. Persevere, I think as I turn in my seat and force a smile on my face. “Which part?”
“Pardon?”
“Which part of my description was misleading?”
He rolls his eyes. “You suggested this was a prestigious opportunity for our son. You indicated a full showing from the county.”
I will not react strongly, I tell myself. “I believe my exact words were ‘Jake is competing in the county teen chess tournament at the library.’”
Ashish gives me a thumbs up from the other side of Lisa. And then we all turn our heads because one of the players roars. I know it’s Jake before I locate him. And then I see him, tugging on his hair and muttering, “No, no, no, no, no.”
He meets my eyes and I bite my lip. Should I go up? Is this salvageable? It seems too soon for him to have lost the match already, and I know each teen plays two matches before elimination.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, firm and uncomfortable, and I whip my head around to see Todd’s enraged face an inch from my own. “Are you going to let him humiliate himself like this? What have you been doing since you decided you were too good for our marriage?”
I stare at my ex-husband for a second, and I realize I feel bad for him.
He’s so wrapped up in other people’s perceptions of him that he is truly not able to see anything beyond himself.
I turn back toward Jake and my heart swells when I see the chess coach has approached him.
The coach uses hand gestures mimicking deep breaths and gives Jake a thumbs up as my son nods and puffs out his cheeks on an exhale.
I actually clap my hands when I see Jake pick up a chess piece and make another move, meltdown avoided.
Lisa squeezes my hand and Ashish yells out, “Yeah! Nice, Jake!” I laugh as my son flushes and holds his hands over his eyes, embarrassed not at his outburst but at Ashish’s.
“Did you see that?” I lean across to my friends, who nod. “He worked it out.”
“He totally did,” Lisa says. “Who is that coach and can we take him home with us?” I’m so caught up in my celebration of Jake’s progress that I almost forget Todd is sitting here, all judgmental and missing the point.
Almost.
“Are you kidding me right now, Elizabeth?” When I turn to face him again he has his arms crossed and looks like he just lost out on a merger.
I raise an eyebrow at him by way of response, wondering what ever drew me to him in the first place. He’s bitter and mean, and I lived in a house with him for nearly 20 years. “Gross,” I mutter.
“You’re not going to reprimand him?”
“Reprimand?” I feel Lisa stiffen in the folding chair next to me and I squeeze her hand. “For what exactly? Having emotions? Feeling strongly about his performance?”
“His behavior is unacceptable,” Todd growls, gesturing around the room. No sooner does he say so when I hear another teen groan. This one bangs his fist on the table before he tips over his king, ceding the match to his opponent. I don’t point this out to Todd.
“People groan when they’re disappointed, Todd. Maybe you missed the part where our autistic son put his strategies into use and calmed down so he could keep playing?”
The tramp looks confused. “Autistic? I thought you said he was just weird,” she says to Todd, twirling her hair around one finger. “I mean, he is weird for sure. I didn’t know he was autistic.”
Todd springs to his feet. “Jesus, Elizabeth, do you need to air our private business like this?” Private?
I look at Lisa, who shrugs. Todd extends his hand to the tramp.
“Come on, sweetheart. We need to be going to the gala anyway.” She shrugs and stands, adjusting her gown before she starts to squeeze her way down the aisle of chairs.
“Do you…are people around you not aware that Jake is autistic?” I can’t imagine how or why he would keep such a thing to himself.
Jake certainly volunteers this information given the opportunity.
I guess his father doesn’t ever give him the opportunity, and I immediately feel sad for my son, that I subjected him to spending time with someone who tries to hide him.
“I was under the impression you were spending your time trying to fix all of that,” Todd grunts, shouldering his way out.
When he’s gone, I look over to Jake, who is still deep into his first round. I locate Dhruv, who is rocking in his chair and tapping the table, but also seems to be contentedly playing his match. I turn to Lisa and say, “Did that just happen?”
“Did your scumbag ex-husband reveal that he thinks autism can be cured, all the while telling everyone his own son is weird? Oh yeah. That happened.”
I feel a giant lump in my throat, pulsing inside me.
I don’t know if it’s the physical manifestation of my rage, or my disappointment or my heart breaking for Jake.
I don’t know what it is, but I know I can’t process it right now.
I’m here to watch my kid—my brilliant, funny teenage kid—compete at something important to him.
“Babe, give me my bag,” Lisa says to her husband, gesturing for her purse under his chair. “I want to grab a knife and go slash Todd’s tires.”
“Lisa, honey, you can’t just say things like that,” Ashish says, draping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her arm. Looking to me, he says, “Let me know if you need a witness at court when you adjust your custody agreement.”
“Oh fuck yeah, babe. God, it’s hot when you do that,” Lisa says. “That asshole should never have access to Jake again, Liz. You want me to subpoena all the other parents here?”
This gets a laugh from me, and I’m thankful, because it pushes the lump down inside a bit. I make eye contact with our boys again. Seeing they’re carrying on unphased, I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, Lees. I’ll let you know what my lawyer says tomorrow.”
Jake and Dhruv make it through the second round and are both eliminated.
I worry the seam on my slacks when I see Jake tip over his king, but then I feel elation and relief when my son smiles.
He stands and shakes hands with the teen across from him and walks over to me, holding out the bright blue bishop keychain.
“I asked my opponent for his contact information,” Jake says. “He’s a worthy adversary.”
I pull my kid in for a hug and laugh. “That’s a fantastic attitude to have, Jake.”
“Does this complete the unit on sportsmanship,” he asks, looking at me. I ruffle his hair.
“I’d say so,” I tell him, and then I tilt my head towards our friends. “Come on, babe. Let’s go get burgers and shakes.”
“And fries,” he says. “The crispy ones. Not the mushy ones that are undercooked.”
“Of course,” I tell him, linking my arm through his, and pulling it back when he brushes it off. I’m elated by his victory today—I don’t care a fig about his chess performance. He tamped down a code red emotional fit and lost gracefully.
This progress has been so hard-earned, so gradual.
As the five of us sit down in our favorite burger joint, I take stock of the progress Jake has made since we moved.
He’s thriving, I realize. I make a note to point it out to his therapist the next time we talk.
I can worry about Todd later. “To sportstmanship,” I say to the table, raising my milkshake in toast.
“To sportsmanship,” Lisa and Ashish say, enthusiastically clinking glasses with me. Dhruv nods and says, “The custom of toasting can be traced back to the ancient Greeks, when honoring the gods.”
Jake likewise nods, and eventually raises his glass. “We are like the gods of the game of kings.” The boys clink glasses. Jake looks at me and grins. “Was that a euphemism? Did I do it right?”
“You did perfect, baby,” I tell him, tears in my eyes. “Just perfect.”