Marissa
It turns out that tonight’s cookbook club is hosted by Zara, Violet’s sister-in-law.
On the way over, Shelby tells me that Violet’s parents have owned the café for over twenty years, and even though they are now semi-retired, and Violet is basically running the café herself, they’re still reluctant to fully turn over the reins.
Violet has considered making an offer to buy it but doesn’t have nearly enough in savings.
“You know how it is,” Shelby tells me. “The economy has changed, and our financial situation is way different than our parents’.” She grimaces. “Er, well maybe not your financial situation. But you know what I mean. Our generation in general.”
“No, I get it,” I say. “I won’t pretend that I’m not incredibly fortunate.
But the truth is, I haven’t worked in almost a decade.
I’m still getting steady residuals from the Felicia franchise, and since California is a community property state, I was entitled to half of Rocky’s assets.
But I want to make my own money again. Support myself independently of my ex-husband. ”
“Which is why,” Pooja says from the back seat, “our girl is going to sign on to this project. Imagine how good it will feel to collect that first paycheck. You can tell Rocky exactly where he can shove those child-support checks.”
Shelby sneaks a sideways glance at me. “Have you been able to speak to the kids a lot while they’ve been away?
” she asks lightly. She’s choosing her words and tone carefully, so as not to imbue any sort of weight or judgment to it, and I feel a rush of gratitude for this woman, who, despite her quirks, has slowly started to grow on me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Rocky and I agreed that the kids and I would talk on the phone once a day. I called them right before you picked us up. Isla is predictably having the time of her life. And surprisingly, Levi sounded happy too.”
The first twenty-four hours after they left were by far the hardest. It felt like I had lost a limb.
I had no idea what to do with myself or where to direct my energy.
It seemed like there was nothing to do but sink into my bed and wallow until they came back, like Sad Mother Duck awaiting the return of her missing ducklings.
The tricky thing about motherhood, though, is there’s never an opportunity to feel at peace when you’re apart from your kids.
There are only two modes. The first is a deep sadness that smothers you like a weighted blanket.
The second is wary acceptance, and that is somehow worse.
Because the moment you start to feel okay about being apart from them, that’s when the guilt hits.
That’s when the little voice in your head says, How dare you feel happy right now.
What if they’re sad or hurt or missing you while you’re off having the time of your life?
But hearing the happiness in my kids’ voices did put me at ease, made me feel like it was okay to go on breathing.
Fortunately, distracting myself with company over the past few days has been medicinal.
Especially Jesse’s company. What a delicious distraction that has been.
And I can’t help but notice that part of me feels like it is coming back to life.
My spirit is crawling out of hibernation, parts of me reawakening like the first buds in springtime.
I feel alive again and it’s equally guilt-inducing and exhilarating.
The rest of the women are already gathered around the kitchen counter when we arrive, and Shelby hands her casserole dish to a tall woman who introduces herself as Zara. Newly unburdened, she flashes jazz hands as she presents me to the rest of the group.
“Everyone,” she says, “this is Marissa. She’s just inherited her grandmother’s lake house up on Harmony Drive. And this is her friend Pooja.” She leans forward and adds conspiratorially, “They’re from Los Angeles.”
Pooja’s fake bangs fall into her face as she does a little curtsy, and the rest of the group coos in fascination, as though the West Coast is an exotic locale.
“So cool,” says a woman whose naturally dark bob understood the assignment. She squints at me. “Wait a minute. Are you Marissa Morgan?”
A trace of apprehension curls up my spine. I’ve barely been recognized since we arrived, but my luck had to run out at some point.
“That’s me.” My body goes tense as I wait for the follow-up questions. But they never come.
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “We all loved your grandmother. We’re so happy to have you here.”
Shelby quickly introduces us to the rest of the club members.
There’s Zara, the host, who’s married to Violet’s brother, Charlie.
Ashleigh, who’s so petite that her oversized denim shirt nearly hits her knees.
Megan, the woman with the dark bob, and Caleb, whose perfectly accessorized costume puts us all to shame.
And of course, Violet, who leaps up to give me a hug like we’re great friends.
Somehow, I already feel like we could be.
As I glance around Zara’s house, the first thing that jumps out at me are the radios.
They’re seemingly everywhere: There’s one on the kitchen counter and one on top of the refrigerator.
There is one on the coffee table and two on the living room bookshelf.
I’m wondering if there’s a polite way to comment on them when Pooja says, “You have a great radio collection.”
Zara grins. “They’re not technically mine. They belong to my son, Tucker. Radios are one of his special interests. He loves to collect them and tinker with them. He’s fascinated by mechanics.”
My senses perk and I raise my eyebrows. “Is Tucker…”
“On the spectrum? Yup.”
“Wow. My son Levi is too.”
“I thought I felt a connection.” She eyes me with a smile. “Moms of neurodiverse kids. We have a radar for each other.”
I know exactly what she means. I’m always able to spot other autistic kids in the wild. The other mothers and I exchange knowing smiles as we pass each other in public.
“You must have a great network of other autistic families back home,” one of the other moms says. “I bet there are tons of resources and specialists in a big city like LA.”
She’s right—cities do tend to have a higher concentration of therapists and specialized healthcare systems than more rural areas. But LA is not a place known for human connection, and I’ve never really found a support network there.
When Levi first got his diagnosis, I thought I’d be able to lean on the people who were already in my life. But when I shared the news with friends and family, it felt like no one could say the right thing.
“He’s not autistic!” my mom practically hollered when I told her.
“I know what autism looks like. I had an autistic neighbor growing up and he was always running naked in the street, screaming and banging on everyone’s door.
Levi isn’t like that, he’s a sweetheart.
He’s just a little delayed, that’s all.”
My dad agreed. “Your generation is so obsessed with diagnosing kids. Why do you need to saddle him with a label that will follow him for the rest of his life? He’ll catch up in his own time. You’ll see.”
My friends were much more sympathetic, but somehow, that wasn’t better. When I shared Levi’s news with my friend Harper during one of our walks around the neighborhood, she stopped right there in the street and grabbed hold of my forearm.
“Oh Marissa, I am so sorry, I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “This is every parent’s worst nightmare.”
That sentence haunted me for the rest of the night.
There are a lot of contenders for the label “Every Parent’s Worst Nightmare.
” Kidnapping. Cancer. Losing our baby to a school shooting.
There’s a bottomless list of horrors that keep me up at night, but autism was never one of them.
Would he face challenges in life? Of course.
But he was still happy, still healthy, still the same Levi he was before the diagnosis.
The outcome of getting that “label” was that I also got the tools I needed to help him thrive.
How was that any different than getting a child glasses to help him see or hearing aids to help him hear?
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t the same.
There is a stigma attached to autism, which was well-evidenced by the reactions of my inner circle.
I realized then why so many autistic people feel the need to mask.
And as much as I wanted the world to accept my son, the reactions of my loved ones only made me feel less inclined to share him.
It felt easier to make our world a little smaller, to protect him for as long as I’m able.
Looking back on it, though, I can see how I’ve closed myself off.
I thought I was being protective, but in the process, I’ve also deprived myself of a support system.
Maybe I could have tried harder to bond with other moms in LA, instead of turning inward.
If not for me, then for Levi. Because maybe it’s not entirely the fault of the disconnected city or the stigma. Maybe some of it is my fear.
“I guess we never really found our community,” I finally manage.
Violet gives me a sympathetic nod. “It can be hard to find your people,” she agrees. “But you are always welcome in our neurodiverse little community.”
The rest of the Inas nod in agreement.
“You know, I was diagnosed with autism last year,” Megan says unexpectedly.
“For most of my life, I thought I was just socially anxious. I never knew the right thing to say, often said the absolute wrong thing. I struggled as a kid, but no one was talking about autism back then. Especially not in high-achieving girls.”
“And I have ADHD,” Violet says. “Turns out that you can’t attribute everything about your personality to being an Aquarius.”