Chapter 6
Chapter Six
HATTIE
I can drive.
I’ve had my driver’s license since I was eighteen. It only took me two tries to pass the field test.
I don’t love to drive.
I might love it if there weren’t any other cars on the road, doing random and unpredictable things.
Like switching lanes without signaling.
Or braking and turning right without signaling.
Or passing on the right.
Or speeding up when the light turns yellow.
Or speeding in general.
Because when one car speeds, it inevitably threads through other cars who are observing the speed limit. And this usually leads to passing on the right.
Which is wrong.
And someone who’s speeding, weaving through traffic, passing on the right, only has to encounter another someone braking and turning without signaling and—
WHAM!
Traffic rules are simple. They make sense. Just like sewing patterns. If you notch curves where the pattern says to notch curves, and understitch where it tells you to understitch and top stitch where it tells you to top stitch, you end up with a perfectly turned out collar. Simple.
If everyone just drove the speed limit, passed on the left, signaled when they were turning or changing lanes, and observed the traffic lights, we’d all get where we were going in a predictable amount of time with no accidents. No one’s car being totaled. No one needing to go to the hospital.
And then I would love driving.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
I’m gripping the steering wheel of my dad’s Sahara.
If I have to drive, the Jeep’s height, windows, and general boxiness make me feel… equipped.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
Even though I know where I’m going, and even though Waze says the two-point-four-mile drive will only take six minutes, I start the navigation.
Dad parked the Jeep in the circle drive for me, so I don’t even have to reverse out of the garage—which I don’t love. Even though I’ve told myself it’s just like backstitching. But I don’t believe myself because when I backstitch, I still see the needle and what it’s doing.
Driving in reverse means relying on mirrors and the back-up camera and looking over my left and right shoulders while moving backwards. It's very disorienting.
But no reversing today.
At least not yet.
When I get to Moncus Park, that’s another matter.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
It’s Saturday morning. Traffic will be light. And I really just have to drive on two streets. My own: West St. Mary Boulevard and Johnston Street.
Even though I’m just leaving my driveway, I still use my turn signal before I turn right onto my street.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
Besides one car traveling in the opposite lane, the road is empty. Except for the lawn service trailer on the corner of Agnes and St. Mary that I have to move around.
And while parking on the curb—unless it’s in a No Parking Zone—isn’t a violation, I object to vehicles parking on curbs.
I should be able to travel completely in my own lane and not have to move around parked vehicles.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
The light at St. Mary and Congress is green, and I’m traveling at twenty-four miles per hour. I’m about fifty yards away when it turns yellow. I brake. Of course, I brake.
Smirking, I congratulate myself that I’ve come to a full stop just as the light turns red.
No WHAMS! for me.
Still, I’m nervous. And not just because Johnston Street will be more crowded than St. Mary.
And I’ll have to get into the left lane.
And also make a left turn.
And then find a place to park and make the big decision:
Back in when I get there or back out when I leave?
Statistically, I know it’s supposed to be safer to back into your parking spot.
But I also think I’m more nervous now than I will be after my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date with Beck.
At least, I hope so.
I’m early. And it’s a good thing. Because even after I successfully make it into the turning lane at the park’s entrance, panic grips me.
It’s. So. Crowded.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
Market stalls and tents cover the park’s slopes. People are everywhere. The Farmer’s Market teems like a kicked ant hill. The children’s playground is overrun. Even the small dog park, which is meant for small dogs, is full of small—and, confoundingly, not small—dogs and their owners.
A break in traffic allows me to pull in, and only then do I see the big sign beside the drive.
LOT FULL
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
I grip the steering wheel.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
Ahead of me, three cars are cued up outside of the parking lot’s ticket booth, waiting.
A car pulls up behind me for all of two seconds, but then the driver zooms past me, executes a three-point turn at the end of the drive, and leaves.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
It’s 9:48. I have twelve minutes until I am supposed to meet Beck.
A scan of the parking lot shows zero people walking toward their cars as if on their way out of the park.
At 9:49, the car just in front of me peels out of the line, executes a three-point turn, and also leaves.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
My pulse hammers.
I have reasonable doubts about my ability to execute a three-point turn.
And even if I managed it, where would I go?
I have a Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date in eleven—make that ten—minutes.
It’s been nearly two years since my last date, and that was with Bart Bombourgh from church. And we only went on a date because our moms set us up. Because we’re both autistic, so Mom Logic naturally saw a Match Made in the Neurodiverse, right?
So wrong.
So, so wrong.
Bart Bombourgh enjoys reading. Nothing wrong with that. Reading is lovely. It’s not sewing, obviously. But our date consisted of Margaret dropping us off at Barnes & Noble where we were supposed to get coffee, browse, and do datey things.
As soon as we walked through the double doors, Bart wordlessly made a beeline for the Sci-Fi section. I followed because, you know, it was a date.
For the next eleven minutes, I stood behind Bart while he browsed Star Wars titles and sniffled every eight seconds.
Of course, I knew he was stimming.
But sniffling on a loop for someone like me is Misophonic Hell.
Maybe I should have tried to engage him in conversation. Ask him about his interest in Star Wars.
But, honestly, that felt like a chore.
So I got a coffee and lost myself in the Crafts & Hobbies section. I had just gotten into sewing. And while I did get a little side-tracked by the F*CK OFF! I’M COLORING! SWEAR WORD COLORING BOOK, I found four sewing books, and I spent most of my time deciding which one I wouldn’t buy.
Because, you know, self-restraint.
And that was my last date.
So…
Wait a second—
“Hooray!” I cheer to no one when one solitary car backs out of a parking spot. It makes its way to the exit, and one of the two cars in front of me is allowed in.
“Just two more,” I say, again, to no one.
But now it’s 9:54, and the chances of me parking, walking across the playground to make my way to the Farmer’s Market, and then finding Beck’s sweet potato stall by 10:00 a.m. are officially zero.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
I text Beck. Because, even though I’ve never been stood up, I can’t imagine it feels very good, and I like Beck. I want him to feel good. So I don’t want him worrying that I might stand him up.
Because no way would I do that.
Me: RUNNING A FEW MINUTES LATE. SORRY.
With the Farmer’s Market as packed as it is, I don’t expect an immediate response, so I’m surprised when my phone buzzes.
Beck: All good. Thanks for letting me know. Can’t wait to see you.
And there it is.
That delicious, tingly little tugging in my chest that happens damn near every time he texts me.
Honestly, that little unnamable rush and the thought that I’d get to see him again—that we’d have the Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date—have helped to make the last three days bearable.
The October Skirmish is no longer just a skirmish.
Yet, I can’t really call it a war. War implies two opposing forces, each strong enough to be a tactical threat to the other.
But I am outnumbered. Outgunned. Outmaneuvered.
I am under siege.
It is the October Siege.
Clearly, I lost the Battle of Bon Temps, but I haven’t surrendered.
If Grandma Eloise is holding her breath for an apology, she has oxygen starvation to look forward to.
But when Dad heard my voicemail, his first action was to call Mom.
Ouch.
That was a blow.
They closed ranks. A clear drawing of alliances and battle grounds that leaves me—
Well…
Alone.
Wednesday night was awful. Not because they came at me for the cranky old twat comment. But because they actually acknowledged that they, in fact, have thought about finding a group home for me.
And, worse than that, I “shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Because there’s too much going on right now with Margaret’s wedding, so we aren’t discussing it until later.”
See? Under siege.
That’s why texting with Beck—especially at night when I do my best catastrophizing—has been a kind of emotional lifeboat the last few days.
Because my parents don’t think I can live on my own.
But they clearly don’t want to live with me, either.
And, according to them, I’m not supposed to worry about it.
Ha!
Have they met me?
The guard arm lifts for the car in front of me, and that’s when I realize that another car has left, and I’m next in line.
It’s now 10:06, and I’ve emerged from a pretty crappy thought spiral.
Just in time to see a little family of four—a mom pushing a stroller and a dad with a little girl sitting on his shoulders—stride into the parking lot, headed for their car.
“Thank you, God!”
Admittedly, it takes the family a while to get settled into car seats and child seats and the stroller folded up, and the mom and dad strapped in.
But at 10:12, I tap my card on the scanner, watch the guard arm lift, and finally pull into the parking lot.