Chapter 10 #3
“You want to put me in a group home,” I spit out. “Just like Grandma Eloise said.”
Mom’s mouth tightens. “It’s an option, Hattie. But it’s not our only option.”
My stomach pitches because I don’t know what those could be, and I’m afraid I won’t like them any better. But I brace myself.
“What kind of options?”
“We’ve been setting aside… well… funds for your care.”
My care?
Images of adult diapers and Meals on Wheels strobe across my brain.
Nausea roils. Saliva floods my mouth. I choke it down. “I’m not an invalid.”
Dad shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant we have a monetary trust for you. To provide for you. Should you need it. Of course, we were hoping—” Mom drops a hand on Dad’s knee and he stops.
But I already know what he was about to say. They were hoping I wouldn’t need it. That I would be gainfully employed, launched into the adult world as smoothly and successfully as my neurotypical older sister.
“Hats, honey, we think you’re always going to need some help. With Margaret and Merrick moving away and with your dad hoping to sell the business and retire in a few years, we need to take measures for you.”
I huff. “It sounds like you already have.”
Mom’s face pinches. “We don’t think it’s enough.”
I roll my eyes. “What else do you want to do? Hire a nanny for me?”
The way they both flinch makes me want to kick myself. “Wait. Seriously?” I shriek.
“Not a nanny,” Mom says, like the idea is silly. “A guardian.”
I want to vomit, but my insides have been carved out.
“Like I’m some child?” I’m not even sure how I’ve formed the words without breath and lungs.
Margaret’s arms tighten around me. “I’ve got you,” she whispers.
“Like someone who needs a little extra help managing their affairs,” my dad says gently. “And, Hats, honey, please hear me out: someone to help you make important decisions.”
My spine stiffens. “Help me?” I ask sharply. “Or make them for me?”
Mom and Dad look at each other, and I feel Margaret stiffen beside me.
Panic, bright and acrid, rips through me.
“No!” I leap from the rocker, leaving Margaret to suffer whiplash. “I. Don’t. Need. A. Guardian!”
I know I’m not like the rest of my family. I know that some of the other kids I met in ABT lived in group homes because they needed the support. That’s not me.
“I can live on my own. You know that. I can cook and clean and shop—” Even if I really don’t enjoy those things and, honestly, my cooking is more like following microwave or ready-bake instructions.
”I can drive, and even if I hate it, I can be a college student.
No one who can do those things needs a guardian—”
Mom raises both her hands like a crossing guard. “A guardian is just one of the options,” she says, sounding exasperated. “Durable power of attorney is another. Supported decision making. Conservatorship is—”
“Like Britney Spears? Are you kidding me?!” I’m so angry and terrified, I can’t even feel the floor beneath my feet anymore. I might be levitating.
Mom shuts her eyes, her jaw tight.
“Hattie…” Margaret’s gentle voice is right behind me. I can just barely hear it over my panting breaths. “Guardianship and Conservatorship require a judge and a court hearing. And the judge would have to hear your wishes first. You’d have a voice in this.”
I reel on her, betrayal bending me nearly in two. “You knew they wanted to do this to me?”
The corners of Margaret’s eyes turn down like sad crescent moons. “I would be the one, if that makes it better. The one looking out for you.”
How can she not see that it makes it so, so much worse?
She must read this in my face because she tries to reach for me, and I stumble back. “No. I don’t need a guardian. I don’t want to live in a group home.” I look back and forth between Maragret and my parents. “I can take care of myself.”
“Honey,” my dad says, sadly. “You need someone looking after you. Someone who can help protect your interests. Your finances. Your property. Your health. And you need someone to make sure no one takes advantage of you. People you think are your friends. Even this boy—”
“What?! Is that what this is about? You think Beck would hurt me?” I shriek in outrage.
I stick out my index finger and sweep it across the room, feeling a little guilty for including Merrick in the gesture since he hasn’t really done anything wrong—that I know of.
“Y’all are the ones hurting me and trying to control me. ”
“We aren’t trying to control you,” Mom says. “We’re trying to protect you while still giving you a measure of independence.”
A measure of independence.
“Harriet isn't… independent.”
If Beck heard them now, would he believe them? If a judge ruled that I needed a guardian, would he still want to know me?
Would he ever kiss me again?
“I-I am independent.” My voice is both shaky and throaty. Is this what a rabbit feels like? Caught in a snare? Fighting for its life?
“Hattie—”
“Harriet—”
“Baby—”
I think I’m about .7 seconds from going off like an air raid siren when Merrick leaps to his feet.
“Hey—hey—y’all. Hang on a second.” And my future brother-in-law is so quiet, so rarely the one to interrupt or demand attention that, even though each Mercier mouth hangs open, none of us speaks. “I have some thoughts… Margaret? Hattie? Can you sit back down?”
I look back at my double rocker before glaring at Margaret. If someone even tries to touch me right now, I might shoot into orbit.
My sister reads me better than anyone and takes a seat beside her fiancé again, so I sit back in my rocker and proceed to rock so hard, I’m in danger of tipping over.
“I think it’s fair to say that everyone wants Hattie to be safe and be as independent as possible,” Merrick says, his gentle confidence grounding me just a little.
Mom, Dad, and Margaret all murmur their agreement.
As independent as possible.
This doesn’t have a definition, and it needs one. Even I haven’t gone so far as to define it, which, now that I examine the situation, makes me a little disappointed in myself.
Yes, I’ve pictured a distant future. But the kind that goes fuzzy at the edges like a TV daydream.
A home.
A family.
I’ve spent hours on the porch at the beach house wondering what it would be like to have someone on the swing next to me.
And, yes, when I’m sitting in front of my laptop, struggling to write a peer response for Business Law, I almost always picture a time when I’m done with school and I never have to write a paper or take a midterm ever again.
I think I always imagined that once I was done with school, I’d have all the time I wanted. Wake up when I want to. Wear what I want. Never be in a rush. Sew. Make patterns. Shop for fabrics and notions.
No one else needs to know this, but I don’t think these fantasies count as actual career aspirations.
“You said there were options, and I think there’s room for compromise,” Merrick continues. Then he holds up his hands. “I hope I’m not crossing boundaries here, but if Hattie doesn’t want to live in a group home, why can’t she try living on her own?”
Judging by the way my parents startle, the couch cushions beneath them must have just delivered another charge. And maybe I’ve rocked in this chair so hard I’ve built up a store of kinetic energy because I suddenly feel AWAKE!
Live on my own? Like in an apartment?
My fingertips and face tingle.
Dad’s forehead crimps. “By herself?”
“Of course you’re not crossing a boundary, Merrick,” Mom starts diplomatically. “You are a member of this family in every sense. But—”
“Because I think there are ways to compromise,” Merrick interrupts my mom, and it’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed him interrupt anyone. “To support her and keep her safe.”
“Have you seen her room?” Mom whispers.
“Mom—”
“Hey! I’m right here!”
Okay. I’ll admit. By whatever definition one chooses, my room is messy.
Clothes. Fabrics. Pattern pieces. But I challenge anyone to open a paper pattern, take out the kraft paper and the instructions, cut out the pieces, and get it all to fit back into the original envelope. It’s fucking impossible.
My room is messy, but I try not to let it get dirty. I hate—and I do mean hate—dusting. But I also really hate dust. Dust is killer for a sewing machine. So I do dust.
Sure, not like every day. But maybe once a month.
And I try to pick up dirty dishes and snack wrappers every night before bed. Sometimes, I’m too tired.
Yes, I’ll admit that a snapshot of my room before 9 p.m. might give certain people—like my mother—a case of hives. But, in my defense—
“I… have seen her room,” Merrick says evenly, but his gaze flicks to mine, and he winks. “If you swap out the clothes with sports equipment, it looks just like Digger’s room.”
I snort. Digger is one of Merrick’s groomsmen. I think his real name is Douglas. He’s a personal trainer and a competitive bodybuilder. I’ve avoided him in the past because he’s loud and always laughing, which is intimidating, but I suddenly like him a lot more.
Mom shrugs. “Well, Douglas makes a decent living so I suppose he can do what he wants.”
“Wait a minute,” Margaret pipes up, frowning. “He can live how he wants because he earns an income?”
Mom lifts her chin and opens her mouth, but she looks unsure of herself. “I mean… Yes.”
“You don’t earn an income,” Margaret points out.
Score!
I am in grave danger of jumping up and cheering.
Mom’s jaw drops. “That’s different and you know it,” she snaps defensively. “I have run this household since before you were born, and that is a full-time job.”
“And we all agree that has value,” Merrick says quickly while also pressing a hand on my sister’s knee. “But one could argue that navigating the world with high-functioning autism is a full-time job, too.”
Holy fucking shit.
Hot tears are already spilling down my cheeks again.
Merrick gives me a shy smile, and I don’t care that they aren’t officially married yet. This man is my brother. If he ever needs a kidney, he can have one of mine. Hell, if he ever needs to bury a body, I’ll bring a shovel.
By the time I wipe my eyes, Margaret is gazing at her fiancé like she’s ready to give him babies yesterday, and Mom and Dad are staring at me.
Both of them look seriously worried. Like they did the first time I took the car by myself. And I didn’t do that until I was eighteen.
Mom scoffs. “But there’s so much—so much we do for you,” she says, talking to me, finally, instead of about me. “Do you even know?”
I open my mouth to clap back, but Margaret gets there ahead of me.
“Let’s make a list. Make a list and see what’s manageable.”
Mom rolls her eyes, and I suddenly feel about two inches tall. “Fine. Let’s start at six a.m. Waking her up. Making sure she eats breakfast and takes her meds. Doing her laundry. Picking up her prescriptions. Grocery shopping. Planning her meals. Making sure she does her school wor—”
“Mom… Mom,” Margaret interrupts while I shrink down to nothing. “Do you hear yourself? How much of that stuff is actually necessary?”
Mom scoffs again. “All of it.”
“Hillary,” Dad says gently. “We’ve talked about this.”
Wait. They have?
“You do too much,” he murmurs. “And it’s not good for either one of you.”
Mom’s lips disappear. “Randall,” she grinds out. My mom almost never calls Dad Randall.
“What can be compromised or outsourced?” Merrick says, breaking the tension. He looks back at me. “Hattie, if you had a little apartment with a washer and dryer”—my heart does a little somersault—“could you do your own laundry?”
“Of course. An eight-year-old can do laundry.”
“Then why don’t you do it?” Mom asks, aghast.
“How can I do it if you’ve already done it?”
There she goes again, dropping her jaw. “If I didn’t do it, you’d go a month without touching it.”
“So? Who says you have to do laundry every day?”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” Dad referees. “Take a breath. Both of you.”
“My point is,” Merrick continues, far more calmly than I could ever manage, “you are a family of means. Could the trust you’ve set up for Hattie cover housing and living expenses? And support? Like grocery delivery? Prescription delivery? Maybe even a housekeeping service?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t want a housekeeping service. That would be weird.”
“Yes,” Dad says to Merrick. Not to my comment about weirdness. “Yes, it could cover that. Indefinitely if it were well managed.” He looks at me before raising a brow at Merrick.
“What?” I demand.
No one says anything.
“I can manage a budget,” I say defensively.
Mom gives me a pointed look.
So, I might have overdrawn my debit account before. A few times.
“I can. It’s just… boring.”
“But a designee with durable power of attorney…?” Merrick lets the half-formed question hang there.
“Seriously. I can.”
But it’s like I haven’t said anything.
Dad gusts a sigh. “Honestly, money isn’t my main concern.” He doesn’t look at anyone but Merrick. “It’s her safety I worry about.”
The two of them stare at each other in a way that is weirder than a housekeeping service.
“A security system?” Merrick muses. “Those can be monitored… remotely.”
I frown. Monitored remotely? Why?
Dad laughs through his nose, but he isn’t smiling. “Not much good if she lets someone in.”
Wait. What?
But then I picture a little apartment like the one Margaret lived in her last two years at LSU. The kitchen’s accent wall was Caribbean blue when it should have been goldenrod, but other than that, it was cute.
I imagine myself living there—with a goldenrod accent wall in the kitchen. The doorbell rings and I rush to answer it because I know who it is. When I open the door, Beck is there.
I smile. And my smile isn’t imaginary. It’s real.
I would let Beck in.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Dad snaps, and this is how I know I said that last bit out loud.
Ooops.
“Dad,” Margaret scolds. “She has to live her life.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Besides, Beck and I both respect consent.”
You’d think my parents would appreciate this.
They do not.