“Does she get them? Understand them? She didn’t seem to when I met her.”
I remember all those times I tried so hard to amuse her. Other people would laugh. She just scrunched her brow and told me to stop being silly.
As a child, she might not have realized why I was being “silly,” but at the age of thirty-seven, she could not fail to realize that she lacked a sense of humor. What would it be like, constantly knowing others found something funny and not understanding why? A good sense of humor is one of the traits we look for in others. Someone who doesn’t understand jokes is dull, stuffy, boring …
“Did your parents ever have her assessed?” Isabel asks when I don’t respond. “Did she ever see a psychologist?”
I shake my head. “I did. Well, a psychiatrist. My parents were concerned about my rebellious tendencies.”
Isabel laughs. Then she sees my expression. “You’re serious? Well, apparently the therapy worked.”
“My parents’ idea of rebellion was me refusing to follow some of a very, very long list of rules, like ‘don’t eat cookies before dinner.’ After a few meetings the psychiatrist called in my parents for a family session.”
“And they refused.”
“No.” I steer around a corner. “We did a couple. Dad didn’t want to. He considered psychiatry junk science.” I glance at her. “Sorry.”
“Oh, I am well aware of the attitude. At one time, it led to a lovely little solution called lobotomies. Because carving out part of the brain is much simpler than talking about a patient’s problems. So your parents did the family therapy, and I’m going to guess that the doctor suggested the problem might originate beyond you.”
“She hinted at that, but she also thought I did have a real problem. I overheard her with my parents while I was in the waiting room with April. I didn’t catch much of what the therapist said, but my father was furious. He’d brought me there for help, and now she was suggesting his child should be assessed for…” I break off. “Oh.”
“Autism?” she says.
In a blink, I’m back there. April and me in that room, her deep in a book, as I paced the room, bored and restless.
I brought Casey here for help, and now you want my daughter assessed for autism? There is nothing wrong with her. She’s brilliant, accomplished …
I remember how my heart swelled at those words. I wanted to run to the door and press my ear against it. My father called me brilliant. Accomplished. My therapist thought I had some kind of problem, and Dad was actually defending me.
That’s the problem with you people, he continued. If you can’t find a problem, you make one up. I ask you to look for horses, and you go hunting unicorns. My daughter is fine. And we are done here.
I remember April sighing and saying, “What have you done now, Casey?”
Even she’d presumed they were talking about me.
I look at Isabel. “It wasn’t me. The doctor was talking about April.”
“I suspect so. I also suspect she wasn’t the only one to raise a flag. That does not mean your sister has ASD. Even if she does, she’s as high functioning as they come. Intellectually, that is. Do you have any idea how she does socially? I know she isn’t married. She said she wasn’t
living with anyone or seeing anyone. Is that an unusual situation?”
I shake my head. “She’s busy.”
“With work. Very, very busy. It makes an excellent excuse, and I suspect it’s one you’ve given in the past yourself. I know Eric is the first man you’ve lived with. He might even be your first committed relationship since you were a teenager. But that, I believe, is learned experience rather than natural inclination. As for being too busy to have a relationship, that is complete nonsense. I doubt you’ve ever been busier in your life. A good partner is an asset—moral support, help at home, easy access to sex.”
I snort at the last.
“Oh, that’s as important as the rest,” Isabel says. “We just don’t like to admit it. Good girls don’t care about such things.”
“Then I was never a good girl.”
“Nor was I. Thank God.” She pauses to skirt a spiderweb. “On that topic, I shouldn’t presume your sister would be interested in men. Or that she has any interest in sex at all. Is there a chance she’s asexual?”
“I-I don’t know.”
I assumed April was straight because she dated guys in high school, but I realize now it’s just a presumption, my mind settling on the default. Since high school, I haven’t heard her talk about dating, and I’ve learned not to ask about my sister’s life.
“It’s not important,” Isabel says. “What matters is opening your mind to the possibility. If you or I are rude or abrasive, it’s because we wish to be. With April, it might not be a choice, and it could help you to remember that. At the very least, that might help you survive the weekend.”