Page 9 of Tell Me You Love Me

“I did, actually.” I choke out a soft laugh and bring the car to a stop about twenty feet from the foot of the porch. Then, killing the engine, I take the keys and simply… stare for a moment. I have a memory for every square inch of this place. I have a story for every day, every year, every moment. And I swear, almost every single one of them included a set of devilish twins who loved to give me a hard time. “I punched them as hard as I could. Then I swung my shovel and got in trouble with Grandma Bitsy while they laughed. She didn’t believe me when I said they had it coming. As for the orange peels… well, that’s why we planted the trees. We’d been in town earlier that day and came across a stall that was selling them.”

“Selling oranges?”

“Mmhm. And best of all, they were already quartered and frozen. It was hot as Hades out, so we pooled all our spare change and bought as many as we could afford. Then we sat and ate most of them in the shade in town. They were so good, honey, that we justknewwe needed our own trees. So we swung by the nursery on the way home and picked up a half dozen of them and carried them all the way back.”

“How’d you buy them since you spent all your money on the oranges?”

We stole them!

“Let’s go.” I unsnap my seatbelt and shove my door open, then climbing out and lifting my arms to the sky, I stretch as far as my body will allow and wait a minute… then two… while Franky collects himself and makes the brave decision to open his door and follow me out.

My son doesn’t much like the outside world, and hehatesmeeting new people. Even when those new people are his own flesh and blood.

“How are you feeling?” I lower my hands and, with them, my voice, so my question is just for him. Dropping into a crouch, I look up at my son and the way he hugs his Murdle book close to his chest. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Dread.” He looks straight over my head at the house he’s seen pictures of. The home I was born in—literally. “Nervous.” He brings his eyes to mine, desperation glittering behind smudged lenses. “I’d prefer to go to a hotel tonight and come back here tomorrow.”

“Because you’re not ready to meet Grandma today?”

He shrugs, his lips pursing and his brows furrowing over bright eyes. “I guess. I don’t want to talk.”

“To her or to me?”

“To anyone except you.” Deep dimples, just like mine, dig into his cheeks and try to convince the world he’s smiling.He’s not. He’s simply holding on to so much, bottling his emotions and trying unbelievably hard to keep them in. “She’ll want me to say hello. I don’t want to.”

“Would it be okay if I speak for you? Because you’re right; she’s going to want to say hello. And if you don’t say anything back, she’ll feel a little funny about it. But if you let me, I can tell her you’d prefer not to talk right now.”

He nods, short, sharp jerks of his head. “Okay. Is it annoying when my tism does this?”

“Yourtism?” I set my hands on his hips and gently pull him closer, chuckling under my breath as I drag him in for a hug. “Autism is not something to be ashamed of, honey. It doesn’t annoy me. Not ever. It’s a part of who you are.”

“There are people in the world who are normal.”

“And to that, I declare bull poop,” I mock-grumble. “There’s no such thing, and anyone who claims to be normal shouldn’t be trusted. Lucky for me,” I tap his trembling chin, “your diagnosis basically means I have a cheat-book, like the kind we used to have for Nintendo games.”

His brows pinch tight behind the frame of his glasses. “I don’t understand.”

“Kind of like the Murdles.” I point toward his book. “At the end, when it gives you the answers. That’s like what your diagnosis is for me. Before, when you were smaller, I didn’t really know what the heck I was doing. After a while, I kinda figured you out.Then,we got the diagnosis, which confirmed what I already knew. And now, whenever I’m not sure, it’s like I can check the cheat book and know exactly how to help you.”

Unconvinced, his lips drop into heavy lines. “Autism is a disability, Mom. It’s not a Nintendo game.”

“Do you really feel that way?” I straighten out because my thighs burn from crouching and my knees threaten to give out. But I fold at the hips and remain on his level. “I consider it a bit like a superpower. You’re smarter than literally every single other person I know, including the adults. Best of all, you function on common sense and honesty. Younevertalk in circles, youneverlie, and you refuse to partake in the annoying small talk everyone else seems to think is necessary. Do you know how many people in this world are the opposite? Constant word salad and incessant chattering for the sake of hearing their own voice? It’s exhausting.”

Finally, the wire door creaks open—a sound I would recognize even if I’d lost every other sense available to me—and my mother steps outside her house and onto the porch. But my eyes remain on my son.

“She’s someone who’ll talk just to talk. I didn’t even know back then that you could make it stop simply by… not participating.” I tickle his hip and earn a sweet smile. “Autism isnota bad word in my dictionary, and I’m not sad about your diagnosis. In fact, I’m thankful for every single thing you are. You’ve taught me how to be brave, which is really odd since you’re the kid and I’m the mom. I never quite understood courageousness until you came along.”

He peeks over my shoulder, his eyes shifting behind his glasses and his lips firming into tighter, straighter lines.

So I lower my voice. “Is she coming this way?”

“Yes.”

“Does she look angry, or is she wearing a chicken for a hat?”

At that, he peels his gaze back to mine. “Are those the only two options?”

“Usually? Yeah.” I stroke his jaw and flash a playful wink—signifying our last moment alone for the foreseeable future—then straightening my back, I close my eyes and draw a long, lung-filling breath. There’s no true way to prepare myself for this woman, no matter the mantra I chant, the meditation I attempt, or how desperately I wish I could smooth the wounds that run deeply beneath my flesh.

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