Page 62 of The Happiness Blueprint
“Yes?”
“The nursery called me to a meeting about Harry.” My pride starts to well up. I knew my nephew was a genius. Do they move kids up classes in Germany? Are they suggesting advanced homework or an IQ test?
“There are some concerns.”
“Concerns?” Over brilliance? They really want everyone in a mold, don’t they?
“Well, what she—the teacher—told me is that he has had some troublebondingwith the other kids. He mainly just plays with his train track, and unless another child comes over and joins in, he is alone.” She pauses, and my hands squeeze the steering wheel tighter.
“Then, there is something about eye contact. Every morning when he comes in, sits on the bench and changes from his boots to his woolly, wholesome, Montessori made-from-all-organically-dyed-wool-or-something slippers, he doesn’t say good morning to Miss Trudie, he just looks down at his slippers.”
“Ah, focus. A great characteristic,” I say. “If you were busy putting slippers on, surely the best place to look are the slippers? If you chop an onion, you look at the onion, correct? And if you are on a road driving, you look at the road? Shall I go on?”
“Missing the point. It’s possible, actually standard, to glance up and then continue the activity.”
“The demand they put on toddlers—multitasking skills, age two! Did you complain?”
“No. I didn’t. No offense, Klara, but can you just listen for a second? Let me get to the point?” Every time Saga saysno offense, it makes me wonder what her offense voice would sound like.
“There have been some flags at home as well. His eating is pickier, you know how he prefers the beige scale—pasta, chicken nuggets and corn—and the sleep is restless. I’m telling you because the more I read, well, I think you should know.” She pauses as if waiting for me to say something. I don’t. So she does. “I’m having him tested for autism.”
My mother’s sadness is one I always absorb like an uneasy feeling, a hovering stress ball at the base of my stomach. How the smell of smoke would penetrate your hair after a night out. That’s Mum’s sadness. In addition to her sadness, she has brought a prop to Zoom today, a cup of tea. As if its presence helps her. I decide I don’t want to do what my sister did and keep things to myself. I want to talk about them even if they make Mum bring her sadness.
“What have you been up to, my sweet cabbage?”Cabbageis not the weirdest thing my mum has ever called me. Apparently calling childrencabbagesis a thing in a foreign language, but I can’t remember which one. I do think there are other more sophisticated linguistic habits to keep up, but I don’t tell her this.
“You know why I need to speak to you,” I say, wishing she didn’t look so sad. Happy people are much easier to talk to. I pause, not knowing where to begin. This phone call came about because of what she withheld about my childhood, yet it still appears the responsibility to start the conversation is mine. “Did you ever consider that I might be autistic?” The word feels strange. I have only said it one time before, to Google.
“You were booked in for testing, actually,” Mum tells me. “The school had flagged some behavior. You never seemed to want to play with any friends. Only Saga.” I remember this. I preferred to play with Saga, which makes sense. She is brilliant and superior to anyone I know.What are you doing? Can I join? What is this for?Her friends answered my questions and gave me a role in the game: the baby, the pet, the chaser (I was a rather slow runner).
“I’m an introvert,” I tell my mum as if that explains and sums me up in a sentence and kills any suspicion of a diagnosis.
“Introverts also find friends. And love.”
“I have two friends. And I’ve found love; however, it has always been withdrawn from me. The till closes just as I’m arriving ready to buy into the relationship.”
“Yes, darling. I’m aware.”
“If you were worried, why didn’t you have me assessed? At least Saga is doing everything for Harry. She is being a good mother.Parenting.”
“You were booked in but then...you got sick.” I swallow. The thought of needles, hospital lights flickering andtoo much noise!
“The last thing on our minds was your behavior. The assessment got canceled, and then it was never a priority. You always managed school, despite your diabetes you got such good grades and tried so hard. God, we were proud of you.” I did do well in school.Benefit of no friends: time to study.
Mum continues, her hands seeking a new prop on the desk around her laptop. She finds a pen, which she proceeds to fiddle with.
“Even the school wasn’t concerned any longer. Distraction is common with diabetes, so you got the extra time you needed as we had a medical note saying that low or high blood sugar could affect your academic performance. They didn’t need anything more formal. And we thought,How much can this girl handle?How would you manage being both diabetic and...something else?”
“Autistic.”
I feel so tired suddenly.
“You have always been special. Darling, it’s a good thing. It quite surprised me, considering how ordinary your father is.” If Dad is ordinary, then I wish everyone else were too. There for every school performance, pickup, and shoelace-tying. I don’t bother to say that because I know my mum’s response will be eye-rolling and a familiarSure, an exciting personality is not the only positive character trait one can haveremark.
“You’re this brilliant girl who knows so much but can’t remember simple things.”
As I listen to what she just said, it hits me.
Can’t remember simple things.
