Page 73 of The Happiness Blueprint
Her van creeps slowly along the street, and I wave at her to stop. There is a perfectly fine parking spot on the opposite side, but she doesn’t seem keen on it. How many times has she tried and driven past?
“Hop out. I’ll park it.” I steer into the space with one hand on the wheel and hope that I haven’t offended her by offering. Just want to be useful. When I walk toward her, her face lights up, which is a relief, and she waves enthusiastically as if I’m the best thing she’s seen all day.
After dinner, which I can barely focus on, I decide to bring it up. What’s been holding me back. It comes out fast, in one breath, voice slightly off.
“I know you saw me in the therapy office. And... I want to talk to you about it, I want to tell you why. I’ve had depression, may still have it as some innate part of me,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says. She doesn’t tell me that I seem so happy, or that I’ll be fine, or that I’m stronger than it. The older I get, the more I appreciate when people say less: it often means more. You can trust fewer words, and especially the singular ones, which stand tall on their own legs. A forest of words you get lost in. Sounds like Klara logic. I’m just about to share it with her when she interrupts me.
“We all have our quirks. I am most definitely diabetic. I also hide in the van and listen to rap when I’m uncomfortable and care way too much about even and odd numbers.” She pauses. “I hadn’t planned to share this. Usually, I preview my sentences in my head three times before I let them out into the world for judgment. But... I may have autism. That is, I may be Autistic.”
I look up at her and respond with an echo of her reply to me just then.
“Okay.”
Because in this moment everything is fucking okay. Still, very aware it’s just a moment.
“What do we do next?” I say.
“I don’t know how this goes. My longest relationship as an adult was six weeks. And for two of those weeks, he was traveling.”
Why do I take so much joy in knowing no one’s been able to keep her for longer than a few weeks? What would it take? Not much. It wouldn’t be difficult at all. Then I remember that all this is temporary.
“You’re going back to London.”
“In two weeks.”
So soon. For months, time has been my enemy. I’ve cursed it and taken it personally how it’s crept along too quickly. The trial will soon be over, but now I have a new date to dread.
“If everything is well with Dad. If he needs more treatment, I may have to stay.”
Of course. We have all been on edge knowing Peter’s checkup is coming. Hehasto be okay. Any other desire would be selfishness on my part.
“Let’s hope he’s okay. And that you can go back. Do your test. Get on with life.”
“Let’s not talk about it?”
I swallow hard. Does she maybe...not want to go?
“Just for now. Tomorrow is a big day for you. Once it’s over, we can talk,” she clarifies as if she could read my excitement, and I feel myself and my stupid hope wilt like spinach in a hot pan.She won’t be changing her plans for you, Alex.
“Sure.”
Will have enough to worry about tomorrow, and she’s right: everything can wait until it’s over.
I’m wearing my suit for the third time in a year. Hate this suit. After the funeral I shoved it into the back of my wardrobe, tempted to burn the thing as though it were moth-infested. Relieved I didn’t. It seems fitting that the suit I bought to see Calle off should be the one I wear when I meet his killer.
“I could come with you,” Klara offered at dinner. She could. The trial is open to everyone; the gallery will be open to the public. I imagine her sitting there. In a way it would be comforting to have a person specifically there for me when I listen to the details of how my person was taken away from me.
“I’d like that. I’m not sure I’ve told you, but you calm me down.”
“Like an emotional-support animal.”
“Something like that.” I smile. I smile all the fucking time lately.
“Then, I’ll be there.”
The courthouse is a brown ’80s building that looks like nothing good can come from it, like a school kitchen or telling yourself you’ll have just one more drink. I hope its appearance is misleading. It’s so mundane and not what I had expected. I had imagined vaulted ceilings and intricate woodwork à la American legal dramas, judges with expensive shoes and a crowd of people eager to cheer justice on. In reality there are two bored-looking law students with notepads, tired benches and equally tired-looking legal professionals with stacks of files covered in Post-its in front of them. I want to scream at it all.This is important! Someone died!But if I did that the bulky security guy by the door would doubtlessly escort me out.
