I’m in an Uber going from Alexandria to Warrenton – Alexandria because Rob surprised me by coming up for a conference and we got to spend almost two days together, Warrenton because well, that’s where I have to go because there’s only so much time I can leave Mr. Rugby with Mr. Happy without the express, written consent of the prosecutor – when my phone rings. And rings. Because of course I can’t find it.
I’m ripping through my bag, tossing packets of GAS-X, hair bands, pens, a mirror (there it is!), a tube of hand lotion, extra contact lenses, and several stray makeup wipes all over the seat and cursing because I know, I just know, it’s Cary. Or Chris. Calling to tell me something. Anything, about the video, the prosecutor's response to the video, and it doesn’t matter how much fun I’ve had the last two days, my desperation for some kind of feedback hasn’t diminished and dammit, I can’t find my ph–
Got it.
It’s Cary. Yes! Finally. It’s Cary!
So? I answer.
We haven’t heard anything. We’re waiting, he says.
You sent the video? I ask, stuffing everything I tossed out of my bag back into it lest the driver give me a demerit like that one guy who got lost and when I tried to explain his lostness to him lost it on me and well, guess who couldn’t get a ride for a while?
An edited version, yes, he replies.
So you were able to use it?
Yes. We just needed a snippet. Enough to give them an idea of him.
An idea of him, I think. I hope it’s the right idea. I start to ask if he thought Mr. Happy was too good in the video, too “on,” too, I don’t know, not delusional “enough”, but I stop myself. He said they got what they needed. Rob said “he sounded like an eight year-old having a good day. Which is to say, he sounded like a 12 year-old. A 12 year-old who happens to be a 32 year-old man.” Mr. Rugby said he sounded like himself.
At this point I’m the only one who thinks he sounded great, too good to be true. And that’s because it’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted – for him to wake up one morning and be neurotypical. For the cobwebs to clear, the crossed wires to properly connect, the autism and the schizo affective disorder to disappear and take the delusions with them.
You know by now, I hope, that I don’t want this for me. I want it for him. I love both my sons just the way they are. But my poor son can see, he knows, he fell right on the crack. A few centimeters in one direction and he’d have been just as neurotypical as his brother. A few centimeters in the other, and he’d probably have been profoundly autistic, and never even know what he was missing.
The fact that he knows and rails at the injustice of it is what breaks me for him. It’s also what will always keep me pulling for him and, of course, hurting for him.
Ok, I say to Cary because really, what else is there to say? When do you think you’ll know something?
No idea.
Wonderful. More of the same. I collapse back onto the seat, some, but not all, of the anxious wind blowing out of my sails. Patience, I tell myself, be patient. Just hang on. June’s coming.
And then I stare out the window, praying 66 isn’t backed up to Bogota, New Jersey. I need to see my kids. I need to tell Mr. Happy I heard from Cary. And when I do, he’s going to need a hug.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-44, you can do so here.
Keep the faith…
❤️🙏