Page 5

I was so sure I would never come back here. Certain that New York would be where I live out my days, raising a son and writing books between his appointments.

It broke my heart to leave Plainview. But I was convinced I’d never return.

And yet…

“Is that…” Franky stretches his seatbelt and leans forward, setting his forearms on the front seats as I turn off the road and onto a potholed dirt driveway. “Mom, is that a rooster ?”

“Mmhm.” I clamp my lips shut and blink-blink-blink to clear my eyes. “The fact Grandma has a rooster isn’t even a surprise to me, honey. But that it looks like Whacky II is just…” I release a long breath, shaking my head from side to side. “He has to be nearly twelve years old, at least.”

“His name is Whacky?”

“Whacky II, actually. Whacky the First had an unfortunate ending that involved fireworks and bad choices.”

He sputters. “What?”

“We didn’t hurt him on purpose. I swear.

It’s not as psychotic as it sounds. But me and…

” Don’t say that name. Don’t even think it.

“A friend of mine. We were playing with fireworks one summer, though we knew we shouldn’t.

We had a whole crate of them, and believe it or not, we were being pretty careful.

But one of my friends had a habit of playing with a magnifying glass back then.

He enjoyed studying the bugs and stuff on the ground.

Grandma Bitsy called us inside for lunch because it was blistering hot that day, and I figure she felt bad for us.

My friend set his magnifying glass down in the sun, which kind of started a tiny fire, which, I guess, spread to the crate.

The fuses had been lit and…” I grit my teeth, maneuvering our car around the potholes that’ve grown exponentially deeper in the ten years I’ve been away.

“Well, we saw Whacky go up. We never saw him come down again.”

“That’s horrible!” And yet, my sweet baby boy giggles. “You blew up a rooster!”

“Unintentionally, and I’m definitely not proud of it. It’s not a fun story to tell, honey. It’s a cautionary tale. Don’t play with fireworks, fire, or gallus gallus domesticus.”

“Gallus gallus domesticus?”

The fact I know those words, even after all this time, is both comforting and a kick to the stomach.

A reason to smile while simultaneously, a reason to fight the panic clawing at my throat.

“Being here is a bit like time travel,” I murmur.

“Details I thought I’d forgotten, memories I’d long ago set aside, just jump right back to the front of my brain like no time has passed at all.

My friend had a habit of calling things by their scientific name.

” I peek into the rear-view mirror, finding Franky’s smiling eyes.

“You do that sometimes, too. Gallus gallus domesticus.”

“Did you know the scientific name for llamas is Lama Glama? They’re part of the camel family.”

“Er… nope.” I white-knuckle the steering wheel, squeezing tighter the closer we come to the house where memories and reality clash, taking what was and making it what is .

This house used to be a crisp white back around my senior year, but time and the scorching sun have transported it to a dull, almost-brown.

The crepe myrtle I planted the year before graduation now casts a shadow over the yard, with bright pink blossoms floating on the breeze and branches that shield a grouping of sheep.

Not red. Not blue. And definitely not purple.

“Do you see that row of orange trees?” I point them out as we pass and swallow the nerves building in my throat. “I dug the holes for those. Me and a shovel, and a couple of my friends, heckling and throwing orange peels every time I cussed them out. ”

“How did you have orange peels if the trees hadn’t grown yet?”

My lips curl higher because my baby is nothing if not a logical thinker.

“And why did they throw things at you? Did you punch them for it?”

“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 just knew we 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 he hates meeting 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?”

“Your tism ?” 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.

You never talk in circles, you never lie, 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 is not a 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?”