Page 18

MIA

The day after I sell my soul to the devil, I call Eli’s therapist back.

He gives me a referral for a colleague who specializes in early development and ASD. It’s three hundred bucks a pop, but I still make the appointment.

I take Eli twice over the weekend, paying extra for the speedy sessions. Then I splurge on a fancy daycare for the rest of the month, because even though he won’t be going to preschool anymore, I’ve still got double shifts every other day.

It burns through every cent of Yulian’s money. But Eli takes to his new therapist—a Dr. Summers, which makes him giggle every time—like a fish to water. And, by the end of his first appointment cycle, he has a preliminary diagnosis.

ASD with a side of ADHD-c.

“Mommy?” Eli asks from his booster seat on the way back from therapy, slurping his new organic, sugar-free juice. Because, apparently, regular junk food is extra bad for neurospicy kiddos with dopamine troubles. “Why do I have to go to Dr. Summers?”

“Why? You don’t like her?”

“I do! She lets me play with her building blocks.”

“That’s nice of her.” I grin at him from the rearview mirror. “Maybe next time you can bring Mr. Bunny to meet her?”

“Yay!”

Inside, I try to steel myself for the conversation to come. Dr. Summers said there’s no perfect time to talk to a child about their diagnosis, and that Eli’s too young to understand anyway.

But she also said honesty is important, and that his questions should be answered with as much truth as he can handle.

I happen to agree with her. When I had Eli, I swore I’d only tell him one lie. One big lie to keep him safe, then no more.

That his father died before he was born.

Of course, there were little lies over the years. White lies, like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and “Bambi’s mommy is absolutely fine, just napping.”

But on big things? Serious, trust-building things?

Never.

“You see…” I bite my lip. “Principal Johnson, from your old preschool, said you were having a little trouble.”

“Because I hit Bobby?”

“That’s a good example.”

“I said I was sorry,” he mumbles with a pouty lower lip.

“I know, baby. And hey, Bobby was really mean to you, so it wasn’t all your fault. But you know how you sometimes space out? And get really upset and don’t remember what happened after?”

“Yes…”

“Well, Principal Johnson thinks Dr. Summers can help with that. Even if you’re not going to her school anymore, she wants to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Eli is quiet for a while. Then he murmurs, so low I almost don’t hear him, “Am I sick, Mommy?”

“What?” I crane my head and meet his eyes. “Of course not, baby. Why do you ask?”

“Because Dr. Summers is a doctor.”

I laugh. “There’s all sorts of doctors out there, honey.”

“So I’m not sick?”

“You’re not,” I promise. “You’re just… just… a little fish.”

He gives a big, theatrical blink. “I’m a fish? ”

“Yup. A cute, adorable fish. But sometimes, little fish get put in the classroom with little squirrels. And while the squirrels are really good at climbing trees, fish are good at other things.”

“Like swimming?”

“Exactly!” I snap my fingers. “Dr. Summers… She’s there to help you find what you’re good at. As a little fish.”

He pauses for a long, thoughtful moment. Maybe I underestimated my boy. Maybe he does get it, does understand, is old enough to grasp the things at play here. He opens his mouth and…

“Does that mean we can get a pool?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Maybe, baby.”

I don’t tell him that, with Yulian’s money, we could get a whole damn mansion and burrow there for the rest of our days, far away from the Bobby Perkinses of the world.

It’d be way too tempting for both of us.

“First, you gotta learn to swim, though,” I add. “And do math. And take long, big breaths when you’re mad.”

“I can’t read yet,” Eli points out. “I don’t think I can do math, either, Mommy.”

“Well, I can’t do math, either, so that makes three of us.”

He giggles at the joke. “Can I still play basketball?”

“Of course! I happen to know little fish can be very good at basketball. Or at least, this little fish right here.”

With an ear-to-ear grin, Eli starts bouncing on the car seat, excited to be playing again at some point in the future.

Me? I’m not thinking about the future at all. Instead, I think back to the day he was born: pale, wrinkly, small as a puppy.

I remember holding him close to my chest and promising him: You’re safe with me. I’ll always protect you.

“Hey, munchkin?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you to the moon and back.”

Eli’s face spreads into his biggest, dimpliest, most gap-toothed grin yet. Love you to the moon and back— that’s our phrase. My bit, at least.

“I love you to the stars, Mommy!”

“Whaaat? All of them?”

“All of all of all of them!”

I see myself smile in the rearview mirror. That’s my kid. My beautiful, neurospicy kid with a heart bigger than the whole universe.

And we can handle whatever the world throws at us.

Even Yulian Lozhkin.