Slip

By Tanya Savko

Andrew Pavel, by all outward appearances, lives a normal life. He has a beautiful wife, Erica, and two great kids, Nathan and Eileen. His brother and sister are his best friends and his parents drive him crazy. But behind closed doors, normal is slipping away from a depressed and anxious Andrew. Nathan's recent diagnosis of autism leaves Andrew grasping at therapies and Erica in denial. Their differences lead them to seek a divorce. And just when Andrew could use some emotional support, his parents announce that they're going through their own divorce. As events unfold and relationships continue to evolve, past secrets come to light, threatening the positive level that Andrew and Erica have struggled to achieve. The tested bonds of friendship and the fragility of family prove that change, whether subtle or volatile, is unavoidable. Andrew must learn that when things will never be normal again, you have to find a new normal, and make peace with it, before you can find peace in yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tanya Savko
• Release date: Jul 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465911865

Tanya Savko

Tanya Savko is the author of the novels Slip, Enough to Go Around, and the award-winning website TeenAutism.com. She has contributed to several anthologies, including Sisters Born, Sisters Found and Wit and Wisdom from the Parents of Special Needs Kids. Born in Los Angeles, she currently lives in southern Oregon with her family. For more information, visit www.tanyasavko.com.

Book preview

S L I P

a novel

Tanya Savko

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Tanya Savko

Cover design and photograph by Tanya Savko

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without written permission of the publisher.

Published in the United States by Kova Publishing, Phoenix, Oregon

www.kovapublishing.com

Smashwords Edition: June 2010

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

For Nigel and Aidan

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank early reader Dan Latham for being willing to take on the formidable task of critiquing a first manuscript written by someone he didn’t previously know. His unbiased comments were invaluable, and I look forward to returning the favor.

Thanks are also in order to my family members who agreed to read a big box of paper (i.e. the book before publication): my father, Michael Savko, my sister, Anastasia Savko, and my brother, Alexis Savko, who essentially wrote the back cover copy.

Thanks to my other family members who gave endless support during the writing of this book: my sons, Nigel and Aidan, my mother, Madeline Rose, and my sister, Macrina Lesniak.

Thanks to Sharon of Rogue Books, Kelly Howell of Brain Sync, and Genevieve Athens of the Autism Society of Oregon for their generous quotes.

Thanks to Jan Hale of The Wright Fulfillment Company for her encouragement and friendship, and for her therapeutic dogs.

One

I always wanted to be a librarian when I grew up," Andrew answered his wife as he turned on the faucet and began to draw a bath. He’d said it with the incredulity of one who had abandoned a fledgling dream early on, before it had even taken hold, so long ago that even he himself had forgotten it. They had been discussing his future employment plans as they realized that, mentally as well as financially speaking, he would need to go back to work soon. Being a stay-at-home parent for the past three years was not what he had planned for himself when he had graduated from college at the age of twenty-three. He was supposed to have traveled the world by now, published a book, bought a house. It was 1997.

Really? Erica said with a small laugh. "You never told me that before! You’re the first guy I know who wanted to be a librarian when he grew up." She pushed a lock of her chin-length black hair behind her ear as she entered the small bathroom of their home.

I know. It’s not the typical fireman or baseball player answer.

He reached down and tested the temperature of the water, then stood back up and blotted his hand on his jeans. I’m sure you never wanted to be a ballerina.

Erica laughed again, this time her short Ha! burst that always unnerved him if he wasn’t expecting it. A guffaw, really. No, but at some point I did want to be a veterinarian, which is another ‘girl’ thing to want to be. Then I discovered I was allergic to cats, which was a bummer.

Funny how we can get so far from where we thought we wanted to be, Andrew thought. He had obtained his bachelor’s degree in English, and, aside from the occasional résumé written for a friend, he had not had many opportunities to utilize his education. The only writing he did was the infrequent, boring journal entry. His goal of being a freelance writer had been shelved along with his record collection; he was not sure when he would be able to enjoy either one again. Having small children precluded the achievement of lofty goals, including the purchase of new stereo equipment. And, by not working, he certainly wasn’t contributing to household expenses. But we save on childcare costs with you staying at home, Erica had said. And we know the kids will always be safe. Erica attended the local university studying graphic design and worked nights as a bartender. Andrew suspected she did not realize his growing resentment about his isolation, home alone with two toddlers, and, he felt, his mental stagnation. Not to mention their growing debt. Andrew looked at her. So. Do you want to tell him or should I?

I told him last time.

All right, I’ll do it, Andrew said.

Maybe we should do Eileen first, and then tell him.

Okay. I’ll get her. Andrew walked out behind his wife’s lean frame. She was as tall as he was, which, even though he was devoted to her, was an issue with him. A small issue, at least. He would never tell her, of course, but he wished she were a little shorter. Or maybe if he were a little taller—but not really. He was comfortable with his own average height, his blond surfer-type good looks. But, aside from that, he thought that Erica was perfect for him, and the issue of her height was so minor that he rarely thought about it. He often had to defend her decision to not take his last name, however. His rather conservative parents believed that it somehow made Erica less loyal, less married, perhaps. But Andrew completely understood her desire to maintain her recognizable name. Erica Hudson just sounded better than Erica Pavel. He accepted it without any difficulty. It made her seem stronger, more independent, and that appealed to him. He also liked the fact that his wife was two years his senior. He would always be younger, which comforted him somehow. As the eldest of three children, he had sometimes wished for an older sibling to share some of his responsibilities.

Andrew walked down the short hallway of his two-bedroom duplex. They had lived there for two years now, and neither of them had put anything up on the white walls of the rental. They figured if they didn’t make themselves too comfortable there that they would be more motivated to save money to buy a home. It was a notch on Erica’s success meter, but to Andrew, owning a home was not a means to an end, it was an end in itself. As a child he used to pore over Sears catalogs and pick out electronics, appliances, and furnishings that he thought he would like to have when he was an adult and owned his own home. His Spartan rental did not achieve the desired effect. It depressed Andrew far more than it motivated him. How can you save money when you’re not making any?

But Andrew smiled when he found his younger child, fifteen-month-old Eileen, dancing in the living room to the song coming from the TV. Her short, straight, wispy blond hair bounced with her movements, like it had a mind of its own. His older child, three-year-old Nathan, sat on the old, dark red velveteen couch and sucked both his forefinger and middle finger of his right hand while he watched the TV, and, with his other hand, tugged on and twisted a lock of short, wavy, dark blond hair near the whorl at the top rear of his head. He seemed oblivious to his sister, and to their father entering the room. Andrew goose-stepped over several errant toys and stuffed animals, including the old pull-string telephone with the eyes that rolled back and forth when it was pulled across the room.

Hi, Nathan! What are you watching? I have to try, Andrew thought. Maybe one of these days he’ll tell me. Maybe he’ll just decide that it’s time to talk.

Nathan continued sucking his fingers and twirling his hair and did not respond. Speaking and interacting were not high priorities for him, as much as Andrew could tell. Sometimes it seemed that, when not upset by something, his son existed in a semi-trance state, regarding any interaction as an intrusion. Andrew turned to Eileen.

"Guess what! It’s time for a bath! You can watch more Lion King when the bath is over. Come on with Dad," he said as he picked her up and leaned over to turn off the TV. Nathan yelled, which prompted Eileen to protest by whining and kicking her legs against Andrew’s abdomen.

I thought this was supposed to be easier doing Eileen first! he called down the hall, over the din of his children. He held Eileen closer, restraining her, as he walked to the bathroom.

You know it will be, Erica said. She rolled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt and began undressing a suddenly more compliant Eileen while Andrew walked back to get Nathan.

What’s so wrong with a nice, warm bath? he thought. Why is it always so traumatic for him? Andrew sat down next to him on the couch where he sat staring at the blank TV screen, still sucking his fingers and tugging his hair, only now a bit harder, sensing the tension. Andrew put his arm around him and pulled Nathan to him.

Nathan, he began. Let’s go watch Eileen take a nice bath.

Leen, Nathan said in his usual rote tone. He removed his fingers just long enough to say his sister’s name, noting that she would take the bath, then replaced them.

Yes, come with Dad, Andrew said, holding out his hand to him. Nathan did not move, so Andrew picked him up and carried him. He was a healthy child, dense-boned and muscular, solid. Large for his age, taking after Erica’s side. The bath is nice and warm. You can watch Mom wash Eileen’s hair. She likes it, he said, hoping that might coax him into the tub. He didn’t want to tell him yet that he would be next or he would shriek and scare Eileen.

Erica had just laid a now-placid Eileen back on her left arm and with her right hand slowly poured a cup of water over Eileen’s head as Andrew walked in with Nathan. Nathan watched, glad that he was still clothed. Once the clothes came off, he knew there was no turning back.

See? Andrew said to him. "Mom is just wetting Eileen’s hair. She’s okay. The water feels good. Now she’s putting shampoo in her hair to clean it. Now she’s going to rinse the shampoo out. See? Mom is holding her. Now all the soap is out of her hair and she’s all finished. Now she can get out and watch more Lion King!"

Erica wrapped Eileen in a big yellow towel and carried her out into the living room. She seated her on the couch and turned the TV and VCR back on and came back to the bathroom, saying, Now it’s your turn to wash hair, Nathan!

Aaahhhh! Aaaahhh! he yelled, kicking Andrew as he set him down and undressed him. Erica shut the door. Together they lifted him into the tub. Erica held his legs while Andrew went through the same hair washing motions that Erica had with Eileen, only at a much faster pace. It was quite a feat, considering the fact that Nathan’s hair was thicker than Eileen’s and he thrashed so violently. Nathan fought and yelled. Water sloshed everywhere as his arms flailed. Andrew finished as quickly as possible, pulled his hysterical son out of the tub and onto the bathmat, and wrapped him up.

I’m going to check on Eileen, Erica said, blotting herself with a towel. Andrew began to dry Nathan’s body and hair, a routine his son actually seemed to enjoy. I don’t know why you scream, Nathan. No screaming or hitting or kicking, remember? You’re okay. Nothing happened to you. We just washed your hair. This screaming over the hair-washing is just a bit too much. Sometimes he felt like he was talking to a wall, but he wanted to believe that Nathan heard him and understood. They knew he could hear quite well; several times he had come running from the bedroom all the way out to the kitchen when he heard the faint scrape of the ceramic cookie jar lid being lifted. They also knew he was incredibly smart. Six months earlier, Andrew’s mother had brought over two wooden puzzles, one of the alphabet and the other of numbers zero to nine. They told Nathan the names of all the letters and numbers just a few times, and by the end of the afternoon he had them memorized. Every single one he knew, at the age of two and a half. He had also had no difficulty with fitting the puzzle pieces where they belonged. Andrew wrapped the towel around him again and hugged him. Come on, let’s go get your pajamas on.

He guided Nathan into the kids’ bedroom, which was the only room in the house with anything on the walls. Eileen’s white wooden crib had baby Mickey, Minnie, and Donald all over the sheets, and Nathan’s low toddler bed had Lion King sheets on it. Andrew and Erica were both Disney fans and adorned their children’s room accordingly. During childhood, Andrew had gone to Disneyland several times with his family. Erica had not been able to go at all as a child (her usually single mother had not been able to afford it), but at the age of nineteen she began working there as a food server. She had liked to tell neighborhood kids that she went to Disneyland every day, just to see the surprise and admiration on their faces.

Together they dressed their children for bed, Andrew thankful for the one evening a week that Erica was home and he didn’t have to do it alone. Aside from the bath trauma, which they reserved for that one night a week, it wasn’t too difficult getting the kids ready for bed, but the lack of adult interaction was driving him crazy. And it was good to feel like a family, to do something all together, even if it was just getting ready for bed, and even if it did include an episode of shrieking hysteria. The older gentleman who shared their duplex was hard of hearing, much to their relief.

After they had brushed the toddlers’ teeth (another element of personal hygiene that Nathan protested, but with tolerance, since it occurred more often), they sat on the couch with them and read a Winnie the Pooh book and then carried them to their beds. Eileen was finally out of the stage that required half-hour rocking sessions before she fell asleep and allowed the rocker, usually Andrew, to slip her into her bed without waking. Andrew had to coax his children into just about everything, even sleep. He felt like a reluctant Tom Sawyer, making every activity sound worthwhile, enviable, desirable.

Exhausted, he collapsed on the old-but-still-in-good-shape couch that had belonged to his parents. It looked like something from an estate sale with its tufted camel back and curved wooden legs exposed.

"X-Files tonight, Erica announced, coming out of the bathroom and walking over to turn on the TV. She had watched the show since its first season in 1993, and Andrew began watching the following year when Nathan was a baby. He often would watch an entire episode with Nathan sleeping on his shoulder, gently rocking him, while Erica was at work. The show’s unconventional subject matter of two FBI agents investigating strange crimes and bizarre phenomena appealed to both Erica and Andrew, so Erica began scheduling her nights off when the show was on because they enjoyed watching it together. This was their date night. Their scheduled alone-together time in a marriage full of crabby, problematic toddlers, empty bank accounts, unrealized goals and abandoned dreams. This was their distraction, as much from the stress that filled their lives as from a marriage with little life in it, although Andrew couldn’t see that. They laughed and talked about their children; they went through the motions. They communicated," or so Andrew thought. And he had no doubt that he loved her, that they would always be together. That their marriage was the one thing he could count on.

Erica sat down on the springy couch beside Andrew, who laid his bent legs sideways on the couch so that his feet rested under his left hand. He hadn’t responded to her announcement; he just absentmindedly began picking at an old callous on his left foot, slowly peeling the dead skin away as he watched the show.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, Andrew pulled into the Southern Oregon Mental Health parking lot just in time for his appointment. He had been seeing a counselor for about two months regarding his depression and anxiety, once a week for the first month, and now every other week. He couldn’t really tell if it was helping or not. It was good to get out of the house, to talk to another adult, to try to work through some of his issues, but he still felt like throwing his head through the glass window in his dining room whenever he felt the anxiety well up within him. The build-up of agitation created an unbearable combination of rage and depression. What was wrong? What was making him feel this way? He knew it had a lot to do with the fact that he had been home with the kids for three years, and he sorely needed to go back to work, but he didn’t have a job to go back to. He had worked as a shift manager at Payless Drugstore when Nathan was born, and he felt that going back there would not be the best choice (nor had he had any offers to come back), but he didn’t know what else to do. Three weeks ago, he had gone to an interview at a real estate office to be an assistant for one of the brokers: certainly not a dream job, but at least it was an office job. All seemed to have gone well, but two weeks later he realized that it was the first job for which he had applied and not been hired, and that didn’t sit well with him. Now Erica was well into her term at school, so he would have to wait until December to start looking again, when the term ended. He couldn’t take much more of being home alone with the kids.

He jogged from his car through the rain into the single-story brick building, gave his name to the receptionist, and looked around for a place to sit. The room smelled of disinfectant used to camouflage the smell of vomit. He took in a shallow breath, sat down on a vinyl-covered, thinly upholstered bench as far away from the two other people in the room as he could be, and avoided eye contact with them. Across from Andrew sat a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a hairnet and clutching a plastic trash bag, who began hacking without resolve. Then Andrew glanced at the teenage girl in the corner, fidgeting, digging through her purse, her long, stringy brown hair falling in her face. He looked away quickly when he saw her arms with the track marks and stitches on her wrist. Andrew shuddered mentally. Should I really be here? he wondered. But he couldn’t afford a private practice, so this would have to do. He needed something.

Moments later, Jim Beckman, the clinical psychologist he had been seeing, opened the door and called Andrew in. Jim, a gangly man in his fifties, was dressed in a light blue oxford cloth shirt, a pair of khakis, and brown loafers. Andrew wore what he called his At-home Dad uniform: blue jeans and a crewneck shirt (today it was striped with primary colors of varying widths), and black Converse Hi-top sneakers. He followed Jim into his small office. Its narrow walls were lined with shelves of books, and it had barely enough room for a desk with a computer on it, two thinly upholstered green chairs in front of it, and Jim’s black swivel chair behind it. So, Andrew, how are you feeling? came Jim’s typically subdued voice. Andrew often wondered whether Jim was tired, preoccupied, or just bored, which only added to Andrew’s anxiety. Jim’s face, even first thing in the morning, was greasy and off-putting, and Andrew found himself feeling uncomfortable looking into his counselor’s gray, uninviting eyes, like standing at the mouth of a cold, dark cave and hesitating to go in out of the rain.

I’m about the same as last time: not really feeling much better. I’m still peeling the skin off the bottoms of my feet, even when I don’t realize I’m doing it.

Have you tried wearing socks all the time?

Yes, but I just pull them off. I can’t seem to stop the peeling. It feels good, but then I go too far and make my feet bleed and it hurts to walk on the parts that I peeled. But the peeling felt good, so primal, reptilian. He didn’t know why he liked it, why it fascinated and obsessed him. It also seemed to soothe him somehow.

Of course it hurts. Maybe you need to try something to distract yourself when you feel a desire to peel skin off your feet, like doing jumping jacks until the urge passes.

Okay. I could try that. Yeah, I’ll put that on my To-Do List. Jumping jacks, for Christ’s sake. I want an epiphany. Something that will snap me out of this pseudo-depression I’m in. Maybe one day while we’re all away for the day the house will burn down and we can just start over.

Jim leaned forward and continued, reminding Andrew of strategies they had discussed during previous sessions: taking walks twice a week, writing in his journal, going out dancing, which was something Andrew had said he liked to do and hadn’t done for a long time. Have you been implementing these activities into your life again?

Andrew explained how hard it was to carve out time for himself, with Erica working five nights a week and going to school during the day, compounded by the fact that his children, especially Nathan, would not do well with a babysitter because of behavioral problems. Even Eileen was not without her issues. Since infancy, she seemed to be extremely sensitive to various stimuli. If they were carrying her and they walked into a room that was too bright, too dim, or with too many people, even if it was quiet, she would begin wailing and would not stop, even when removed from whatever had disturbed her. She would cry for two hours even while being held. They could never figure out what set her off. She cried even harder if they put her down. Now, as a toddler, the crying jags had given way to incessant whining and tantrums. It was no wonder none of their friends and relatives offered to babysit.

I thought you were going to switch and she was going to stay home with the children for a while and you were going to get a job, Jim said, leaning back in his chair while lacing his fingers. He blotted his face with a dirty handkerchief.

Yes, the last one I applied for I didn’t get, and now Erica needs to finish out this term, so maybe around Christmas time, but no one’s really hiring then.

Jim asked if Andrew had tried the breathing exercises they talked about. The breathing exercises Jim suggested reminded Andrew of the birthing classes he went to with Erica and trying to implement them during Nathan’s birth. He tried to breathe with her, to coach her, and she’d ended up shrieking at him to stop breathing on her, shrieking with each wave of labor that overpowered her. The breathing exercises were as useless to her then as they were to Andrew now: they offered no relief. But he told Jim they helped a little, although he was still constantly rearranging the chairs around the kitchen table. He would catch himself doing it every fifteen minutes sometimes, even when he didn’t want to do it. He would look over and see them out of alignment and feel forced to go over and fix them, lining them up with the wood grain of the oak table. He probably did it at least twenty times a day. I don’t get mad at the kids over it; it doesn’t really have anything to do with them.

Well, Jim said, adjusting his seat. They’re toddlers, so I’m sure they move the chairs a bit throughout the day.

I guess so. And my oldest knocks the chairs backward and lets them crash to the floor whenever he gets upset or frustrated about something.

Like a temper tantrum? Jim tapped his pen on his desk. Andrew bristled at the convenient, thoughtless label Jim stuck on a function of a developmental delay. A symptom. You have a Masters in psychology and that’s the best you can come up with? It’s just a fucking temper tantrum? Come on.

Not really. He just gets so frustrated when he can’t communicate with us. It was never like a temper tantrum. It was more like a cry for help.

Jim asked how the testing was coming along, and Andrew explained that they were still in the initial six-week diagnostic period. They’d been to the Early Childhood Development Center office a few times for tests, and the therapists had come to the house for home observations and interviews.

There would be a meeting in a couple of weeks to go over what services they could provide for Nathan.

Jim commended him for being proactive about having Nathan tested early, instead of waiting to see if he’d catch up. He suggested that once Nathan began receiving speech therapy, it would alleviate Andrew’s own anxiety and depression.

Jim shifted in his seat again and cleared his throat. He then went on to discuss the subject of parentification, how Andrew had previously told him that he often took care of his brother and sister while growing up, and asked him to describe how he felt about it, how it related to him now being a parent.

He hadn’t really stopped to think about it. That was just what was expected of him. He loved his baby sister to no end, guarded her like a precious heirloom. He remembered, though he was only eight years old when she was born, noticing the contours of Bernadette’s cherubic face while he cradled her in his arms. This was his baby sister. He loved her before she was born, imagining her crawling on the floor, remembering how his parents had smiled at each other when they saw that their pregnancy announcement had been so well received. Solomon, who was five at the time, was also excited. They crawled around on the floor together that night, pretending to be babies, anticipating the arrival of their younger sibling. All Andrew told Jim was how old he’d been when Bernadette was born, and that he’d babysat her a lot. She’s always felt like more of a niece than a sister.

Jim said that it was common for adults who had been parentified as children to think of their younger siblings as nieces or nephews. How old was she when you started taking care of her?

She was just one month old the first time.

Your parents left an eight-year-old alone with a one-month-old?! It was the most emotion he’d seen from Jim, the bulging eyes and shocked tone.

Andrew explained that there was a twelve-year-old babysitter there, a girl who didn’t know anything about babies. She used to go upstairs into his mother’s bathroom and play with her makeup. His sister started crying and the babysitter didn’t know what to do, so Andrew started rocking her to comfort her. A few months later, his mother had him changing Bernadette’s cloth diapers.

That’s parentification—placing too much responsibility on children too young to take care of younger siblings. You had also mentioned that you had migraines as a child?

Andrew confirmed that he had, around ages eleven and twelve. He received frequent chiropractic treatments for about a year, and hadn’t had any migraines since. He’d definitely had headaches throughout his teens and adulthood, but not the throbbing, relentless pain of the migraines, so intense he felt as if his skull would burst.

Jim then steered the discussion toward comparing Andrew’s past status as a child-parent to his current status as a stay-at-home parent. He suggested that Andrew’s identity had suffered as a result.

Andrew, you need to start scheduling time for yourself; it’s not going to happen on its own. Also, are you still against medication? You had mentioned wanting to avoid that, although I think you should consider it.

Andrew sighed. This was not the first counselor in his life who had recommended antidepressants, and he never wanted to become a statistic, didn’t want to become dependent on them, so he had always refused. Jim had brought it up before, and Andrew had told him he wanted to try a non-medicated approach, but he was starting to think he might need the medication. He told Jim that nothing had really changed with doing the breathing exercises. I still pull strands of hair off my head, still peel the skin around my fingernails and my feet, still rearrange the chairs around the table all day long. Still feel agitated and depressed all the time; I hate it. And I’ve been starting to have some episodes of insomnia, really having a hard time falling asleep. But I just don’t want anything that’s going to knock me out. I have to be able to function and take care of the kids if they get up during the night.

I think you should talk to Dr. Taylor. She can prescribe a low dosage of something that would help you feel better. It doesn’t have to be long-term, and she can answer all your questions about it. Put your mind at ease. Andrew sighed again. Okay. I think I’m ready for that. At this point, I’ll try anything.

* * *

THAT NIGHT, ALONE on the couch, his children in bed, Andrew tried to find some answers. He set aside his thoughts about his own potential diagnosis (obsessive compulsive disorder, Jim had mentioned as probable, and, after he researched it, Andrew felt a dreaded certainty of it) and focused on his nagging concern about Nathan. Something was different about him, beyond his developmental delay in speech, but Andrew couldn’t figure out what it was. He sat on the couch and thumbed through his copy of What to Expect the Toddler Years, published in 1994. He glanced at all of the topics under the heading Some Chronic Health Problems, focused on mental retardation briefly (No! He knew the entire alphabet! At three!), and then checked the index for various sections on language development. Language development: delayed, at 13 months; delayed, at 19 months; evaluating, at 19 months; factors affecting; frustration and; intelligence and. He knew that his son was severely delayed in that area. But if he was smart enough to learn the alphabet, and his hearing seemed fine, why couldn’t he talk? Why wouldn’t he talk? Andrew recalled pointing to a robin in the backyard last month as he crouched near Nathan. Bird, Nathan. Say ‘bird.’ Can you say ‘bird?’ And Nathan, unimpressed and unresponsive, had stared blankly at the robin while he sucked his fingers.

Andrew looked back at the Some Chronic Health Problems section. He had heard of autism when he was nine years old and read about it in his father’s Encyclopaedia Britannica. He didn’t remember much about it, only that autistic people seemed to be in their own world. But, according to the description in What to Expect the Toddler Years, children with autism were not affectionate and did not make eye contact. Nathan was affectionate enough with family members and sometimes made eye contact with them. He just didn’t talk. That alone did not mean he had autism. So … what, then? What about the screaming?

The ringing phone jolted Andrew off the couch. He made a mad dash to grab it before it woke up the kids.

Hi, Andrew, he heard his mother’s pensive voice. He could see the crease in her forehead deepen as she greeted him and then sighed with a hint of impatience. Andrew instantly felt impatient too. He finally gets the kids in bed, collapses on the couch to relax, and she calls. It was a familial love that he felt for her, tolerant, detached even. He had never been at risk for being branded a mama’s boy. Too independent for that. His mother had always said he’d never been the cuddly type anyway. Did I catch you at a bad time?

Andrew listened a moment for a crabby whimper, almost wishing there was one to necessitate postponing the phone call, but the duplex was silent. All he could hear was the rain tapping on the roof. He had been looking forward to some free time. No, this is fine. The kids are in bed, and I was just reading.

Erica at work?

Yeah, she’s closing tonight, Andrew said. She probably won’t be home until about 3:30. Friday and Saturday nights are the busiest.

Well, his mother began, I need to talk to you about something important. She almost sounded business-like, as if she were a manager confronting him about sales dropping in his department.

Like I don’t have enough to deal with in my own life, Andrew thought. He mentally groaned, but he decided to sound supportive for her sake. What’s that?

Um, I’m not quite sure where to start. She paused, then tentatively continued. Well, you know your father and I have been sleeping in separate rooms for the past several months, right? Has Bernadette mentioned that to you? She mentioned his sister’s name as if she were an ally of sorts.

How the hell would Bernadette know? Andrew wondered. She had been away at college for the past several months, but his brother had stayed there last year. Actually, Sol mentioned something about that a few months ago before he moved. No big deal. After twenty-seven years of marriage, a break might be a good idea. Probably even necessary.

Well, I’ve just been dealing with a lot of past issues in your father’s and my marriage, and I needed some space to figure some things out. I don’t know if this will surprise you, but we haven’t had the happiest marriage.

Andrew sensed where this was going. His ears began ringing, and he felt a hollowness in his chest. Didn’t you love him?

His mother switched to a pacifying tone. Yes, yes, of course, honey. I loved him then and I still love him. I was blindly in love, in fact. I didn’t see the signs when we were dating that he might not be right for me.

What do you mean? Andrew asked.

His mother sounded almost as if she were reciting a list, defending herself. She told Andrew that his father had talked about wanting children, but when the time came he had no idea or inclination of how to interact with them or take care of them. He figured that he was the breadwinner, and that was all he had to be, like most of his contemporaries in the 1970s. He was the head of his Catholic household, he paid the bills, took his family to church every Sunday, didn’t cheat on his wife or beat his kids, and he expected to come home to a clean house with dinner on the table. That was the arrangement. She had her role and he had his.

Andrew thought of his father, just about to retire from thirty years of city government administrative work, coming home