Page 56 of Wicked Proposal
All this time, I’ve been so selfish. I’ve been in denial, afraid to face the reality of my son’s needs. I’ve been acting like I’ve got options when I don’t. When it’s obvious there was only ever one choice to make.
Luckily, I’m still in time to make it.
So we go home. I tuck Eli into bed and hold him until he falls asleep.
Then, two minutes before midnight, I make the call.
“It’s me. I’ll do it.”
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…”
