My chest expands, not with a picture of the future I always imagined, not with hope, but maybe something just as strong. Gratitude. “Thank you.”
Thirty-Six
Cora
Missing you on set today.
I send the text with zero shame as to how needy it sounds or the fact I’ve already sent him a dozen throughout the day to wish him luck at today’s appointment. A more appropriate message would read: Missing you today. Every day, really. Even the ones I see you, I miss you when we’re apart. Desperate much? Not that I’m playing hard to get. I’ve made it pretty clear I’d be up for another date, hangout, or really anything when it comes to Isaac. But my schedule really doesn’t allow much in the way of relationships, and Isaac’s doesn’t either. With the point we’re at in the film, I’m pretty much booked solid with sixteen-hour days, except for a few weekends. Isaac has more jobs than anyone I know, he’s in school, and he’s a single father. Seriously, he might as well be Superman, but finding time together will be a challenge.
“Oh, no. What’s wrong, baby doll?” De’Shaun, my hair stylist, eyes me in the reflection of the mirror. They’re busy aging me up another ten years for the next scene. It’s amazing what a change of hair and makeup can do for a character.
I sigh, letting my phone fall into my lap and meet his concerned gaze. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Uh oh.” He eyes Rae, my new makeup artist, with a concerned look, then comes around the chair to catch my stare. “I’m here if you wanna talk.”
“I feel like I should pay you,” I joke, but it’s the truth. “Do all hair stylists moonlight as relationship counselors?”
He chuckles. “I should charge more.”
Hell. Might as well get these worries off my chest. “The guy I’m seeing had a big appointment today and I thought I’d hear from him by now.”
“Maybe he got held up.”
“Maybe.” I frown at the clock on the wall. It’s after two. There’s no way. “I’m worried it didn’t go well.” But that’s not entirely true. I’m mostly worried about Isaac. I see how much he loves his son, and if everything doesn’t go how he wants, it could crush him.
“You like him.” De’Shaun raises his brows.
I love him. The response is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. My feelings for Isaac haven’t stopped growing since the moment we met. That I love him doesn’t even shock or surprise me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before, but the first time I say it aloud should be to Isaac and not my hair and makeup team. “I really do.”
“Got any words of wisdom for our girl here?” De’Shaun bumps his hip against Rae’s.
She laughs, blending a palette of color for my eyes, and shakes her head. “I’m not qualified to be handing out advice.” She brings the brush to my face and I close my eyes so she can do her thing. “I make the worst choices when it comes to men.”
“You’ve been holding out on us, Rae.” De’Shaun whistles. “I’m gonna need you to dish as soon as we get Cora smiling again.” His teasing accomplishes just that. “There she is.”
“Sorry, I’m usually better company.” I enjoy chatting with them both. I learned early in my career to make friends with everyone, especially the hair and makeup team. Kindness goes a long way, and I’ve never wanted to be known as a diva. Plus, they’re the ones in charge of my appearance—not the people to tick off. “I’m trying to give him space.” If Isaac needs me, he’ll call. Only, I don’t quite believe that. Asking for help isn’t easy for him. “I just don’t want him to feel he’s alone. Or that I don’t care.”
“You can open them,” Rae says, stepping back to assess her work.
“So, make sure he knows it.” De’Shaun wraps my hair around a wand, allowing the curls to form from the heat before he picks up the next section to do it again. “Whatever’s going on won’t seem so bad if he knows he’s got you in his corner.”
He’s right, but I don’t have the luxury of ditching work for a few hours to check on my man. Sometimes I hate the demanding hours of this career. When we’re on set, there’s no flexibility. Maybe that’s why Isaac isn’t responding to my texts. Maybe I’m overreacting. He’s probably busy with David. I’m sure he’ll call tonight when he knows I’m done with work. Still, a tiny shred of doubt takes hold—one I can’t seem to shake for the rest of the day.
Thirty-Seven
Isaac
I stare at my son as he sleeps soundly on the bed. Resting, he looks no different than any other child his age. He’s perfect. He’s mine.
He may never speak.
The pathologist’s words ring in my head, bouncing along the edges of my brain, unable to settle and take root. I don’t want to believe that. It feels like giving up. My son is the strongest, bravest, most resilient little boy I’ve ever known.
You need to be prepared for the reality.
How does one do this? Acceptance seems equivalent to failure, at least on my part. He’s going to be fine. But what if he’s not? What if this isn’t temporary, or just a phase we have to work through? What if everything won’t get better?
I slip out of the room and head to the table. There’s homework due for my classes and a kitchen to clean, but instead I pull out my phone. I need to face this. It’s time to educate myself. Cora, my parents, and my sisters have been blowing up my phone all day but I ignore their messages and pull up the internet browser. In the search bar I type the question I’ve been asking myself all day.
What to do when your child is diagnosed with autism?
My gaze greedily scans the results in my search for answers. Article to article. Blog posts to scientific studies. I consume information like it’s a lifeline, but instead of pulling me out of the unknown, I drown in the vastness of it all. Autism looks different for each child. The spectrum is wide, and there are so many therapies and specialists—all of which cost money I don’t have and promise nothing. I won’t know what the future holds. The only thing certain is uncertainty.
This isn’t the life I imagined, not for him or me. I’m not strong enough. I don’t have enough resources. I can’t do it on my own. I’m barely managing now. Emotion chokes my breath; my chest tightens with an ache I can’t escape or soothe. My body is as tired as my soul. Nothing makes any of this better.
Except her.
My instinct to call Cora is so immediate and visceral, I’m pressing her contact and pacing the kitchen before I question whether it’s a good idea. Because it’s not. She doesn’t need my mess, or to get tangled up with someone who most days doesn’t have more than a few seconds to text. She deserves better. She probably won’t pick up.
“Isaac?” Her voice is sleepy, as if I woke her.
“Hey.” I glance at the time. Shit. It’s almost eleven.
“Is everything okay?”