Although I wanted Joe on board, something about this doesn’t feel right. Lottie is a child psychologist, but she’s a friend of Joe’s. She’ll be biased. Possibly easily influenced to support his conclusion.
“I thought we’d start with his pediatrician,” I say.
“Lottie knows us. She’ll believe us and help us get the ball rolling quickly.” Joe approaches me and puts his dry, papery hand on my upper arm. I shake it off. “It’s important to make sure we’re a unified front right now. With this press, people are going to be looking at us.”
“Press?”
“They’re going to ask me what it feels like. I have to speak out in support of parents raising neurodivergent children.”
“What?” My head is spinning. In one conversation we went from He’s just a boy to We’re raising a neurodivergent child? How did we get here?
“You’re skipping a few steps, Joe. Let’s take it slow.”
“You’re the one who declared that Beckett needs help with such certainty, but now I’m the one skipping steps?”
“I was being blunt. We need to explore this.”
“Are you ashamed, Farah? Ashamed of our son who doesn’t fit into your definition of perfect?”
Outside the window behind Joe, lightning flashes. The backyard lights up, but I see far more than that. I admit I almost fell for it when Joe brought up shame. Rini told me to follow the shame. To use it as a moment to reflect rather than react. But after talking to Aimee, I know that I don’t feel any shame around Beckett’s potential challenges. Joe is using this against me, distracting me from an accusation of his sexual misconduct. It’s Political Rhetoric 101.
“What you’re saying about getting Beckett an eval, that’s about the election, isn’t it?” I ask, though it’s not really a question.
Joe shakes his head. “Not the election, my constituents. Everything I do is to connect with them and support them.”
“You just said one big news story and the aide thing blows over. Or you think this might garner enough sympathy to correct the downslide of the polling.”
“You might still be in denial, but I’m sure Beckett is neurodivergent.”
“You’re not even listening. The whole point of this conversation was to admit we don’t know anything. We need professional help. No matter what Beckett’s evaluation outcome, I won’t let you use our child to further your campaign.”
“Well, I won’t let you shame me into silence. I’m proud of our son and his learning disabilities.”
Although it might look that way on the surface, this development isn’t really new and that’s the harsh truth. Even when Joe and I switch sides, we are always opposed. But I won’t be provoked because the whole world lit up for me in that split second of lightning, and I see this moment, my child, and my marriage with unflinching clarity.
“There’s a difference between shame and privacy,” I say. “I’m not ashamed of our son, but for his sake, his process for a diagnosis and plan should be kept private from your constituents. To speak loudly about it doesn’t mean you’re proud of our son. It means you see an opportunity for personal gain. And that happens over my dead body.”
I thought being a good mom meant I was never without an answer, and never uttered the words “I don’t know”—the traits that make me an excellent doctor. But saying “I don’t know” and getting Beckett to the right professional is what makes me a good mom. No. Standing up for him and advocating for his needs, whatever they might be, makes me a great mom. Vulnerability can be a strength in the right circumstances.
With a turn of my heel, I head back to the living room, Joe on my tail. He looks angry, but all I feel is free.
In the foyer, Rini appears through the front door carrying a box of wine bottles. Joe rushes to her aid, ignoring me and acting like everything is fine. Ever the politician. She thanks him for relieving her of the weight. Ted jumps up to help as well. Rini crosses the living room behind the couch and wheels the bar cart from the pantry into the dining room, the way it was arranged on the first night. But that night she had staff to help her; today there’s no one here but us.
“Come on,” I say to Aimee. I walk into the kitchen where Rini’s taking down wineglasses from the cabinet. I pass two to Aimee and grab two more.
“On the dining room table,” Rini says.
“Some good years here,” Ted says as he unpacks the bottles and lines them up on the bar cart with Joe.
“I like your necklace,” Aimee says to Rini. I turn casually to see the two of them face-to-face, inches apart as they squeeze through the doorway at the same time. Aimee is empty-handed and Rini has four glasses between her fingers, Aimee coming, Rini going from the cabinet. Aimee reaches up and touches a locket and key hanging low on Rini’s chest. Their intimacy makes me blush.
“Anything in it?” Aimee asks.
“Yes,” Rini says, and steps out of the doorway quickly. I busy myself polishing a single glass, hoping to wipe away the streak of jealousy across my heart.
On the last trip to the table, Rini carries a fancy wine opener and a crystal vase. “Makeshift dump bucket,” she says when I question the addition.
Each person takes a seat at the dining room table. Rini stands in front of the wall of windows and opens the first bottle. As she recites the description from memory, a flash of lightning whitens the sky behind her. A minute later the thunder rumbles and we all startle a bit.
I can’t help but contrast this scene with the bonfire last night. There we gathered in a circle, cross-talking excitedly, jumping from one conversation to another among smaller cliques. The night was warm and full of wonder. There was no hint of icy demeanors and tense silence twelve hours ago. Now, the chill in the air is the product of more than the awkward tension between me and Joe. It’s more than the weather.
Eden and Rick have cooled considerably, though I haven’t heard them arguing. I keep an arm’s length from Aimee because of my nerves. Joe won’t even look at me. Margot only half-heartedly trails Adam around the room.
I don’t know what it is, but something dark hangs over us all, not just me and Joe. There’s no denying it.
“Shall we continue with whites?” Rini asks, clapping her hands. “This one is from one of my favorite places on the North Fork, an aged-oak chardonnay.”
Rini’s decidedly good cheer stands in stark contrast to the rest of us. She’s almost giddy, like she lives for these shut-in storm days. If I’m right, it’s something we have in common, and I realize I have a choice. I can let Rini be my mood guide and not get swallowed up by the bad vibes of my companions.
“Aren’t thunderstorms beautiful?” I ask. A flash of lightning zips through the sky, lighting up the backyard like a fireworks display.
One of my favorite undergrad psych classes was called Nature & Nurture, a study of human reactions to the natural world. Thunderstorms, my professor said, provide a rare mixture of stimulation and peace, fear and security, power and helplessness, beauty and terror.
I have a feeling we’re in for all of it today.
ADAM
After a couple of bottles of wine, Rini concludes our lesson and promises to return with lunch. I head upstairs for a breather, and less than thirty seconds later Margot’s knocking on the door. Of all the people who could be intruding, I’m glad it’s her and not my wife or my girlfriend… or my girlfriend’s husband. Being stuck in this house is a disaster waiting to happen, but for now it’s contained. As long as Rick doesn’t notice Eden’s urgent glances, and Aimee and Farah stay in the dark, and Margot feels like she’s got some control over the situation. That’s a lot of variables. Who knows how long the status quo can last in this pressure cooker.
