Perfectly Adequate(14)

I chuckle. “I don’t know. To talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Maybe you can tell me about your emus.”

“I can tell you about them while we’re eating dinner.”

“True.” I have no great response. She makes nothing easy for me. “I guess if we have nothing to talk about after Roman goes to bed, then you’ll go home.”

“Okay.”

Okay. So difficult and agreeable at the same time.

“Okay. I’ll text you my address. Maybe I’ll see you around the hospital this weekend.”

“Okay.”

I grin again.

Not true. I just haven’t stopped grinning.

“Goodnight.”

*

Dorothy

“Hey.” I plop down into my dad’s recliner since he’s chosen to sit on the sofa with my mom. Apparently they will have sex tonight. My mom let it slip that Dad only sits next to her on the sofa when he wants sex.

Things I never, ever, in the history of mankind, needed to know. So basically, walking in on them sitting on the sofa together always feels like the opening credits of a porn film not appropriate for anyone of any age.

They pause their Netflix show and glare at me with wide, expectant eyes.

“What?” I shoot them a wrinkled-nose look.

“What are you doing?” Mom asks, setting her bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

“I’m sitting in this chair.”

“Why?” She prods.

Funny story … my uncle died (not the funny part) and left me a lot of money.

Me.

Not my mom or my grandma. Not my other cousins.

So I bought some land with a small house on it and added a parents’ quarters off to one end. I figure since they housed me for twenty-six years, the least I can do is return the favor. Besides, I like having them there. It’s not that we spend hours bonding, watching TV together, and sharing meals. I just like having the company. So we share the kitchen and laundry room, but they have their own bedroom, bathroom, and family room.

“I just got off the phone with a doctor from the hospital.” Did I mention the only time I visit them in their family room is when I have something to share?

They return slow nods in unison—good listeners—another bonus to having them in close proximity.

“He wants me to do some babysitting for him. He has this three-year-old son named Roman. You’d love him. He’s really adorable. But now he’s invited me to dinner next Tuesday to get to know Roman better. I guess so he’s comfortable around me before I watch him. I respect that. Do you know how many parents don’t think twice about leaving their kids with strangers?”

More nodding from them.

I wait for more than a nod. “So?”

“Oh …” Mom jumps. “It’s our turn to speak?”

I roll my eyes.

“That’s great, Dorothy. I hope you hit it off with the little guy. He’s in your preferred buddy age range.”

“No …” I shake my head while retracting it a bit. “What’s that supposed to mean? And that’s not what I was asking.”

“You do well with people a lot older or a lot younger. That’s all.”

“That’s not true.” It is one hundred percent true. I understand mentor-mentee relationships. They feel clearer to me. One teaches. One learns. Black and white. Interacting with people closer to my age gets a little murky. Am I to impart my knowledge upon them? Do they think they have something to teach me? Who is the mentor? Who is the mentee? It just seems like an awkward power struggle and competition for knowledge.

“Okay. Whatever …” Dad clears his throat. He hates conflict even more than I do. Mom will bicker with me longer, until I get frustrated and stomp out of the room.

My dad is a get-to-the-point kind of guy. “What was the question? I think we missed it.”

I sigh. It’s like they don’t even know me. The question is perfectly clear. “Dinner at his house. No restaurant. No menu to study online before Tuesday. He said it’s spaghetti. But does that mean with meat? Meatballs I can handle. Those can be slid to the side … unless they’re greasy and they leave a pooling of oil on the pasta. But if it’s ground meat … like what if it’s a meat sauce? Or what if the sauce is too spicy or too chunky. Ugh …” I gag on my tongue. “Chunky tomato sauce. Gross.”

It sucks being a thirty-year-old woman on the autism spectrum. I obsessed over my diagnosis for years, my obsession being another confirming factor.

Autism.

OCD.

ADHD.

Depression.

I’m a cluster-fuck of issues. My parents sighed with relief when I received an official diagnosis of Asperger syndrome. For them, it’s a label to explain everything that isn’t quite right with me. A catchall.

She’s too messy.

Too organized.

Too energetic.

Too lazy.

Too picky.

Too indifferent.

Basically every time I’m “too” anything to them, it gets filed into the “she’s an Aspie” catchall category. Of course, as with all labels, Aspie’s political correctness became extinct years after my diagnosis. Everything got dumped into ASD—Autism Spectrum Disorder. But to my parents and even myself, I will always be an Aspie. And let’s be honest, aside from the word “ass” phonetically present in the word Aspie, it at least has the possibility of being something extraordinary, like savant or genius.