Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(44)

“Autism is a spectrum. There are so-called savants, gifted in one subject, such as math or art, but others can be like your sister, intellectually unimpaired. It’s the social and affective areas where I see the signs. Has anyone ever described your sister as socially awkward?”

I tug Storm away from a deer dung pile. “Sure. She lives for her studies, her work. She’s not a people-person so she lacks some . . . okay, most social skills.”

“Has her demeanor been described as chilly? Unemotional? Detached?”

“Yes, but so has mine.”

“You’re reserved. There is an abundance of emotion there. You prefer not to show it, a stance I can understand. As women, over-expressiveness can be seen as a weakness. It seems proof we are not rational beings.”

“But when we’re not emotional, we’re seen as cold bitches.”

“The eternal struggle of a professional woman. You and I both deal with it by accepting ‘cold bitch’ as a sobriquet far more acceptable than ‘hysterical bitch.’ In your sister’s case, though, I believe it isn’t so much restraint as a restricted emotional range. Would I be wrong in that?”

I walk for a few paces before saying, “No.”

“And her sense of humor? How would you describe that?”

“Uh, nonexistent.”

“She doesn’t make jokes.”

I smile at the thought. “Definitely not.”

“Does she get them? Understand them? She didn’t seem to when I met her.”

I remember all those times I tried so hard to amuse her. Other people would laugh. She just scrunched her brow and told me to stop being silly.

As a child, she might not have realized why I was being “silly,” but at the age of thirty-seven, she could not fail to realize that she lacked a sense of humor. What would it be like, constantly knowing others found something funny and not understanding why? A good sense of humor is one of the traits we look for in others. Someone who doesn’t understand jokes is dull, stuffy, boring . . .

“Did you parents ever have her assessed?” Isabel asks when I don’t respond. “Did she ever see a psychologist?”

I shake my head. “I did. Well, a psychiatrist. My parents were concerned about my rebellious tendencies.”

Isabel laughs. Then she sees my expression. “You’re serious? Well, apparently the therapy worked.”

“My parents’ idea of rebellion was me refusing to follow some of a very, very long list of rules, like ‘don’t eat cookies before dinner.’ After a few meetings the psychiatrist called in my parents for a family session.”

“And they refused.”

“No.” I steer around a corner. “We did a couple. Dad didn’t want to. He considered psychiatry junk science.” I glance at her. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I am well aware of the attitude. At one time, it led to a lovely little solution called lobotomies. Because carving out part of the brain is much simpler than talking about a patient’s problems. So your parents did the family therapy, and I’m going to guess that the doctor suggested the problem might originate beyond you.”

“She hinted at that, but she also thought I did have a real problem. I overheard her with my parents while I was in the waiting room with April. I didn’t catch much of what the therapist said, but my father was furious. He’d brought me there for help, and now she was suggesting his child should be assessed for . . .” I break off. “Oh.”

“Autism?” she says.

In a blink, I’m back there. April and I sitting in that room, her deep in a book, as I paced the room, bored and restless.

I bought Casey here for help, and now you want my daughter assessed for autism? There is nothing wrong with her. She’s brilliant, accomplished . . .

I remember how my heart swelled at those words. I wanted to run to the door and press my ear against it. My father called me brilliant. Accomplished. My therapist thought I had some kind of problem, and Dad was actually defending me.

That’s the problem with you people, he continued. If you can’t find a problem, you make one up. I ask you to look for horses, and you go hunting unicorns. My daughter is fine. And we are done here.

I remember April sighing and saying, “What have you done now, Casey?”

Even she’d presumed they were talking about me.

I look at Isabel. “It wasn’t me. The doctor was talking about April.”

“I suspect so. I also suspect she wasn’t the only one to raise a flag. That does not mean you sister has ASD. Even if she does, she’s as high functioning as they come. Intellectually, that is. Do you have any idea how she does socially? I know she isn’t married. She said she wasn’t living with anyone or seeing anyone. Is that an unusual situation?”

I shake my head. “She’s busy.”

“With work. Very, very busy. It makes an excellent excuse, and I suspect it’s one you’ve given in the past yourself. I know Eric is the first man you’ve lived with. He might even be your first committed relationship since you were a teenager. But that, I believe, is learned experience rather than natural inclination. As for being too busy to have a relationship, that is complete nonsense. I doubt you’ve ever been busier in your life. A good partner is an asset—moral support, help at home, easy access to sex.”