This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(2)
“Wonder where he got that from?” Tremaine asks with a wry smile.
Tremaine used to joke that the diagnoses for our twin boys might not be autism. Maybe they’re just mine because they share so many traits with me. I admit I may not have a formal diagnosis, but the more we’ve learned about autism over the last decade, the more of myself I’ve seen and understood.
“In my meeting with the boys,” Kimberly continues, “it did seem that Adam grasped what was happening. Aaron… I’m not so sure.”
Both boys are on the spectrum, but they present differently. Aaron doesn’t have much expressive language and is classified as level 3, which simply indicates the intensity of support he needs. Many tend to underestimate him, to overlook him, because he doesn’t often speak. Adam, classified as level 1, is less “observably” autistic than Aaron to others, so people often assume he needs less support than he actually does. Because he’s so bright in the ways in which we often measure intelligence, people may offer him fewer accommodations or expect things he has trouble giving. Some people still speak in terms of more or less severe, but it’s all autism. Just different needs that evolve, and we meet them as best we can.
We don’t compare Aaron and Adam, but try to meet each of them where he is with whatever he needs. They started at basically the same place, but along the way their paths diverged—Adam making more gains faster and Aaron lagging behind, still gaining, but less and more slowly.
“Aaron may not talk a lot,” I say. “But his receptive language—what he understands—is much higher.”
“Most of the time he just doesn’t care to let you know he understands what you’re saying.” A smile dents dimples in Tremaine’s cheeks. “That boy. There’s a whole world in his head he keeps to himself.”
“I did sense that,” Kimberly says. “Regardless of how much they understand, this is a huge transition. It would be for most, but especially for kids who need routine and predictability as much as Aaron and Adam do, for kids with autism.”
She pauses, looking between us.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should have checked. Do the boys like to be referred to as ‘autistic’ or ‘with autism’ or…”
“‘Autistic’ is fine,” Tremaine replies. “We appreciate you asking.”
“Just wanted to make sure. Different families prefer different things.” Kimberly closes the file on the coffee table. “We’ll have to handle this transition with care.”
“Tremaine and I want to do anything we can to ease their way,” I offer.
“That’s what this whole process is for, right?” Tremaine sends me a quick look, as if to confirm we are on the same page. I nod and reach over to squeeze her hand where it is clenched on her knee.
We’ve both made sacrifices, each of us working from home or not at all early on when the boys kept getting kicked out of daycare centers or we had to assume their education ourselves. Adam, so bright he eventually placed in gifted classes, struggled with potty training even at seven years old. He has poor interoception—meaning his body can’t always sense what’s happening inside it. He had trouble telling when he needed to go, and by the time he realized how close he was, it would be too late. Interoception is a complex concept even for some adults to grasp, and kids definitely didn’t understand. They teased him badly. Adam felt so much shame when he had accidents at school and begged us to let him learn from home. Tremaine delayed law school and worked at night, staying home with the boys during the day, while I took the evenings. One year I freelanced, pursuing forensic accounting cases that allowed me to work remotely, squeezing in the boys’ lessons while Tremaine busted her ass at the firm.
“We’ve decided the boys will stay here with Tremaine during the week and me on the weekends,” I say.
“Yeah,” Tremaine weighs in. “Them being in one place all week is more stabilizing for their schedule at school.”
“We’ll split the commute, doctor appointments, therapy, et cetera as evenly as possible,” I say. “But they’ll spend most of their time here in the house, where they feel most comfortable.”
“Have you told the boys yet?” Kimberly asks.
“Not yet. We wanted to see what you thought first,” Tremaine says. “Aaron responds better to visual aids, so we’ll create a schedule for when they’ll be with each of us to help him understand.”
“Sounds like a great plan.” Kimberly claps once. “No time like the present. Why don’t we call them downstairs and see what the boys think?”
Tremaine stands and crosses over to the stairs. Even at home wearing casual clothes, she’s elegant and commanding, like she could persuade any jury or judge. “I’ll go get them.”
Ours is what they call a “collaborative divorce.” It’s as amicable as you’d expect when two people who respect each other deeply, and used to be in love, agree their kids are the only things they still have in common.
“I’m glad we have you,” I tell Kimberly. “And thanks for coming to us.”
Kimberly typically meets clients in her office, but she made an exception tonight considering Adam’s been having a rough time lately. Just when we think we’ve found a solution to reduce the seizures associated with his tuberous sclerosis, they come back with force.