Page 40 of Breathing Under Water

“I would like to see Grandpa tomorrow. I can show him my drone.”

I decide to call Hollis right after dinner. Phil never says no to his father. Once Hollis is on board with a plan, it’s as good as set in stone. My dear husband can like it or not, but Leo will be spending a lovely morning in Westchester.

The next day, I don’t have more time to dwell on Phil’s increasingly evasive behavior. I’m too inundated with work. I was warned, years ago, that the elite Stillwell Elementary Academy doesn’t give administrators the same long summer break as most other schools. It’s one of the things that makes our private institution unique, how much we change and grow every summer. It’s also one of the reasons we earn better pay than most academics. But it sure is exhausting.

Had I more time on my hands, I might be wondering why Phil barely said hello when he walked in the night before and instead went straight to his home office, where he stayed until after I was in bed.

By day’s end, I’m still fielding calls from board members. One of them is disappointed in the summer reading list, how it doesn’t include enough stories for kids interested in STEM, and the other has fundraising ideas she wants to run by me.

When I finally get home, Phil’s car isn’t waiting in the nextgarage bay. His absence hits different than it did yesterday because I know that tonight, he’s on his way to get Leo. The two of them did spend part of the morning with Hollis, and then Phil dropped Leo at the Y, where he’s been helping prepare them for some consortium about health and wellness.

Once I’m inside the house, I head to the fridge, then grab a wineglass from the cabinet. I’m so desperate to unwind, I fill the glass nearly to the top. The generous serving resembles what Phil would call “a country club pour,” where they’re supposedly quite heavy-handed with the drinks. I didn’t grow up like he did, so I wouldn’t know. I settle onto a stool at the kitchen island and chuckle as I consider that now Leo might be better equipped to speak to what goes on at fancy clubs than I am—but then my smile falls thinking about how those a-holes have determined he’s actuallynotcountry club material.

When Phil and Leo arrive, I’m just pulling steaks out from the broiler.

“Smells good,” Phil says as he kisses my cheek perfunctorily.

There was a time not so long ago when I would have leaned into that kiss, when Phil’s mere presence in the kitchen would have been a balm that calmed my frenetic pace. But now he’s just one more stressful situation I have to manage when I’m ready. And so far, I’m not there yet. In fact, I’ve lost the energy to keep chasing him, trying to have the tough conversations we need to. I’m getting more afraid of what those discussions could reveal.

Leo walks into the kitchen behind his father and catches sight of the eggplant spread in an open container on the counter.

“Did you put baba ghanoush on my steak?” he asks, a look of panic on his face.

“Of course not.” I laugh. Leo won’t even eat ketchup. He’d certainly never go for the Middle Eastern eggplant and tahini dip I get from the local market. “I was snacking while the steaks cooked. Not to worry.” I give him a quick wink.

As I reach into a kitchen cabinet to pull out a serving dish, I catch sight of Phil with his back to us, jiggling the mouse on the computer desk.

“I just want to check the weather,” he says. “I thought maybe Leo and I would take a ride over to Smithtown after dinner for some new views from his drone. Maybe even some of the buildings at Meadowbrook.”

As I watch the computer come back to life, I panic that my email might still be open on the screen. The message from the admissions counselor at Whitby College isn’t something I’m ready to discuss, especially when Phil has suddenly gotten it in his head that Leo should apply to Meadowbrook and live at home. But when the monitor lights up, only the web browser is open to the homepage of Target displaying “summer essentials.”

I haven’t told Phil yet that I had a thirty-minute call yesterday with the director of the MIRAGE program at Whitby College.

I’ve known for several years about specialized programs aimed toward supporting kids on the spectrum, but I didn’t realize until I spoke to the Whitby people how comprehensive their offerings could be. MIRAGE settles kids in college dorms using a coordinator to help them adjust, then provides them with a social worker to facilitate connections with other students. They offer a dedicated student lounge, specially trained test proctors, and designated safe spaces where the kids can take their exams. The list of accommodations goes on and on, all the way to weekly pizza parties for students in the program. For a kid like Leo, who’dnever integrate into the social aspects of college on his own, a program like this would be a total game changer. Sure, he has to get accepted to the college first, but Leo’s grades are strong. And if it all works out, he’d get both the degree and a genuine college experience—so much more than we hoped for even just a few years ago. The campus isn’t as close as Meadowbrook, but Meadowbrook doesn’t offer any of these specialized accommodations. Whitby College is only as far as Westchester, and right near Hollis, in case of an emergency.

The reason I’m dragging my feet on talking to Phil about MIRAGE is, ugh, so many reasons. Mostly it’s just that lately we can’t seem to agree on a single decision about Leo’s future.

There’s also the price tag. Regular college tuition costs an arm and a leg already, and then MIRAGE would be about fifteen thousand dollars on top of that. But this is what money’s for, right? Education. Launching your kid. Giving them the support they need to spread their wings and fly. My heart beats faster as I continue rehearsing these statements in my head. If Phil doesn’t even want to pay a few hundred dollars a month for a social skills coach, it’s pretty easy to guess how he’s going to feel about paying extra for college.

“I’m just going to go change,” Phil says from behind me, his voice tense and flustered.

Yes, I think to myself,that would be lovely. Go ahead and change. I haven’t been liking this version of you at all.

20

McKenna

July 2023

It’s only the second time I’ve been in Kathleen’s office. The first was the day I signed my employment contract. I remember being so impressed by the setting then—the wide double doors, a gleaming executive desk, walls lined with plaques declaring various types of excellence. That was only a couple of months ago, but it feels so much longer. Now all the pomp in here just strikes me as showy and obnoxious, a way to impress people who base judgments on all the wrong metrics.

Kathleen is sitting across from me in the same black trouser shorts and green polo as usual, but instead of her usual chipper disposition, she looks contrite, maybe even ashamed.

“You have to understand,” she says as she twirls a shiny pen between her fingers. “Country clubs are not the same as other places. Each member here actually owns a piece of the pie, and because of that, we have to listen to them. I hoped people would feel proud about being part of something that gave back to the community. But that scene with the kids the other day...” she trails off.

As I wait for her to continue, rebuttals swirl inside my head.Yes, the kids made a scene, but it’s a recreational swimming pool, for god’s sake! She just keeps spinning that pen in her hands, and I finally realize she’s done talking. I can’t let this be the end of it. My special-needs kids deserve so much more than the sentence fragments she’s offering.

“Any children in a pool could get out of control and make a scene,” I start. “Kids get wild. It’s not just because they have autism. And even if it is, isn’t that all the more reason to be a little generous with them?”