Page 10 of Breathing Under Water

My eyes travel to the framed canvas next to the corkboard. It’s one of those motivational signs that’s printed with a meaningful word likeFriendorSisterand then filled with all sorts of positive affirmations. Mine saysNurse. Glory gave it to me as a graduation gift. She was so excited I’d finally be following my nursing dream when I started college that fall. My attention catches on the first line, which reads, “A nurse focuses on the needs of others before their own.” The words suddenly hit home in a new way, reminding me that this situation with Glory isn’t about me. I need to focus on her needs first.

“McKenna?” Glory calls from her room. “Would you pull the carrots and cucumbers from the crisper? If we’ll both be here for dinner, we might as well get to work on a salad.”

I push myself off the bed and call out, “You got it, Morning Glory!”

Saturday mornings when I was a little kid, so young I hadn’t even started swimming yet, I’d wander out of bed to watch cartoons. Glory would already be over at the house, sitting at the kitchen table while Mom worked pancakes on the stove. “Morning, Glory,” I’d say. At some point, the name stuck.

That wasn’t long before Mom went into remission, the beginning of so many happy years before the cancer came back. I wonder if Glory can remember any of that now. Maybe that shared experience is just one more piece of family I’ve lost to eternity.

Glory emerges from her room looking fresh and comfortable in a pair of tan chinos and a coral button-down she’s had forever.

“How were swim lessons today?” she asks, smiling as she walks past me to take a head of lettuce from the fridge. She seems so lucid, so much like herself, but I need to accept that it’s only a matter of time before she loses her hold on reality again. As I watch her move to the sink, where she starts rinsing the vegetables and gazing out the window the same way she has so many times over the years, I force myself to acknowledge that dreaming a deceased man into existence and dressing up to see him is hardly the worst that could happen to her if she doesn’t get proper care.

In a few months, I’ll be moving back to the dorms. If her delusions get worse, she’ll need round-the-clock attention. I feelcompletely overwhelmed thinking about it, and so filled with anger about what’s being taken from us. I’m overcome with an urge to smash something, anything that will give me an outlet for this pain. I should start making calls in the morning, figuring out how to get her an aide who can move in when I head back to school. I have no idea if we can afford that, but I don’t see another option. My eyes catch on a couple of drinking glasses in the drying rack. I want to grab them and throw them at the wall.

But that will only upset Glory and make another mess for me to clean up. I push the rage down, far away and back where it belongs. Like the sign in my room says, I have to put Glory’s needs before my own. And I will, tomorrow. For now, I just want to enjoy one more night with my grandmother, pretending everything is perfectly normal.

7

Berry

May 2023

Once we’re back in the car, the act is over. We spend the entire ride home repeating the same tired arguments. Phil thinks Leo is ready to stand on his own two feet, that he should go to college, yes, but not a specialized program for kids with ASD. He should just apply as a regular student, Phil says. If we keep hiring coaches and therapists, he thinks we’ll stunt Leo’s development. Then in the next breath, he suggests sending Leo to a school close to home so we can visit all the time.

“So are we trying to help him stand on his own or aren’t we?” This is the third time I’ve asked the same question.

Leo has come so far, sure, but he has much to learn before he can ever make a real life for himself. A supervised college program would provide the perfect safety net for him while he practiced spreading his wings. And we have only two more years to prepare him. Now is the time to get him those additional supports—while he’s still in high school, under our roof, and about to start a new school year without a single friend his age.

“Our son ran away from a girl who asked him on a date, forcrying out loud!” I twist my whole body toward the driver’s seat as I explode.

“But he got asked! That’s proof enough of the progress he’s made!” Phil’s voice is filled with exasperation as he looks over at me and then returns his attention to the highway.

“You know as well as I do that he’s going to regress without Sebastian as a buffer.”

Around and around we go, neither of us bending. When we finally reach the house, Phil parks in the driveway instead of the garage, which means he’ll be going back out.

“We’re home!” I call out as I walk inside.

Leo’s been at the house by himself for a couple of hours now. One thing the kid is great at is being alone. That’s the problem. He was busy at the Y for most of the day, doing audiovisual work for one of their theater productions. He loves all that tinkering, so I don’t feel too bad that Phil and I were otherwise engaged. But I do wish he’d find some activities that are a little more interactive.

“I’m hungry,” Leo says as he appears at the top of the staircase. His noise-canceling headphones are hanging loosely around his neck, and he’s shoving a small plastic airplane the size of a Matchbox car into the pocket of his jeans. I take a split second to admire my handsome boy. With those butterscotch waves and a strong Roman nose like his father’s, of course a girl would want him in her prom pictures.

“Mac and cheese?” I ask.

“Okay,” he says, making his way down the stairs and marching directly to the kitchen.

Kicking off my espadrilles, I follow him to the kitchen. Phil heads upstairs like I’d been hoping to do. It would have beennice to change out of my dress before standing at the stove over a pot of Wacky Mac, but the look on Leo’s face tells me he’s got something on his mind.

He doesn’t sit in his usual chair at the table but stands awkwardly at the counter for a moment before removing the little airplane from his pocket. I watch as he begins rubbing his finger against the wheels of the plane, one of his coping mechanisms when he’s feeling stressed.

“Tough day?” I ask, opening the double cabinet below the oven where we keep cases of peanut butter, mashed potato mix, and the macaroni. Leo has a relatively short list of foods he’s willing to eat, so I stock up on items that are safe bets.

“No,” Leo says, his tone even flatter than usual. “Why did you ask me that?”

I turn to face him, and as usual, I try to be as clear and honest as possible, to show him respect while also teaching him. “Well, first of all, you’re stimming.” I point to the way he’s still rubbing at the airplane wheels to self-soothe. He doesn’t meet my eyes as I continue. “Secondly, you’re standing in the corner of the room instead of sitting in your seat like you normally would. And thirdly, you’re not even trying with the eye contact.”

Leo has never been a fan of direct eye contact, but we’ve been working on the skill for years. He’s generally pretty good about it with immediate family, even if he still struggles with everyone else. His discomfort meeting my eyes right now tells me something is bothering him.