“It’s gotten worse since you got home from Atlantic City,” I say, pushing off the doorway and stepping into the room. “You should go to the doctor.”
She zips the bag halfway, then looks at me like I’ve just suggested something wildly inconvenient. “Vivian.”
“Grandma.”
We hold it for a second—me, trying to push. Her, not budging an inch.
She sighs, softer this time. “I’m fine.”
I don’t believe her. But I also know when I’m not going to win.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down.
TY:
How was trophy design yesterday?
Enlightening. We’ve decided it’s a medal and the shape might be an ice skate.
Ty:
Is that original?
It works.
I wait a moment before I text again.
How was your session?
The typing dots come and go.
Ty:
…
…
Yeah. Just…a lot to process.
I bite the inside of my cheek, reading it again. A lot to process. I can only imagine.
“Boy?” my grandmother asks, like she can smell it from across the room.
I glance up. “Man.”
She smiles, satisfied, like that’s all the clarification she needs. “Ah.”
I hesitate, then step further into the room, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“He told me something the other night,” I say slowly. “About himself.”
Her hands still on the zipper, she asks, “And?”
“And I think it scared him to say it out loud.” I twist my phone in my hands.
“Why?”
She watches me for a long moment before I spill. “He’s autistic. Only found out a few months ago.”
