“Anywho, do you have anyone joining you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just me.” I hadn’t thought twice about coming alone, but her question makes me glance around at the other attendees. And everywhere I look, I see couples. Parents, grandparents, caregivers, loved ones, even adults with obvious limb differences and their partners are here. Everyone seems to be paired off, except me, even though I know that’s likely not true. Still, what would it be like to not be here alone? To not be facing the challenges of parenting Charlie, advocating for him, supporting him with his disability all by myself?
Sure, my mom is a rockstar. She and my dad, when he was still alive, did everything they could to help me. But it’s different. They aren’t the ones responsible for making sure they know the most up-to-date research. They aren’t the ones who have to worry about whether insurance will cover enough for the prosthesis their son wants. They aren’t the ones lying awake at night worrying about his future, or what kinds of opportunities he will or won’t have because of something thatwas out of all our control from before he was even born.
All of that falls on me and me alone. And most of the time, I think I manage that just fine. But it's times like this, when I’m surrounded by couples, people that parent and care for their loved ones as a team, or work together to support each other in whatever manner, that I wish I wasn’t alone.
Maybe I need to start an online group for single parents or caregivers of kids with ABS. We don’t have to be alone. I can’t be the only one here by myself, even if it feels that way.
Yeah, like I have time for that.Well, maybe not now, but I could in the future. Once things are more settled, and I have a permanent job. I look around the lobby with fresh eyes, and this time, I notice a few other singles. I’m definitely not the only one.
I make my way on to the elevators that lead to the hotel rooms above the convention center, nodding politely at the two couples in the car talking amongst themselves. One pair gets off before me, their hands clasped together. The other, two older men, smile at me.
“Are you here for the ABS conference?” one of them asks, gesturing to the envelope I’m clutching in one hand that holds my registration package.
“Yes, my son was born with a missing arm,” I answer, spying their conference lanyards.
The other man’s eyes light up as he lifts his hand, and I see the missing digits. “It’s such a wonderful experience to be around so many people who understand what we go through. Is your son with you?”
I shake my head. “No, just me.”
“Well, be sure to find us if you want some company during any sessions or for lunch.”
My smile comes easily. “Thank you, I’ll take you up on that, I’m sure.” The elevator opens on my floor, and I step off, gratified to be feeling slightly less alone.
That changes when I push open the door to my room and see the giant king-size bed. And all I can think about is how lonely that massive bed will be tonight, lying in it all by myself.
It doesn’t take me long to unpack, and after sending some quick text messages to my mom and Charlie to check-in, I decide to wander back downstairs. There will be time for a bubble bath later. I might as well see what this reclusive inventor has to say.
I drape my own lanyard over my neck and head back for the elevators. The car is empty, and I step on before pulling up the agenda for the conference that I saved to my phone.
I scan the subjects of the different presentations and panels, my brain stuttering to a stop at the exact same time as the elevator comes to a stop on a floor below mine.
The door opens as I utter the name of the very last person I expected to see here. The same person staring back at me with a mixture of shock and trepidation written across his handsome face.
“Luca?”
18
LUCA
She’s here.
Isla is staring at me as if she’s seeing a ghost. Her pert little mouth is open, those bright green eyes wide with surprise and holding no small amount of confusion. Cautiously, I step into the elevator, letting the doors close behind me.
“Hello Isla.”
I want to curse my mother for putting me in this position, but I know I can’t blame her. She might be the reason I’m here to share my story for the very first time publicly, but she’s not the reason Isla is in the dark.
That’s my fault.
She doesn’t say anything in return, just continues staring at me in silence. The ride to the main floor is thankfully quick, and yet, at the same time, I wish it were longer so I could explain why I’m here when she has no clue I have the same condition as her son. Every spare second I had over the last forty-eight hours was spentthinking about what to say to her. And everything I came up with sounded wrong.
The door opens with a chime, and I gesture for her to step off the elevator first. She does, casting a furtive glance back at me.
“We’ll talk, Isla. I promise, I’ll explain,” I whisper roughly, pleading with my eyes for her to give me a chance to do so. “Please, just find me after my speech.”
Her eyes somehow widen farther. “Speech?”
