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epitome of incomprehensibility
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My brother and I first saw her in a photo, sitting on a baby swing, a wisp of hair floating off her forehead.
Later, we three children swung on the tire swing, the three ropes that held it up dividing it into three sections. She was five when we were eleven and thirteen, and her side would tilt up.
And that was the age we were allowed to go to parks on our own. Surrey_Park. Oriole_Park. We'd push her on the swings, stand in front, duck as she kicked at us.
...
Fast forward twenty years to yesterday. Our walk to Coolbreeze Hill and back didn't involve swings, but Y. maintained his childhood whimsy by carrying along a bright orange sled. He walked ahead at a fast clip.
So Lia and I talked. On the walk. Shivering on the windy hill (Coolbreeze, indeed) as Y. beetled down the slope five or six times. Trudging through the snow off the Valois_Park path. That was where her little Lhasa Apso, Trixie, strained at the leash while Lia was in the bathroom shed. And then sat down, surprisingly for this placid-but-nervous-at-abandonment dog. I patted her on the head and offered praise.
As I did to Lia later, except the patting was on her shoulder.
Because she was being a good person, like Trixie was being a good dog. A mensch, as her mom would say. Even though she was kind of exasperating me at first.
We were talking dog-centrically, but things got more personal when I revealed I was nervous about my parents getting Shiloh. It's silly, I said, but I don't like changes.
"Oh, naturally. Nobody autistic does," she went, with a know-it-all air.
"Not again. This reminds me of Janet," I muttered, even though she probably didn't remember Janet was my editor/writing teacher and, even if she did, wouldn't know that I got annoyed at her for repeatedly saying my narrator was autistic. I wrote Carol as having ADHD, like me. I know what I'm writing about. I know who I am. Maybe.
"It must have been a big change to start dating David too." And it wasn't such a bad thing, was it? she seemed to imply.
I shrugged. I liked him, though. I'd known him for months before.
"You were nervous when he said he liked you, weren't you? Like, 'Why me? What is there to love about me?'"
Her impression, purposefully over-the-top, got me laughing. Pissed-offed-ness dissipated like dog pee melting away with the snow.
"You've got the neurological condition slightly wrong, but the low self-esteem is very, uh, accurate," I said.
"I know!" She spread out her arms. "How long have I known you? Since I was born, almost. Since I was a baby. I remember when you'd talk and my dad used to make this very bad joke about turning water into whine. Because he said you were whining."
"I probably WAS! And I shouldn't have been! Self-esteem is one thing, but that's no excuse for whining." Then I got inspired. "See, I was badly trained as a puppy. I came to think I'd get attention if I made high-pitched noises."
It was her turn to laugh. We were nearing the crossing that separated Pointe-Claire from Dorval. Y. was ahead of us, waiting to press the light.
"Anyway," she said, comforting and faux-grandiose all at once, "I think the puppy will warm its way into your scared little heart and you'll be happy he's there."
I patted her on the shoulder. "Yes, yes, well. Thank you for the pep talk."
But I meant it. Then Y. pressed the button and stopped the traffic for us. Six on a Wednesday evening. Rush hour. I felt guilty and confident, small and powerful. Grateful.
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