Me, Myself, and I

client approved

I could sit here and tell you all about the little individual tests we did. The clay letters and the backward phrases. But you've heard enough about those. This isn't a story about a girl who finds out she has dyslexia. It's not about an angry boyfriend or a college dropout. You're reading a story about a girl and her mother, whether I like it or not.

You don't just get to wake up one morning, flip a light switch, and get a full-proof diagnosis on a piece of paper. I wouldn't get anything official for months. Counseling and medication for other little wires in my brain would slow any progress. Too much family history. Too many variables. One mind.

So, no, you don't get the satisfaction because I didn't either. Not yet.

Dad and I drove back from my first meeting with the specialist. He had heard for the first time what I'd been telling myself for the majority of my academic life. The little chaotic thoughts and the wrong words on the wrong papers. I'm sure he expected we would go home and talk about what the diagnostic journey would look like together.

In the car I heard bits of "Maggie always thought you were just holding out on us..." and "I've always been too distracted. And here I thought I only ever paid attention when there was a problem."

He parked the car and I let myself out. I unlocked the door for us.

"Dad." I said from the kitchen. "It's really okay. We had no way of knowing."

"We had every way of knowing." He pressed his fingers into his eyelids. "I'm just. I'm just sorry."

I was going to leave him. See if I'd have the courage to send that email now that I knew a part of my brain couldn't even read what I wrote anyway. This wasn't the time. But if this wasn't, what would be? I had to make the time. I needed to ask him. Because otherwise I would do something rash. And this would all once again be mis-prescribed as something it wasn't. It was now or never. Now or never. Just had to open my mouth and—

"How are you doing?" I said.

He frowned. "What?"

"We never talk. Well, I never talk. I just, we act like everything that happened to us is some sort of ancient history."

"I am fine, Julia. Thank you for asking."

"That would be great if I believed you. I can tell you still think about her."

He freed his eyes from his fingers. "There's plenty to think about, I suppose. We shouldn't talk about this right now."

"Then when, huh? Talk about her. Just do it. Okay? That's what'll make me feel better right now."

He smiled. "Okay, since you ask, yes, I still think about her. I had a future in my head where we raised both our kids together, got old. I suppose anyone searching for happiness would." His glasses were fogging up. He didn't bother to wipe them. "Figured you and...M...you'd both come visit us when we moved into my parent's place. Always content. But happy means something else now. Happy for me is when you find happy for you. Happy for me is impacting people who remind me of you and...both of you."

"Dad, you can't even breath when you try to say his name."

"It hasn't been that long, Julia. These things take time." He shook his head and opened a pantry door. "Do I dare try to cook for us tonight?"

I tried to meet his eyes, but he darted them around the room. His steady heartbeat must have skyrocketed. His hands fidgeted.

My mind replayed this scene. Him and I. At this table, talking about names we could never quite say out loud. But no. He could say one name, a name that sounded like he said quite often. Her name echoed over this house, was the first one on every moving box, etched into every thought in his head like some kind of poison.