Page 24 of This Could Be Us
“Girls,” I call, a real smile breaking out on my face. “Come help me with the groceries.”
Once all the food is put away, I walk back out to Edward’s man cave and check the pool table where I left my pink list.
It’s gone. This had to be Judah. I don’t know if I can trust him or how much of what Edward has said about him might be true, but I know he sent food, and I appreciate it.
Caring father? Villain? Ally? I’m not sure what to make of the enigma that is Judah Cross, but I know in this moment that whatever his motivation, he was kind. I pull my phone out to text.
Me:Thank you for the groceries. You didn’t have to do it.
Judah:I told you I want to help. Try to remember anything that might be connected to the case. That’s how you’ll help yourself.
CHAPTER FIVE
JUDAH
My lungs are on fire and my legs are linguine, but you wouldn’t know that from the even pace I maintain for the last half mile of our morning run. We pass the Skyland fire station, and I nod to a couple of the volunteers I recognize. Tremaine and I took the boys around the community and introduced them to as many first responders as possible. There are too many horror stories of cops unwittingly mistreating a disabled person because they didn’t know or understand. In some cases it’s not ignorance but cruel mistreatment from someone in a position of power. I can’t control everything, but we prepare and equip our boys the best we can. They both wear medical ID bracelets in case of emergencies, but it is especially important for Aaron to be easily identifiable, with so many barriers and limitations on his communication. Add that to the fact that our boys are young Black men in an affluent neighborhood, and I’m not taking chances.
“Great job, guys,” I tell Aaron and Adam, who both bend and place their hands on their knees, chests heaving. “But you let your old man beat you again.”
“Water,” Adam pants. He stumbles up the steps to our house and into the kitchen. After wrenching the refrigerator open, he grabs one of the glass bottles of water we keep stocked and chugs it down in one gulp.
I slide the tray that holds their prescriptions and supplements across the counter. Both of them pop the pills and chase them with a full glassof water without complaint. I take it for granted sometimes now, how easily those pills go down, but it used to be a fight or sleight of hand slipping meds into ice cream or applesauce. It’s taken a lot of work to get them as far as they’ve come, and there is still so much ahead, as their transition into adulthood is closer than I can really wrap my head around.
Aaron slots his bottle into the dishwasher.
“Shower,” he says, and turns to walk upstairs.
Some words are crystal clear, and others are approximations that only those who know him can decipher. He and Adam were developing speech typically until about age two, when they both stopped talking. It was kind of eerie for them to both go quiet like that, and we assumed one was mimicking the other’s behaviors. When we got their autism diagnoses, it made sense. I didn’t hear Adam speak for another two years, and then one day all these words came tumbling out of him. For Aaron it took longer, and when his expressive language did return, it was much less.
“Can we skip tomorrow morning?” Adam asks, hope lighting up his sweaty face.
“Maybe we can skip a day this weekend,” I bargain. “You know you do better when we run.”
The boys take medication for various reasons. Adam mainly for his seizures and mood management. Aaron for mood, too, and to reduce self-injurious behavior like banging his head and chin with his fist. The meds do their work, but our occupational therapist recommended running. It’s great input for their joints and may help decrease sense-seeking behaviors. I’m a man who loves data, and I can’t prove that running works, but I do recognize patterns. Their toughest days tend to be the ones when we don’t run in the mornings. On this journey I’ve learned to lean into anything that makes shit better.
“Go shower,” I tell Adam. “Your mom will be here soon. You can grab breakfast after and take it with you if necessary.”
“Okay.” He turns toward the stairs.
“You done?” I ask with a pointed glance from the bottle to the dishwasher.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, loading the bottle before taking off to get ready.
I’m downing a handful of vitamins and my green juice when Tremaine calls.
“Hey.” I start up the stairs and enter my bedroom. “What’s up?”
“Any chance you can take Adam to school?”
I glance at my Apple Watch. Aaron’s school, designed for kids on the spectrum, is near my office. Harrington, the private school Adam started in January, is near Tremaine’s, so we split the commute.
“What’s up?” I ask with a frown while I flick through the suits in my closet.
“You remember Mrs. Martin?”
“One of the parents you’re helping?” Tremaine advocates for and lends her legal expertise to so many disabled people and their families, but I think I remember this one. “Tall lady? Daughter’s in middle school?”
“That’s her.” Tremaine releases a heavy sigh. “She has an emergency IEP meeting. She believes they may have restrained Maya, and there’s a bunch of red flags waving. I wanna be there to help if I can.”