Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“We’ve decided the boys will stay here with Tremaine during the week and me on the weekends,” I say.
“Yeah,” Tremaine weighs in. “Them being in one place all week is more stabilizing for their schedule at school.”
“We’ll split the commute, doctor appointments, therapy, et cetera as evenly as possible,” I say. “But they’ll spend most of their time here in the house, where they feel most comfortable.”
“Have you told the boys yet?” Kimberly asks.
“Not yet. We wanted to see what you thought first,” Tremaine says. “Aaron responds better to visual aids, so we’ll create a schedule for when they’ll be with each of us to help him understand.”
“Sounds like a great plan.” Kimberly claps once. “No time like the present. Why don’t we call them downstairs and see what the boys think?”
Tremaine stands and crosses over to the stairs. Even at home wearing casual clothes, she’s elegant and commanding, like she could persuade any jury or judge. “I’ll go get them.”
Ours is what they call a “collaborative divorce.” It’s as amicable as you’d expect when two people who respect each other deeply, and used to be in love, agree their kids are the only things they still have in common.
“I’m glad we have you,” I tell Kimberly. “And thanks for coming to us.”
Kimberly typically meets clients in her office, but she made an exception tonight considering Adam’s been having a rough time lately. Just when we think we’ve found a solution to reduce the seizures associated with his tuberous sclerosis, they come back with force.
“No problem.” She reaches for the glass of water on the coffee table and takes a quick sip. “We love seeing parents put their kids first in situations like this.”
The boys come bounding down the stairs. They’re identical and so different. Both have my eyes and facial shape, but their smile is all Tremaine. Their hair is a little coarser than mine. Their skin a little lighter. Adam glances from Kimberly to me, his expression curious. Aaron doesn’t look at anyone but sits down on the couch, an assistive communication device cradled in his lap. It took us a long time to get him using it, but now he carries it everywhere. Severe apraxia limits the words he can speak, but the device with its images and voice approximations exponentially increases what he can say.
“Boys,” Kimberly starts, looking between Aaron and Adam, “remember what we talked about last time? That you’ll have two houses soon? And your mom will live in one, and your dad will live in the other?”
“Divorce from divortere,” Adam says immediately. “Di means apart and verte means different ways. Mom and Dad are going different ways.”
“That’s right,” I say carefully. “You’ll stay in this house with your mom. My house will still be here in Skyland. Just a few blocks away. You’ll be there on weekends, but I’ll see you during the week too.”
“Do you understand what we’re saying, Aaron?” Tremaine asks, her brows furrowing.
He doesn’t respond but starts scrolling through images and picture cards we’ve collected and loaded into his device over the years.
“It may take a little more time,” Kimberly offers, watching Aaron work with his device. “He may not—”
She stops midsentence when Aaron wordlessly sets the communication device in her lap. She glances down, a frown forming on her face. “I’m not sure…”
“Let me see.” I extend my hand to accept the device and glance at what he pulled up to show her.
It’s a candid shot Tremaine took of us a few years ago. Both boys have often had trouble sleeping. During one of Aaron’s big growth spurts, he barely seemed to sleep at all. Sometimes I’d read to him, hoping it would help when the melatonin didn’t. In this photo, I had fallen asleep right there with him, Goodnight Moon open on the bed between us.
I look up now to find him watching me intently. Eye contact can be difficult for both boys. They often gather information through quick, flitting glances and through other senses—exploring the world more deeply with touch and sound and taste. Sometimes they connect by simply sitting close or even holding my hand. But right now, Aaron’s holding my stare. His eyes bore into mine, conveying a silent message I pray I’ll understand. It’s a window opening into his mind, a world I don’t always have easy access to.
“Son, I don’t…” I falter, not wanting to admit I don’t understand what he’s telling me. When he tries like this, I don’t want to let him down. I wish like hell I knew exactly what he’s trying to say. Does he want to make sure I’ll still read to him once I move out?
He takes the tablet, fingers flying across the surface, pulling a few words into a short sentence. His reading skills are almost as limited as his speech. Something about words on the page never seems to click for him. Reading has been like the tide, coming, then receding. Progressing, then regressing. He’ll gain words and then they’ll slip from his mind before he can truly own them, but simple phrases he can manage. He hits three buttons, and a digitized voice emerges from the device’s speakers.