Conformity

The document in Kelly’s hands was moist and crumpled from being in her hands so long, but the words were still clear:

Unless you provide proof of a registered teaching professional tutoring your child at your place of residence, he or she must be re-enrolled by the 15th of this month. If you fail to do either of these, social services will be forced to intervene.

The paper trembled as she smoothed it flat against the kitchen table. She didn’t have the money to hire a private tutor. Hell, she hardly had enough money to afford both rent and groceries. She looked over to the couch, where her daughter sat pulling at the strings. If the thread was long enough, it was pulled out and lined neatly in a row beside her. There were already several dozen laid out, but Kelly knew she would only be done once all the long ones were in their group.

Waiting for her to finish felt as though it spanned a lifetime, yet she did so as patiently as possible. When finally her fingers stilled, she called softly, “Hey, Charlotte?”

Though she didn’t move or give any indication that she had heard, Kelly knew she was listening. 

“Would you be ok with going back to school?”

Charlotte’s eyes widen slightly. For a moment, that was the only reaction, but then the rocking began. Gently at first, but gaining momentum as her hands began frantically picking at the fabric of her pants, her shirt, the couch. If it got any worse, she would start picking at her hands.

“Hey, hey,” Kelly soothed quickly. “Hey, it’s ok. I’m sorry, you don’t have to go back there.”

She got up slowly, easing her way over to the couch. Making sure not to look at her directly, she sat on the floor, leaning against the arm.

“I’m sorry I asked you that,” she whispered, tears fighting to find their way down her cheeks. “I know you don’t want to. I just don’t know what to do.”

A hand that was a smaller version of her own patted her hair tentatively. She closed her eyes, finally allowing the tears to fall. They sat like that for a few minutes, Charlotte’s hand hovering just above resting on her mother’s head. 

Finally, with a defiant sniff, she stood. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. Go grab your shoes, I need to be at work soon.”

It was a short walk to the laundromat, thankfully. Charlotte hummed softly, bringing a smile to Kelly’s face. 

The work day was slow, as usual. The laundromat she worked at was old and rundown, unable to keep up with more modern competition where the washers had fancy options on them. But the usual crowd was there, including a woman who went exclusively by “Granny.”

Granny watched Charlotte sit at the little table for kids in the corner. “It’s not decent for a young lady to sit and read all day,” she huffed, looking as though she wanted to rip the book she had just picked up right back out of her hands.

“Twelve is hardly old enough to be considered a young lady,” Kelly said, a little sharply. “And regardless, she’s allowed to do things she likes.”

“She should be in school, talking to people and making friends. This isn’t normal for a girl.” Granny shot back, not relenting.

Kelly refused to back down from the baleful stare. “My daughter is allowed to be herself. Who you think she should be doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. Now, would you like some help with your laundry, or can I begin my shift?”

As the crass old woman shuffled off grumbling, Kelly let out a soft sigh. She was the same as the school staff. There was no hope for a special aide in a tiny rural Louisiana school, and it was as if that magically made it so that no autistic children were born in their district. 

She tried to hide the shaking of her hands as she helped a kinder young woman fold her fitted sheets. That had been why David had left them too. He wanted to send Charlotte away if she couldn’t be “normal,” so that no one in their god-forsaken town would learn of their “disappointment.”  Kelly had kicked him out the first time he brought it up.

It was hard not to constantly think if maybe that would have been a better idea. Maybe if she had sent her to a special school she would have people more capable at understanding her to help her find her way through the world.

Thoughts like these haunted her for the rest of her shift and all the way home. She tried to shake herself of them as she crawled into bed. What’s done is done, she reasoned with herself. And tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do next.

But the next morning began with sharp knocking at the door. When she opened it, two officers and a woman in a suit stood before her.

“Hello,” she tried not to choke out, “can I help you?”

“You are Kelly Owens?”

“Yes.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid I am here to place you under arrest.”

The floor lurched beneath her feet. “What?”

“You can’t just keep your kid out of school. We need to take her. You’ll have the chance to state your case in court.”

“No,” she gasped, but the woman was already pushing past her.

“Where is she?” she asked impatiently.

Kelly glanced down the hallway, catching sight of Charlotte peeking from her bedroom door. The woman followed her gaze, and with a satisfied nod, walked over to her.

“Hello, Charlotte,” she said, extending her hand and examining her face. “My name is Ms. Banks, and I’ll be taking you with me. Let’s go now.”

Charlotte shook her head frantically, practically rubbing the skin off her hands. Kelly shook off the officer attempting to take her arm and quickly put herself between them. 

“She doesn’t like to be looked at directly,” she said, putting as much venom into her words and glare as she could muster. But cold terror had her knees shaking.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Well, that is because you have not been doing your duty as a parent. Once we are given full custody, we will send her to an institution that will put a stop to that and all the other unnecessary behaviors you have allowed to run rampant.”

“Excuse me?” Kelly choked, grabbing the door frame for support.

“We spoke with the principal at Charlotte’s school. She doesn’t engage with any of the children her age. Clearly, you have neglected to socialize her fully. We can help with that.”

Her face had grown paler and paler with each word. “She’s autistic,” she spit. “She’s not under socialized, this is just her being herself! What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is that you are not properly raising your daughter to be a functioning member of society.”

Before she could respond, the officers grabbed her by either arm.

“No!” she screamed, trying to wrench away, to no avail. “Charlotte!”

The last glimpse she caught was her daughter’s petrified face, backed into a corner as her nails tore into her knuckles, Ms. Banks advancing on her. She screamed the entire way to the station, until her voice was too hoarse to make another sound.