A Long Drive Home

I think I’m autistic.

The thought rages like a hurricane in my mind, a frenzied, feral beast on a terrified rampage. I imagine it with horns and giant talons and hot, sour breath, puffing out in clouds of green smoke. 

My mom sits next to me in the driver’s seat, tapping her thumbs on the wheel. I wonder briefly if she’s mad at me for something, if the night didn’t go the way she’d planned, if I should have accepted her offer and ordered a drink at the bar. 

I give the beast a top hat and a bow tie to make it less scary.

“That was really fun,” my mom says for what feels like the fifth time. “Did you have fun?” She glances at me, smiling. Maybe she’s not mad, then.

I school my expression into something less pained. “I did!” I say without much thought. I search for something to add, mentally sifting through the events of the night. We’d seen a Queen cover band together, just the two of us. She’d called it a “girl’s night”, like it was something we did regularly. The room had been crowded and loud even before the band took the stage. My boots stuck to the floor with every step, and before long I was peeling my yellow Freddie Mercury jacket off and clutching it to my chest. “They have a coat check,” my mom had said over the chatter of the crowd. I smiled back tightly. “That’s okay.” 

And I had actually had fun, despite the smell and the noise and the constant presence of strangers in my personal space. Before I can come up with something else to say, my mom says, “You sat the whole time.” She’s still smiling, but her voice is different, just a little. 

I look away, watching a Tesla overtake us. “It was a lot,” I admit. I maintain a smile with a practiced effort. “I really did like the band, though.”

She just hums, and I feel like I’ve said something wrong. I sigh through my nose in frustration. 

An apology rests on the tip of my tongue. I swallow it down. Another Tesla passes us.

“My ears are still ringing,” I comment, just to break the silence.

“Me too.”

I give the beast a pair of tap shoes. 

The silence closes in, and I’m too tired to fight it this time. My thoughts drift back to the events of our girl’s night. I search for the moment it had gone wrong. I’m certain I missed something. Was it because I’d sat through the band’s whole set while my mom danced nearby? Had she been trying to bond with me tonight?

I glance at her. She’s chewing on her lip, her eyes distant. The rhythm of her thumbs on the steering wheel reveals nothing about her thoughts. 

The wrinkles around her eyes have started to deepen. I wonder how many times she must have smiled in her lifetime, and I think about how pretty she is. Will I look like her when I’m older? Will I be like her?

I consider just asking her if she’s mad at me. If she doesn’t bring it up herself, I’ll never know, and years later I’ll still be looking back on tonight and wondering. Did I ruin our girl’s night? 

But then I imagine what she’ll say if I ask her. Either she’ll say yes, and I’ll wish desperately that I had taken her up on that drink, or... Or she’ll say no, and she’ll ask why I think that, and do I think I did something wrong, and then I’ll have to explain to her that I don’t know, I never know, but I always feel like I have, and she’ll wonder why that is, and maybe I’ll say, “Mom, I think I have autism,” and she’ll say, “No, you don’t. I would’ve noticed.” 

Or she’ll say no even though she means yes, and I can’t stand the thought that she’d lie to me about that. So I stay quiet. I breathe in. One, two, three. Out.

We listen to Queen on the drive back, and I watch more Teslas pass us by. 

It’s nearing midnight when we pull into the driveway. 

My mom yawns loudly as she puts the car in park. “Sorry I’ve been quiet, I’m just so tired. It’s past my bedtime.” She laughs. “Must be getting old.”

It takes me a moment to understand what she’s said, but when it finally clicks I realize maybe she hasn’t been angry at all. 

I’d been imagining things. Again. The beast rears its head again, shedding its top hat and tap shoes and bow tie.

“That’s okay,” I say absently. The clock on the dashboard reads 11:43. I psych myself up to tell her that I’m not staying the night as she opens the door and slides out. 

I follow my mom inside, dragging my feet. The faux leather jacket is heavy in my arms. I squeeze it tighter subconsciously when the front door closes behind me. 

My mom makes a beeline to the kitchen, disappearing around the corner. I linger behind, and I can feel the question coming a moment before she speaks it.

“Are you staying tonight, honey?”

I take a deep breath. “Um, not tonight.” I rush to explain, “I have to get up early in the morning and I didn’t bring any of my stuff with me, so—”

I stop abruptly.

“Okay,” she says simply. 

When I was little, I used to get in trouble a lot. Sometimes for things I felt I had no control over. For some reason, tonight I’m remembering how my mom wouldn’t say, “I love you, too” if she was mad enough at me. 

“But ma-maybe next week! I have a day off.” I realize I’m fidgeting with the buckles on my jacket, but I don’t stop. “We can do another… girl’s night.”

She emerges from the kitchen, holding a glass of water. I stop fidgeting. She looks exhausted. “That sounds nice. Maybe I can get you to help me with some projects around the house.” She says it mischievously. I plaster on a smile.

“Okay, yeah!” Did I sound too enthusiastic just then? “I would be down for that,” I try again, calmer. 

“Okay, kiddo. I’m gonna go to bed, I can’t take it anymore!” She laughs, and it’s the same laugh I’ve heard her use with coworkers and strangers. The beast halts its rampage abruptly. It deflates. 

My smile fades to something smaller, more timid. “Okay, Mom.” I go in for a hug. “I love you.”

She squeezes me tight. “I love you too, babe. I had a really nice time.”

“Me too.”

We hold each other for another moment, and I’ve never felt so sad and safe. 

Mom, I think I have autism. I think I’m autistic. Mom, I have to tell you something. Can I talk to you? Can I tell you something real quick, can I tell you something and then leave so I don’t have to deal with the aftermath? Mom…

“Hey, Mom?” 

“Hm?”

Say it. Just say it. 

But a small, scared voice in the back of my head whispers, what if you’re wrong? About all of it? About you? About her?

I inhale her shampoo. “Um. I think—”

Fear claws its way up my throat and I choke on the confession. 

“Can I borrow that book you were telling me about? Next time I come over?”

She releases me from the hug before I’m ready. “Sure, hon.” She’s smiling. I smile back, burning with shame.

“Cool. Thank you.”