“Baby,” she whispers, placing her spoon on the plate and reaching for my hand.

Her eyes tell me to continue. She’s the only mother I’ve ever known, and I need her help. While the adult in me feels embarrassed, the child in me craves guidance. I don’t know where else to turn.

“If I think Lucas is sick … if I feel it deep down in my heart that something’s not right, should I tell Mrs. Cindy and Mr. Gene? I know he wouldn’t want me to, but sometimes love means doing what’s best for that person, regardless of how they feel about it. Don’t you think?”

I search her eyes for understanding, and she crooks her head to the side before slapping my hand.

“Ow! What was that for?” I jerk back, holding my stinging hand close to my chest.

“Whole story … little girl. Now.” Her words may come out slow, but there’s no mistaking the stern tone.

“All right, all right. I’ll tell you everything,” I relent—eyes lowered and heart heavy.

I know the minute the words leave my lips, there’s no taking them back. What is it about saying things out loud that makes them all the more real?

“You see, Grams, I don’t think Lucas is sick with any type of physical illness.” I wring my hands together, watching my skin turn white and pink with the push and release of pressure. I gather my courage and force my gaze upward, meeting familiar eyes filled with understanding and acceptance. “I … I think something may be wrong with…” Just say it already. “I think something may be wrong with his mind, Grams.”

“I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab For Cutie

The Past

“UM, MRS. CINDY, CAN I talk to you, please?”

Lucas’s mom jumps two feet in the air and shrieks before turning around. I suppose the running water muffled my approach.

“Celia Marie, what on Earth? I think I just saw Jesus.” Her hand is plastered to her rapidly rising and falling chest.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry,” I mumble, my eyes darting to the kitchen entrance, afraid the Landry cavalry will show up to investigate the ruckus. So much for being discreet.

“I’m just a little jumpy today,” Mrs. Cindy explains, waving her hand in the air, showing off the huge wet handprint in the center of her silk blouse. “Don’t worry about it for a second, sweet girl.”

I shuffle forward, resisting the urge to run in the opposite direction. Every time my body fights against the forward motion, I replay Grams’s advice in my head. Her words were slow, deliberate, but filled with conviction.

Fight for those you love. Be strong. Don’t hide.

“I need to talk to you about—” My eyes shift back to the door, and my voice drops to a faint whisper. “I need to talk to you about Lucas.”

Mrs. Cindy grabs the towel from the counter and dries her hands. She busies herself rearranging spices, folding the dishrag, wiping the counter. She busies herself, well, doing nothing really. It’s subtle, but I see it for what it is.

She knows something is wrong.

“He’s been so busy lately, I know it. It’s crazy how much pressure those professors put on my boy. It’s a wonder he doesn’t buckle under all that stress.” Her voice is artificially cheerful, and she won’t meet my eyes.

“The thing is, I don’t think Lucas is going to class anymore. He doesn’t leave home in the mornings. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he’s left the house at all.” I crimp the edge of the placemat between my fingers, watching as I fold and unfold the fabric. I take a seat on one of the barstools to show my level of commitment. I’m not walking out. I’m here to discuss this, and I’m not leaving until we do.

“He’s been working on a independent project for a while now. It’s difficult to keep him interested in the mainstream course load. His professors choose to challenge him in different ways,” she explains, her tone sounding as if she’s trying to convince herself as well as me.

“I’ve also noticed he isn’t bathing regularly. His clothes are often dirty, and I have to prompt him to clean himself up. I’ve never known Lucas to be this way.” I’m embarrassed to say this out loud. I’m not talking about a young boy who hates to bathe. Lucas is a grown man, and it twists my gut to say these words about him—to talk about him without his knowledge. I just pray he doesn’t hate me for it.

“I know it’s hard for you or me to understand, dear,” she says evenly. “But Lucas can sometimes forget the tedious things in life while focusing on his work. It’s our job to remind him. Thank you for doing that. Is that all, Celia?”

I realize her words for what they are—I’m being dismissed.

“No, it isn’t. There’s more, and I can tell you don’t want to hear it, but—” I stand up, feeling the need to take a defensive stance.

“You’re right, I don’t. I really don’t appreciate you speaking about Lucas this way—”

“I’ve seen his notebooks, the ones for his schoolwork. It’s nothing but…” I interrupt; my voice cracks and tears fill my eyes. I silently plead with her to hear me. “It’s nothing but gibberish. The same number written over and over for pages, in a variety of patterns, sometimes changing the look of the number. It’s not work for school, Mrs. Cindy. I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Celia. You’re confused.” She throws down the dishrag and grips the counter to stop the tremble I see in her hands. She clenches her eyes closed, and I know for certain she’s wishing away me and my accusations.

It’s just not that easy.

“I’m not confused. You know I’m not, I can tell. But he is.” I follow her to the doorway, talking to her back as she retreats. “I hear him talking to himself an awful lot.”

Her back straightens, and she stops abruptly. I nearly fall into her as she whips around and points her finger to my chest.

“You watch your mouth!”

Her hand flies to her mouth, and she gasps. Her harsh tone momentarily stuns me into silence. Her eyes are filled with tears and anger, but I see the pain and denial swirling below the surface.

“I love him,” I tell her. She shakes her head, as if it can erase all the words we’ve exchanged. “You know I do, and I think he needs to see someone. I think something may be very wrong.”

She eyes me through watery lashes. Her shoulders are slumped, and she says nothing.

So I wait. Acceptance is difficult and painful. I’ll give her all the time she needs.

“I know things with Lucas may seem a bit … odd … right now, but I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions.” She swipes the tears on her cheeks, and a sad smile tugs at her lips. “I love my boy, Celia, eccentricities and all. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

“I love him, too. So much.”

She holds up a hand to stop me from talking. “I know you do, but these assumptions … well, they’re dangerous, Celia. You could end up hurting him.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I cross my arms tightly and bite a hole through my tongue. How could she think I’d ever do anything to hurt Lucas?

“Assumptions are a dangerous thing. The words you say carry weight, Celia. There could be repercussions, and not just for Lucas. I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

I bristle at what she’s insinuating, and I pray I’m wrong. Am I hearing her right?

“I’m not sure I do,” I reply as I clench my fists, my fingernails cutting my palms from the pressure.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you, Celia.”

I jump at the sound of Lucas’s voice and spin around, cheerful mask fully in place. On a good day, he is not very observant, so I hope he overlooks his mother’s teary eyes. I’m not sure how I would explain that.