Los Angeles | 2009
Maggie's POV
"So, how'd it go with the shrink?" Mark asked me as I sat in the living room. The kids were already in bed, and the house had settled into a deep, evening quiet. I really needed a drink before I started narrating that entire ordeal. As if reading my mind, he poured two glasses of Chardonnay and handed one to me.
"It went well," I began, choosing my words carefully. "The doctor was a gentleman, and Brad certainly seemed satisfied with him." I paused and gazed at him as he sat beside me, taking my legs onto his lap.
"I'm sensing a 'but' in there," he asked questioningly, his eyes searching mine. He was right. There was a major 'but' here.
"But... we may need to allow Brad extended sessions with the man," I said, trying to lessen the implications as much as possible. "The IQ test, while exemplary, led to many concerns being raised about Brad's mental condition."
I saw it instantly. The relaxed husband disappeared, and the General took his place. His shoulders stiffened. "Our son is not 'challenged,' Maggie. We've discussed this," he said, mild irritation creeping into his tone. "The boy has an IQ of 154. He's quite literally a genius!"
"I know he is, Mark, I know our boy is a genius, but this has nothing to do with Brad's intelligence and everything to do with his emotional makeup…"
"There you go again with this shtick," he interrupted. "Maggie, we have discussed this time and again ever since he was a child. Brad is fine. I mean, yes, he took his time associating with people but look at him now. He has friends, a girlfriend even."
"And you don't find that worrying at all?" I questioned, my own voice rising.
"What? That he has a normal childhood?"
"The fact that your son has only made friends with people who play basketball with him! His only other friend is a girl who also happens to be his girlfriend, and he primarily associated with her because she herself displayed the same symptoms our son did! Alex is a great girl, Mark, but you cannot deny that she is just as reclusive and anti-social as Bradley!"
The room fell silent. Mark just stared at me for a long moment, the anger draining from his face, replaced by a heavy, dawning dread. "What did the doctor say, Maggie?" he asked, his voice low, each word emphasized.
I took a shaky breath, the words I had been holding back for years finally coming to the surface. "What we have always known but never said out loud." I looked him straight in the eye. "Bradley falls within the parameters of the Autism Spectrum Disorder." The words hung in the air between us, and I felt the weight of years pass through me.
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and final. Mark sagged back into the sofa, the general's rigid posture gone, replaced by the weary slump of a father. We sat there for a while, not saying anything. I watched him, trying to rationalize this as he gulped the chardonnay as if it were beer.
"Talk to me," I pleaded softly, my voice barely a whisper. "Keeping it all within is not going to help us or the family." He was shutting down, and I couldn't allow it right now.
He set his glass down and scrubbed a hand over his face. "What is there to say? Our child has a condition. We may have lived in denial of it before, but now we know for sure. And we have to support him," he sighed, the words a statement of fact and acceptance.
"The doctor requested that we meet with him tomorrow to discuss this further. Will you come with me?" I asked.
"Of course," he said immediately, his voice regaining some of its warmth as he stared at me. "I'll clear my schedule for tomorrow." He paused, his expression softening. "I'm sorry for blowing up like that. If anything, this has been the hardest on you."
The care in his voice touched me. "No, it's on both of us," I said, reaching for his hand. "We have always known that Brad was different. Knowing why that is doesn't change the fact that we will help and support him regardless. Our son will be okay, and so will we. Autism isn't anything dangerous or tough to handle. The doctor will help us." I said the last part more to myself than to anyone else, a mantra against the fear.
"Of course," he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of my hand. "Do you want to get to bed now?"
"Yeah," I answered, my own exhaustion suddenly feeling immense.
Without warning, he stood up, took the glass from my hand, set it on the table, and then proceeded to lift me into a princess carry.
"Mark!" I said, a surprised laugh bubbling up out of me.
"What?" he said, a small, genuine smile finally returning to his face. "Can't a man carry his wife to their bedroom?"
I chuckled and kissed him, a simple, profound gesture of gratitude. "I love you."
"I know," he whispered, carrying me out of the dimly lit living room. "I love you too."
…
The next morning, a heavy, unspoken purpose hung in the air. We moved through our routine with nary a change, preparing the kids for school as a single, synchronized unit. After dropping them off, we headed for Dr. Rhoades' office.
We arrived, and the moment our car came to a stop, the standard protocol began. Harris was out first, his eyes scanning the calm, suburban office park. Another agent from the follow car was already moving to secure the entrance. The bodyguards began to surround the office, clearing the perimeter, their movements so precise and out of place that it was causing a commotion. A woman getting out of her car with a yoga mat stared, her mouth agape.
"Mark, really?" I sighed, my hand on the door handle. "Is this necessary?"
"It's just protocol, Mags," he said, his focus on his agents' movements. "Standard procedure for an unsecured location."
Just then, the front door of the clinic opened, and Dr. Rhoades came out to find us, a look of mild surprise on his face. I decided to take control of the situation before it escalated into a full-blown incident.
"Dr. Rhoades, good morning," I said, stepping forward. "I am so sorry about all of this." I gestured vaguely at the agents. "Mark is in the military, and his security protocols are... strict."
Dr. Rhoades smiled, a warm, understanding expression that immediately put me at ease. "It's quite alright, Mrs. Naird," he said, his gaze shifting to my husband with a look of professional curiosity. "A man in the General's position can never be too careful."
He then gestured toward his office. "Please, come in."
We both walked in and took a seat on the sofa, while Dr. Rhoades seated himself on the armchair Bradley had sat in. I felt Mark's hand come to rest on my hand, a small, steady pressure that was both a comfort and a promise.
Dr. Rhoades began by asking if we have had a discussion about what he told me yesterday.
"We have," I told him, my voice clear and firm. I was here for a plan, not for platitudes. "What must we do to better tackle the situation?"
"I would like to get a better handle on Bradley's childhood before we can begin," Dr. Rhoades said, his gaze calm and steady. "What was he like as a kid?"
"Well, Bradley was silent…" I began, the word feeling inadequate but true. "He never really spoke too much ever since he was a child. He learned to speak early, but he only used his words to express his desires, such as for food, and not much else."
He then gazed at Mark, clearly wanting his input.
"What Maggie said is right," Mark confirmed, a hint of pride in his voice. "Brad was quite self-sufficient ever since he learned to walk. We didn't even need to potty-train him, nor did he ever exhibit childish behaviors. He had a routine that he followed to the letter. For a long time, I thought he was just imitating me."
"What about kindergarten? How was he at school?" Dr. Rhoades prodded.
"It was pretty much the same as home," I said.
"I'm assuming he did not have any social interactions then?"
"Yes, that would be a correct assessment," Mark answered. "We even asked him once why he didn't wish to make friends, and he told us, 'They're boring,' in those exact words."
"I see," the doctor said, scribbling something in his notepad.
Mark's impatience finally broke through. "Look, Doc, I understand you're doing your job, but we already know Brad has autism. So why don't we discuss possible care solutions and therapy matters instead of delving into his past?"
"Well, Mr. Naird, this is for me to frame a psychological makeup of Bradley," he said calmly. "Trust me, I am not trying to waste your time. All the information you provide me right now is going towards ultimately helping your son." He paused, then asked, "Let me ask you this: were there instances where Bradley did not respond to his name being called out?"
The question sent a jolt through me, a half-forgotten memory surfacing. "Yes," I admitted. "Up until the age of four, there were multiple times when Brad would simply not respond to his name."
"What changed at age four?"
"Well, that's when Erin started talking," I said, a sad, sweet memory. "'Brad' was her first word, even. After that, he never had any problems responding to his name."
Dr. Rhoades nodded, making another note. "Now, Mr. Naird, Bradley associates you teaching him basketball as the key moment of his life."
"That's right," Mark said, beaming with pride. "It was after my accident in the war... By the time he was eight, he told me he wanted to become a pro. Initially, I thought it was a childish fantasy, but he has proven me wrong on that front ever since."
"Well, that is another sign of an autistic child acquiring a narrow interest…" Dr. Rhoades posited, but Mark interrupted him.
"Bradley has far more interests than just basketball, doc. He loves chess, maths, history, and even video games."
"You are of course right, Mr. Naird," Dr. Rhoades said, his tone gentle but firm. "But have you noticed that he does enjoy all those things, but they are ultimately developed to support his basketball? Chess is a way for him to strategize. Math and history he uses to study games and the past. Video games are an extension of his interest in simulation. Everything Bradley does... includes a hint of basketball."
The doctor's words hit me with the force of a physical blow. He was right. It all served the game.
"He has friends as well, doctor," I asked, a hopeful note in my voice. "And while I admit they are also basketball players, it is progress, no?"
"You're right, Mrs. Naird, which is why I asked you both here," he said. "Bradley's autism seems to phase in and out of the spectrum. He shows traits very specific to an autistic child while also displaying neurotypical behavior. I requested further sessions with him because it would benefit him, and I also wanted to give some helpful advice to you as his parents, too."
I straightened my back, my own resolve hardening. "Anything, Doctor," I said. "We are here for it."
"Bradley has very deep-seated instincts when it comes to basketball and he has shown that he is willing to go the distance both physically and mentally to achieve victory. This is something that is respectable and seen in many sportsmen competing at the top. I want you to temper is while not throttling it. He will showcase this instinct by dominating his opponents and physically driving himself to the limit"
Dr. Rhoades' words reminded me of those times, especially that final match in the summer tournament. The memory of Bradley's cold, ruthless expression was still sharp in my mind.
"We know, Doc. He has already shown the signs. We were concerned that he was being too cruel then," Mark said, the tension clear in his voice.
"You are right to be concerned, Mr. Naird, but you should probably change your approach on handling such tenuous situations," Dr. Rhoades stated. He leaned forward, his tone shifting from diagnostic to instructive. "The goal isn't to throttle his competitive instinct; it's to help him temper it. When you see him go too far, don't just reprimand the action. Ask him why. Help him analyze the emotional impact on his opponent. He's a strategist; give him a new variable to account for—empathy."
He continued, "Reinforce his role as a leader, not just a winner. A leader's job is to elevate his team, and humiliation doesn't do that. It's about channeling that incredible drive toward a more constructive purpose." He gave us a reassuring look. "He and I will work on these things in his therapy sessions as well. I'll help give him the tools."
We discussed some other factors after that, and with each piece of advice, I felt the knot of fear in my stomach slowly begin to unwind. After some time, the session ended.
"You have a remarkable son," the doctor assured us as he walked us to the door. "He's more self-aware than most adults I've treated. With the right guidance, he'll be more than fine. You have nothing to be concerned about. All will be okay."
Maggie and Mark then left the clinic, a new sense of clarity and purpose settling over us. We got into our separate cars and headed to work, the day's mission now complete. We had a plan and that was enough to assuage much of my worries.
______________________________________________________________________
Alright we are back and with a bang too. This week all chapters are going to be emotionally charged and super angsty so if you are not a fan of that then wait out till next week. Since this is my first time writing I may have made some mistakes in writing the emotional essence of the upcoming chapters I humbly ask that you bear with me and keep your criticisms logical and polite. ALSO POWERSTOOOOOOONNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS