Like Father, Like Son

by Charles C. Cole

We hadn’t seen my in-laws in years. I blamed the Covid epidemic; they were elderly, frail and vulnerable. Then, after catching up on vaccinations, the country somehow passed the peak of transmission, when everyday people began visiting one another again, handwashing optional.

That’s when I realized I hadn’t seen my unsmiling and judgmental father-in-law in nearly half a decade, and I kind of liked it. I was ten years senior to the old man’s daughter; he never ceased to remind me.

My wife, Connie, suggested we visit her parents. I declined gently but firmly. She offered to host such a gathering, saving us a two-hour trip each way. I declined again. “Papa and Nana went this long without catching the dreaded virus. Maybe we should continue a conservative approach, for the time being, for their sake.” I almost sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

At the time, our high-functioning autistic son was a homebound twenty-year old. Though he could probably have passed for “normal” in a post-public education world, we’d had him pulled from most of his regular classes in high school because he would get frustrated quickly and have a daily lesson-derailing meltdown. Yes, the bullies found him. Still, he was a good kid with a great sense of humor and a big heart.

“I think we should invite my parents over for dinner next weekend,” Connie insisted.

“Call them. See if they’re up for company,” I said. “I’m just saying: give them room to say no. I wouldn’t want to pressure them if they’re not ready.”

Then the conversation got personal. “We’ve been in this house for almost twenty years, since long before Covid, and we’ve never had a dinner party for anyone other than family.” I shrugged. I couldn’t argue. Facts were facts. Then she went for the jugular: “You ever think you might be autistic?”

“Me? I’m not autistic,” I said; “I’m just not comfortable around other people. There’s a difference.”

“Help me see it,” said Connie.

“Our son is a caretaker. He’s the best at hugs. He says his online friends love using him for a sounding board; he’s a good listener. Yes, he takes an hour in the shower and another thirty minutes drying off, and uses an alarm to tell him when to stop brushing his teeth. But he’s got great, surprisingly charming, people skills, especially with strangers. Autism or no autism.”

“Now you,” she prompted.

“I’m a certified active listener at work, where I have to be,” I said. “I drop whatever I’m doing and make prolonged eye contact. I lean in. I nod. I put my heart on my sleeve. I may not enjoy rubbing elbows at free-form mixers in the small company breakroom or at loud, crowded conferences, but I rarely turn away one-to-one requests.”

Connie pulled up easily accessible medical data on her ever-present phone. “So, you’re saying you have social inhibition and a general sense of anxiety.”

“Come on,” I countered. “Those are generic symptoms. You could be describing someone with rabies.”

Hunter, our son, wandered into the kitchen and into our discussion. He always wore a wireless headset, listening to something online. I waved for his attention. “Your mother wants to visit Nana and Papa. What do you think?”

He pressed his right thumb to his chin to digest the information. “That sounds lovely. It’s time. I’m sure they would appreciate a visit.”

“You’re not worried about getting them sick?” I asked.

He placed his fingertips together and nodded thoughtfully. “Father, Father,” he began, like a patient sage, “I see where this is going.” (He always called me Father, never Dad, no matter how much I encouraged. And the wise persona “act” was based on a recurring character type he often saw on the Japanese shows he streamed.)

“We’ve all been vaccinated, and we can wear masks. I think it’s worth the risk,” he concluded.

“I’m outvoted, is that it?”

Hunter bowed, formally. “I really can’t offer anything more. My videogame isn’t going to play itself,” he said. He left us as abruptly as he’d joined us.

I thought fast: “What if I go visit my spinster sister in town while you take Hunter? I’m overdue.”

“Is that your solution?” asked Connie.

“I promise not to have fun. It’s the lesser of two evils, not that your father or my sister are evil.”

She glanced at her phone: “This is interesting. ‘Research has shown a consistent relationship between older fathers and children with autism.’”

“Where were those studies when we were planning our future?” I asked. “Is this emotional dressing-down because I won’t give him driving lessons? I tried; he freaked out.”

“Just say it’s possible.”

“I love my son. I wouldn’t trade him for some traditionally-functioning beyond-the-spectrum child. He’s the best hugger in the house, really squeezes, and you know it.”

Her face went slack, resting at conqueror-face.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I never got diagnosed. Maybe my parents, God bless their souls, just thought I was a stubborn introvert who loved books and puzzles more than friends. There.”

“I love you,” she said, kissing the tip of my nose. “I shouldn’t have pressed. It doesn’t really matter. If you don’t want to visit my father, don’t; you just earned a permanent medical deferment. You’re welcome. But Hunter and I are going next weekend.”

And that’s how I found out that, maybe, I have more in common with my son than a last name and a fondness for quirky sci-fi.