Page 27 of Retrofit Analysis

I stare at my ex-husband for a second, and I realize I feel bad for him. He’s so wrapped up in other people’s perceptions of him that he is truly not able to see anything beyond himself. I turn back toward Jake and my heart swells when I see the chess coach has approached him. The coach uses hand gestures mimicking deep breaths and gives Jake a thumbs up as my son nods and puffs out his cheeks on an exhale.

I actually clap my hands when I see Jake pick up a chess piece and make another move, meltdown avoided. Lisa squeezes my hand and Ashish yells out, “Yeah! Nice, Jake!” I laugh as my son flushes and holds his hands over his eyes, embarrassed not at his outburst but at Ashish’s. “Did you see that?” I lean across to my friends, who nod. “He worked it out.”

“He totally did,” Lisa says. “Who is that coach and can we take him home with us?” I’m so caught up in my celebration of Jake’s progress that I almost forget Todd is sitting here, all judgmental and missing the point.

Almost.

“Are you kidding me right now, Elizabeth?” When I turn to face him again he has his arms crossed and looks like he just lost out on a merger.

I raise an eyebrow at him by way of response, wondering what ever drew me to him in the first place. He’s bitter and mean, and I lived in a house with him for nearly 20 years. “Gross,” I mutter.

“You’re not going to reprimand him?”

“Reprimand?” I feel Lisa stiffen in the folding chair next to me and I squeeze her hand. “For what exactly? Having emotions? Feeling strongly about his performance?”

“His behavior is unacceptable,” Todd growls, gesturing around the room. No sooner does he say so when I hear another teen groan. This one bangs his fist on the table before he tips over his king, ceding the match to his opponent. I don’t point this out to Todd.

“People groan when they’re disappointed, Todd. Maybe you missed the part where our autistic son put his strategies into use and calmed down so he could keep playing?”

The tramp looks confused. “Autistic? I thought you said he was just weird,” she says to Todd, twirling her hair around one finger. “I mean, he is weird for sure. I didn’t know he was autistic.”

Todd springs to his feet. “Jesus, Elizabeth, do you need to air our private business like this?” Private? I look at Lisa, who shrugs. Todd extends his hand to the tramp. “Come on, sweetheart. We need to be going to the gala anyway.” She shrugs and stands, adjusting her gown before she starts to squeeze her way down the aisle of chairs.

“Do you…are people around you not aware that Jake is autistic?” I can’t imagine how or why he would keep such a thing to himself. Jake certainly volunteers this information given the opportunity. I guess his father doesn’t ever give him the opportunity, and I immediately feel sad for my son, that I subjected him to spending time with someone who tries to hide him.

“I was under the impression you were spending your time trying to fix all of that,” Todd grunts, shouldering his way out.

When he’s gone, I look over to Jake, who is still deep into his first round. I locate Dhruv, who is rocking in his chair and tapping the table, but also seems to be contentedly playing his match. I turn to Lisa and say, “Did that just happen?”

“Did your scumbag ex-husband reveal that he thinks autism can be cured, all the while telling everyone his own son is weird? Oh yeah. That happened.”

I feel a giant lump in my throat, pulsing inside me. I don’t know if it’s the physical manifestation of my rage, or my disappointment or my heart breaking for Jake. I don’t know what it is, but I know I can’t process it right now. I’m here to watch my kid—my brilliant, funny teenage kid—compete at something important to him.

“Babe, give me my bag,” Lisa says to her husband, gesturing for her purse under his chair. “I want to grab a knife and go slash Todd’s tires.”

“Lisa, honey, you can’t just say things like that,” Ashish says, draping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her arm. Looking to me, he says, “Let me know if you need a witness at court when you adjust your custody agreement.”

“Oh fuck yeah, babe. God, it’s hot when you do that,” Lisa says. “That asshole should never have access to Jake again, Liz. You want me to subpoena all the other parents here?”

This gets a laugh from me, and I’m thankful, because it pushes the lump down inside a bit. I make eye contact with our boys again. Seeing they’re carrying on unphased, I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, Lees. I’ll let you know what my lawyer says tomorrow.”

Jake and Dhruv make it through the second round and are both eliminated. I worry the seam on my slacks when I see Jake tip over his king, but then I feel elation and relief when my son smiles. He stands and shakes hands with the teen across from him and walks over to me, holding out the bright blue bishop keychain.

“I asked my opponent for his contact information,” Jake says. “He’s a worthy adversary.”

I pull my kid in for a hug and laugh. “That’s a fantastic attitude to have, Jake.”

“Does this complete the unit on sportsmanship,” he asks, looking at me. I ruffle his hair.

“I’d say so,” I tell him, and then I tilt my head towards our friends. “Come on, babe. Let’s go get burgers and shakes.”

“And fries,” he says. “The crispy ones. Not the mushy ones that are undercooked.”

“Of course,” I tell him, linking my arm through his, and pulling it back when he brushes it off. I’m elated by his victory today—I don’t care a fig about his chess performance. He tamped down a code red emotional fit and lost gracefully.

This progress has been so hard-earned, so gradual. As the five of us sit down in our favorite burger joint, I take stock of the progress Jake has made since we moved. He’s thriving, I realize. I make a note to point it out to his therapist the next time we talk. I can worry about Todd later. “To sportstmanship,” I say to the table, raising my milkshake in toast.

“To sportsmanship,” Lisa and Ashish say, enthusiastically clinking glasses with me. Dhruv nods and says, “The custom of toasting can be traced back to the ancient Greeks, when honoring the gods.”