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This one has a lot of fears and misgivings on Darcy's part that won't be resolved immediately, but don't worry - I won't leave them unaddressed.
Darcy's initial, instinctive reaction to their son's diagnosis was a stupidly selfish thought. But Will is going to inherit Pemberley. He can't be autistic. He's going to run the family business when I've retired.
He forced himself to push that away. It was irrelevant. His only concern should be his son's wellbeing and happiness. And Lizzie's. And Hannah's.
Driving home, he took stock of each family member. Will was in the backseat, humming and kicking his legs. Hannah was sleeping. Lizzie was watching the traffic, silently crying.
He could not comfort her. He had never failed to comfort her before, whatever her distress, ever since they had become a couple. It was as simple a matter as holding her and murmuring a few reassuring words. Today, words were hollow. There were no certainties.
The specialist hadn't minced words. "It's too early in his development to place him on a particular spot on the autism spectrum. Many things could change over the next few years. We can only confirm that his social, emotional and verbal delays characterize him as autistic. It is possible that he will never learn to talk fluently or live independently. It is also possible that he could begin talking in complete sentences and become high-functioning. We'll just need to keep monitoring his development." With that, she handed them a folder full of informational pamphlets. Lizzie was clutching it right now with whitened knuckles.
Darcy put his hand on hers. It was all he could manage at the moment, but it was enough that her hand relaxed just a little bit.
In any other situation, he would have dived into research immediately, reading everything he could find to inform himself. Not with this. It took him a few days before he could even pick up that folder.
The diagnosis came on a Friday afternoon, so they had the weekend to try to gather themselves. They cared for their children mechanically, numbly, and talked very little. It was as if a fog had settled over the house and refused to dissipate. At night Lizzie curled up into Darcy's embrace, and they lay there for hours in silent commiseration.
"We're going to need to tell everyone," she suddenly said on Sunday evening, with her toothbrush halfway to her mouth.
He put away his contact lens case and frowned. "You're right."
"How do we do it?"
"I don't know the usual protocol for situations like these." He considered it. "Perhaps a mass email? Is that too impersonal?"
"Is it terrible if I say I don't care? I'm imagining having to say it individually, over and over, to everyone we know, and I just –" She shook her head, eyes welling up. "I'm just so sick of crying."
Darcy came behind her and let her settle into him. They looked at themselves in the bathroom mirror, a worn-down, raw-faced pair. "We'll send out an email," he said quietly.
It seemed impossible that life could go on much as it always had, and yet it did. Darcy recalled the weeks following his first disastrous declaration of love to Lizzie, wondering how he even managed to get out of bed every morning when his entire world had gone dark. This was a different heartache, but the fallout was all too familiar. In some ways the normal, ordinary quality of each day was less bearable than a cataclysmic change. It was all so mundane, talking with Lizzie over breakfast while he wrangled Will into his booster seat and she soothed a fussy Hannah. Heading off to Pemberley, promising to call her at lunch. The uncertainties of the future loomed in the distance, but he could almost forget about them while he was caught up in the present.
He studied the materials the specialist gave them. He began researching agencies that hired out early childhood therapists, looking for a good fit for Will's needs. After they sent out the email he answered Gigi's worried questions and thanked Bing for his and Jane's concern. He often came home to find Lizzie on the phone with another friend or family member, her eyes red and wet, and knew it was going to be another hard evening.
"I know everyone means well, trying to say comforting things and offering advice," she said one such evening, collapsing onto their bed with a groan. "Dad said it was a good thing this happened while I was on maternity leave, so I could have the time to process this. I just said Yeah, I guess so, but you know what? I wish I were back at work. I wish I were up to my elbows in a project instead of stewing in this house alone all day."
Darcy stroked her hair, knowing it wouldn't help to point out that she wasn't alone with two children. "You can go back now if you feel ready. Pemberley has excellent child care –"
"I'm not ready," she snapped. "I've barely started getting Hannah on a feeding schedule. I wouldn't get any work done at all. And it would kill me, sending Will off all day when I feel like I should be spending every minute trying to understand him better."
He nodded. "There's no easy solution. I'm sorry."
Lizzie propped her head up on her hands and gazed at him. "You look tired."
A shrug. "It's only natural. We have a newborn and an autistic toddler."
"No, I mean – you look more than tired. I'm always talking about my feelings. How do you feel, William?"
He stretched out alongside her, cupping her face. "Don't worry about me. I just want to make sure you're all right."
Lizzie seemed less than satisfied, but he forestalled further discussion with a slow, heavy kiss.
Fitz stopped by his office the next morning. They hadn't had the chance for any significant conversations since the email went out about the diagnosis, and frankly Darcy was relieved. Like Lizzie, he felt exhausted at the thought of receiving solicitous concern and well-meaning advice. Fitz, however, just sat down across from him and gave him a serious look. "Hey, Darcy," he said quietly.
"Good morning, Fitz. Did you need something?"
"Nope. But you do."
Darcy raised an eyebrow. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"I know you, man. You give and give, and you never take a minute for yourself. Especially when it comes to Lizzie."
He opened his mouth to object, but Fitz wouldn't let him. "You're her rock. That's your thing. Which is awesome, but you can't just pretend you don't have any feelings. So start talking."
"I don't recall asking you to be my psychiatrist," Darcy said.
But Fitz just sat there, waiting, refusing to be fended off with sardonic humor.
Darcy took a breath, and then it came out. "This is my fault."
"How?"
"Autism is genetically linked. And it's plain that it didn't come from Lizzie's side of the family. My side, however – well, she said it herself. 'Social strangeness runs in the Darcy family.'" He expected Fitz to cut in and contradict him. He didn't. Darcy pressed on. "I have difficulty in social situations. I have an almost obsessive need for order and certain rigid routines. And now I have given these traits to my son. He may never function independently because of what I have passed along to him."
Fitz's face remained impassive. "Anything else?"
"I feel like a fool." Darcy found his voice rising involuntarily. "The signs were all there, and I didn't see them because I was so determined to have a bright, high-performing son. And yet the signs are so subtle, I still can't quite believe it's real. He isn't withdrawn or lacking in affection. You know that. He gives hugs to everyone. He prefers to come into bed with Lizzie and me rather than sleep alone. And he is bright. He makes the same pattern with his blocks every time, without a single mistake. Where he and I are similar," and now he found it hard to speak past the thickness in his throat, "I find myself both proud of him and fearful that he'll inherit all of my worst flaws. Where he and I are different, I worry that we will never be anything but strangers to each other."
Now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop. "I've read all the research I could access, but it doesn't help. There are no clear-cut answers. The range of treatments is so vast, yet nothing has been confirmed with a one hundred percent success rate. The only certain statistics I could find are horrifying. Every year the number of children with autism rises. What if Hannah has it as well? And marriages between parents of autistic children have a significantly higher chance of ending in divorce. Did you know that? I've seen the figures. They're indisputable." He drew breath and finished in a low, unsteady voice, "I have never been more terrified of losing everything."
"Okay," Fitz said.
Darcy looked at him with a scowl. "That's all? That's the extent of your helpful words of wisdom?"
"Hey." Fitz put up his hands. "Don't look at me for wisdom. I was just trying to get you to open up. How do you feel?"
He considered, then answered, "Weak."
"And…?"
"And….better. Somewhat."
"Good. Now here's the unsolicited advice you were expecting. Go home early today. No one's gonna blame you for taking an afternoon off. Go to Lizzie, and tell her what you told me. Nope," he went on, forestalling Darcy's objections, "you're going to tell her. Maybe not with so much word vomit, but it's gotta come out one way or another. She needs to know you're hurting too."
"I fail to see how that would help her."
"Because I'm betting right now she's feeling pretty weak. If she knows you're not getting through all this like some impenetrable rock, it'll help. Like, it's normal to feel weak. You gotta feel your feelings, Darcy."
"Anything else?" He could not keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
"Yeah. Take a nap."
He would not admit it aloud, but he knew there was truth to Fitz's words.
It took Darcy several days to heed the full extent of his advice. He tried to stop trying to carry the entire burden himself. It was not an easy habit to break. But he managed to convey to Lizzie, over the course of several serious conversations, that he was just as vulnerable and worried as she was. Sometimes she looked downright alarmed, and he wondered if he'd made a mistake.
Then one evening she cut him off mid-sentence with a fierce hug. "I love you so much," she whispered, head buried in his chest. "I – I was afraid I was going through this alone."
"Never," he said, unsure if he was trembling or she was or they both were. "Never."
A new routine began to take shape in their lives. Lizzie returned to work, Hannah in tow, but with a flexible schedule (aided and abetted by lots of telecommuting from home) that allowed her to accommodate Will's multiple therapy sessions. When her responsibilities kept her too busy, Darcy could usually manage to be there. Sometimes they had to call on Gigi to fill in. Lydia came to visit for an entire month that spring and helped tremendously. "It's no biggie," she insisted. "My boss majorly owes me after I pretty much saved her business from going down the toilet."
Lydia wasn't exaggerating, lack of modesty notwithstanding. She had really found her niche at a company that arranged parties and other festive occasions, and her ability to befriend and delight new clients had brought the once-struggling company into a new era of prosperity.
She also had a particular gift for engaging Will, which his parents at once appreciated and envied. "I'm his own mother, and I can never get him to laugh like that," Lizzie confided to Darcy, slumped over the kitchen counter while Will's shrieks and giggles rang out from the living room.
"Nor I," Darcy said, rubbing her back. "Perhaps it's just the novelty of a different person."
She grimaced. "Familiarity breeds contempt and all that?"
"Well, hopefully not contempt."
Will did seem to love new people, which Darcy could scarcely wrap his mind around. Meeting new people was excruciating for him, particularly outside a business setting where he could arrange them neatly into professional categories and echelons. Granted, Will's excitement was usually focused on seizing hold of whatever bag or purse they might be carrying and searching for new things to play with, the natural result of having a string of toy-bearing therapists come into his home on a weekly basis. That didn't make his lack of reserve any easier to understand.
He wasn't eligible for preschool until age three, but the registration process began shortly after his second birthday. Darcy had scoured the Bay area for all the best specialized preschool programs and found a few promising candidates. He and Lizzie toured the premises, talked with the administrators and teachers, discussed their methods of therapy and the student-to-teacher ratio, and made meticulous notes and comparisons that eventually comprised fifty close-written pages.
Then began the ordeal of making a choice.
"If we pick one and it doesn't work out," Lizzie said, "we can just transfer him, right?"
"Yes….but we'll risk a lag in his services, and he'll have to adjust to yet another change in routine."
"Right." Lizzie sighed heavily. "So, no pressure, right?"
He kissed the top of her head. "None whatsoever."