Free The Interestings by Meg Wolitzer Page A

had turned Jules into someone shameful. And it wasn’t as if Ash and Ethan didn’t have problems too. First of all, they had a son with an autism-spectrum disorder. Though the Christmas letter did not refer to this, probably most of the people who received it already knew.
    Jules had been with Ash during Mo’s two-day evaluation and diagnosis long ago when he was three; they’d driven up together to New Haven to the Yale Child Study Center because Ethan had said he had to go to LA and couldn’t get out of the trip. The driver took the two women and Mo in the black Range Rover, and during the ride Ash said, “So this is my big return to New Haven. And not to have lunch with an old professor, or give a talk, but to learn what’s wrong with my uncommunicative and unhappy little boy.” The nut of what she was saying was: this is awful. Mo couldn’t hear her; he was listening with headphones to a CD of a picture book about a runaway truck, the same CD he listened to often. The two women regarded him for a few seconds, then Ash unbuckled her seat belt and reached over, pressing her face into his soft white neck. He twisted around to get away but saw he was trapped by the seat belt and soon stopped protesting.
    Jules knew, during the drive, that Mo would be given a diagnosis the next day, and it seemed clear finally what it might be. But until not long before Ash had made the appointment it hadn’t occurred to them that Mo was “on the spectrum,” as everyone casually put it lately, just the way people also casually said “chemo,” all of it seen as part of the perils of the modern age. Instead, before then, Mo had seemed mostly anxious and disconnected, shrieking and crying for reasons that he was unable to explain. An elderly, famous child psychiatrist had spent hours with him asking what he was afraid of when he lay in bed at night.
    At the end of the following day, during the trip home from New Haven, Ash cried on her cell phone in the car to Ethan. Jules sat there awkwardly, looking out the window and wishing she didn’t have to hear them talk. Ash said to Ethan, “No, I know you love me, that’s
not
what I’m saying,” and then, “I know you love him too. Your love is not in question, Ethan. Sometimes I just need to cry. No, he’s listening to a CD. He’s got headphones on. He’s completely oblivious. I wish I was too.” Then she listened to Ethan for a few moments, and suddenly said, “All right,” and handed the phone to Jules, who was startled.
    “What?” whispered Jules. “Why does he want to talk to me? You’re in the middle of a whole thing together.”
    “I don’t know. Just talk to him.”
    “Listen, hi, Jules,” Ethan said on the phone, his voice tight. “Will you stay at the house tonight with Ash? Is that at all possible? I feel so bad I couldn’t go with her, and I realize I’m asking for a lot, but I don’t want her to have to be alone. I mean, I know the kids will be there, and Rose and Emanuel, but I would really love it if you were there too. Because you can”—here his voice broke a little—“you can remind her that, you know, we’ve always gotten through everything. That’s what we’ve always done, since the beginning, with her parents and Goodman. Remind her of this, will you, because she feels so
down.
Maybe you can reassure her, like I was trying to do, that Mo will have a good life. There’s no way he won’t. We’ve got the resources, and it’ll be okay. We’ll make it be okay. Please tell her that. But say it later, when Mo’s not around to possibly hear any of it, okay?”
    Jules stayed the night at Ethan and Ash’s house on Charles Street with the staff and the delicately wonderful meals appearing as if they’d been summoned up merely through wishing. She sat with Ash in the basement level of the house by the side of the compact lap pool, while Ash swam her short, dull laps for a long time, her head above water, once in a while stopping and peering up