Excerpts from the book, ,Lunacy Lost

Purchase the book through Amazon.com in Fall, 2010.

D-DAY

Nor could I explain the place ahead of time, much less the need to stay. Neither the concept of "doctor" or a sneaky "let's go play!" was hers to grasp—so I'd highlighted the car ride here, a favorite pastime. Except for oddly-pitched yelps and bleeps, Nina said little in return. The famous blue eyes remained downcast, just like every other day now.

Diaper bag slung over an aching shoulder, raingear stuffed into an armpit and the girl writhing on my hip, I moved like a slow barge into the next little room. Nina was no infant and strangers frequently mistook me for the grandmother. This only child of Kai's and mine often rode in a parent's arms, so scared was she of anywhere new. I was beginning to think she could read the "vibe" of a place, and this one was portentous.

Nina's father unloaded all the forms we were given onto a steel shelf as the door closed. Then Kai checked her diaper, hoping to avoid another of those exploding poops. The three of us were told to wait, and we would do as we were told.

It was Diagnosis Day.

So far the exam consisted of shuttling to a series of cubicles, being greeted by yet another professional holding a satchel of toys geared to reveal the truth about child development. But here there was no plan apparent after we were motioned inside. I eased Nina, clueless in the third year of her life, onto the cushioned exam table and checked the backs of my hands for scratches while she quieted down.

Nina promptly hid her eyes from the bright fluorescents overhead while her parents took a breather. No toys, no charts on the wall. No explanation about how long the wait or why. Yet there was one unique feature at this stop. A single mirror dominated the space, where we were able to gaze upon our harried selves. The silver expanse was half a wall wide and again that long, gleaming without a smudge.

Kai frowned and approached the glass. "Look at this," he said, "the thing's transparent."

Nina was face-down fetal, curled up to stay. I joined Kai and stood against the wall, trying to penetrate the mirror's face. But he knew how to look.

"People are on the other side...pulling up chairs..."

I groaned under the last straw and went back to Nina. The mirror would be watching! And what if they saw us watching them? Would our knowing we were spied on be misinterpreted by the spies?

And what if, somehow, that blew it for our daughter? By now our judges were taking notes while we stood stumped. What should we make her do for them?

What the evaluators didn't know was that her father was once the youngest city administrator in the country; at age twenty in a small town in western Kansas he purchased two-way mirrors for the diminutive police department. Thus a mix of indignity and gall provoked my husband to keep himself pressed against the wall next to the shiny thing for a peek. And they were still there: the folks testing Nina, each with their special expertise in the diagnostic category we dreaded to take home.

Autism.

That day we learned they test parents too.

Kai finally sat down and we defaulted to silence, patting the immobile Nina. We forced some chit-chat about the unusual August downpour, stealing glances at the mirror. I tried to interest Nina in a picture-book fetched from her bag, unsure how a perfect mom should do this, until I could stand it no more.

"What now?" I whispered. "This is too weird! It' 1999--I thought they didn't believe parents caused autism anymore. Do you think they're listening?"

"Oh, I think so;" Kai answered in his large-lungs way and stood up. Don't do it! I thought--too late, they'll hear me, and note who knows what about the spousal dynamic. I knew my husband could care less as I watched him stride over to a light sconce near the mirror and start feeling around the base. Finding what he was looking for, his smirk spoke volumes but naturally he had to say it out loud:

"May they listen well!"

Tapping hard on the hidden microphone—an extended, deliberate rat-a-tat—Nina's dad glared through the looking glass, bucking for a label of his own.