“Yes.” I turned and pointed at the office. “That purple piece with all the butterflies flying out of it.”

She seemed confused for a second or two and then a look of recognition washed over her face, followed by amusement. “Those are butterflies flying out of a dark cave. It’s meant to symbolize your mind and the freeing of emotions from it. I painted it myself.”

“Oh.” And now I was mortified.

She paused and seemed to consider me for a moment.

“Don’t!” I pointed an accusatory finger at her.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say something like, ‘Well, it’s interesting that you saw a labia, Lori. That must be indicative of something else.’”

“Is it?”

“Psssh! No!”

“Well, Freud would say that what you saw was a representation of your innermost secret desires.”

“Thought you didn’t do Freud.”

Then she laughed. “Ag, nah. I don’t. Honestly, when I finished the painting I also thought it looked less like a cave and more like something else! I should probably not quit my day job, ne?”

Vicki threw her head back and laughed so heartily that it was hard not to join in. She was a strange one, all right. Today she was wearing bright orange, from head to toe. A bright-orange kaftan accessorized with bright-orange rubber boots. Even her nails were orange. She had presence. And it wasn’t her size that gave her that; it was something else. Her energy. Her openness. And obviously the fact she looked like a massive traffic beacon helped too. I bent back down to continue with the garden.

“Who invited you to the party?” she asked after a brief moment of silence.

“Just this guy, Jake.” I tried to brush it off and make it sound like it held no weight and quickly added, “And some other guys I don’t even know.”

“Jake?” she asked, honing in on that name, my attempt at subterfuge clearly not working.

“Our siblings go to the same school.” I sat up straight. “The Lighthouse. He volunteers there. We got talking.”

There was a long pause and I got the sense she was gathering her thoughts, or mentally jotting something down. “Must be challenging, having a brother with special needs.”

“Sometimes,” I confessed, and guilt instantly whacked me in the rib cage. “I love him. A lot, though,” I quickly qualified.

She smiled. “I know you do. But sometimes I think we often ignore or overlook how challenging it can be for a sibling.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, parents often go to therapy and there’re classes and coaches for parents, but not many resources for the siblings.”

“That’s exactly what Jake and I were saying.”

“And of course, most of the parents’ energy tends to go toward the sibling with special needs, and often the neurotypical sibling’s needs don’t get met.”

“That’s not his fault, though,” I said quickly, feeling like I needed to defend him.