In 1985, playwright David Mamet's little girl came to visit my little girl for a play date, and I finally realized that something was very, very, very wrong with my little girl

Willa Mamet when she was a toddler

In 1985, David Mamet and his then-wife Lindsay Crouse called the famous Dr. Robert Mendelsohn at his Evanston home to ask for a favor. They were in Chicago for some sort of project and wanted to know if Dr. Mendelsohn knew a little girl whose parents would be willing to let her play with their little girl, Willa.

Dr. Mendelsohn knew just the little girl. “Molly McGrath,” he said. “She’ll be perfect.” And he called to ask what I thought of the idea. I said I thought it would be great, but I also knew my darling daughter Molly had a temperament that wasn’t always very “social.”

I’d known Dr. Mendelsohn since I was a toddler. When he joined the pediatric practice in Chicago that our family used. He saved my brother’s life when he was born prematurely and he was our de facto family doctor for the rest of his life. He also became very famous as a “medical heretic,” writing books and columns—and driving the medical establishment totally crazy.

I became his editor during the last several years of his life. But I was superfluous. He was a perfect writer who knew his subject matter, his readers (and his patients) and he was always the smartest guy in the room.

If Dr. Mendelsohn thought Molly and Willa—both two-years-old—would get along, what could go wrong?

Lindsay Crouse called me to make the arrangements. And we hit it off on the phone. “My new best friend,” I told Paul.

Willa came to our big toy-laden apartment downtown a few days later.

Molly was in a number of play groups back then where the mothers would hang with each other while the kids played. She always seemed to play more on her own than with the others and rarely interacted with the kids. But she was always busy doing interesting things. By herself.

When the kids started talking, she didn’t. Although she was smart, and had terrific concentration on fairly sophisticated activities. But she always insisted on doing things her way. Most people probably thought she was spoiled. She had tantrums if she didn’t get her way.

Molly never seemed to pick up on toddler jargon. I noticed it but I wasn’t too worried because she was so strong in other ways. Our pediatrician, a Dr. Mendelsohn acolyte, thought she was just fine. Independent and smart. The tantrums? Well, she was two, right?

When Willa walked into Molly’s toy and activity strewn bedroom, Molly paid little attention to her. And Willa latched onto me, like a mini adult. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Willa Mamet and I am two-and-a-half years old and I live in Vermont.” Her recitation was perfectly modulated, and she made very strong eye contact. She reminded me of the way my mother’s big family always described me when I was a toddler. Very social, sweet, opinionated and interesting.

And it was at that moment, with Willa at my side, staring up at me waiting for my response upon hearing her basic mini-bio, that I knew something was very wrong with my child. As Willa went deeper into Molly’s space, and invaded her toys, Molly, true to form, had a tantrum—and my fantasy of being Lindsay Crouse’ best friend in Chicago with our little girls stuck on each other like glue evaporated like warm breath on a cold winter day in Chicago.

Willa got sort of sick of Molly ignoring her. And sort of disgusted when Molly had the tantrum—but she kept reaching out to me with all sorts of declarative sentences and questions. And she looked quite happy when it was time to leave.

And…. Molly turned out to be autistic. Initially “diagnosed” a few weeks later via another celebrity, Sly Stallone—when Paul just happened to read a People Magazine article about him and his autistic son, Seargeoh, who was a few years older than Molly. When Paul put the magazine down, he said prophetically, “this must be what everyone thinks Molly has.”

And the rest is history.

And while the the three McGraths did not become best friends with the three Mamets, Molly did become an accomplished artist. And has been part of a studio for accomplished artists with special needs for the last 16 years.

When Dr. Mendelsohn asked how the little girls hit if off, I never told him the truth. (Maybe the Mamets did.) But I felt like it was a bad blind date: why hurt the person who conceived of the fix up? He meant well.

Starting to sound kind of like a Mamet play, huh?