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The mail has been scattered all over the kitchen floor; the stools are overturned. The phone has been knocked off its pedestal, its battery pack hanging loose from an umbilicus of wires. There’s one single faint footprint at the threshold of the living room, pointing toward the dead body of my son, Jacob. Blood covers his temple and his hands. For a moment, I can’t move; can’t breathe. I gingerly pick it up and see blood on the corner.
With my pinky, I touch the liquid and then taste it. Focus!”. I sink down on the couch, cradling the clock in my hands. The food dye and corn syrup mixture has matted his dark hair; his eyes are shining, even though they won’t meet mine. Jacob’s father is a towhead – or at least he was when he walked out on us fifteen years ago, leaving me with Jacob and Theo - his brand- new, blond baby brother. Fake blood drips down the side of his face, but he doesn’t notice; when he is intensely focused on crime scene analysis I think a nuclear bomb could detonate beside him and he’d never flinch.
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He walks toward the footprint at the edge of the carpet and points. Now, at second glance, I notice the waffle tread of the Vans skateboarding sneakers that Theo saved up to buy for months; and the latter half of the company logo – NS – burned into the rubber sole. Not hit them with an actual clock.”. Jacob blinks at me, expressionless. He lives in a literal world; it’s one of the hallmarks of his diagnosis. Years ago, when we were moving to Vermont, he asked what it was like.
Lots of green, I said, and rolling hills. At that, he’d burst into tears. What about my sneakers?”. They were in the mudroom,” Jacob qualifies. And Theo, I don’t want to hear that word come out of your mouth again, or I’m going to take your sneakers and throw them out with the trash.
Do I make myself clear?”. I’m outta here,” Theo mutters, and he stomps toward the mudroom. A moment later I hear the door slam. These come from Cool Hand Luke; Jacob remembers the dialogue from every movie he’s ever seen. They tell me I’m lucky to have a son who’s so verbal, who is blisteringly intelligent, who can take apart the busted microwave and have it working again an hour later. They think there is no greater hell than having a son who is locked in his own world, unaware that there’s a wider one to explore. But try having a son who is locked in his own world, and still wants to make a connection.
A son who tries to be like everyone else, but truly doesn’t know how. He doesn’t like handshakes or pats on the back or someone ruffling his hair. He holds up the telephone receiver he’s been hunched over, so that I can see the smudge of black on the side. It was sometime around two years old when he began to drop words, to stop making eye contact, to avoid connections with people. He couldn’t hear us, or he didn’t want to.
One day I looked at him, lying on the floor beside a Tonka truck. He was spinning its wheels, his face only inches away; and I thought, Where have you gone?
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The tags I had to cut out of his clothing were unusually scratchy. When he could not seem to connect with any children at his preschool, I organized a no- holds- barred birthday party for him, complete with water balloons and pin the tail on the donkey.
About a half hour into the celebration, I suddenly realized that Jacob was missing. I was six months pregnant, and hysterical – other parents began to search the yard, the street, the house. I was the one who found him, sitting in the basement, repeatedly inserting and ejecting a VCR tape. Remember, this was back in 1. I’d had with autism was Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. According to the psychiatrist we first met, Jacob suffered from an impairment in social communication and behavior, without the language deficit that was a hallmark of other forms of autism.
It wasn’t until years later that we even heard the word Asperger’s – it just wasn’t on anyone’s diagnostic radar yet. But by then, I’d had Theo, and Henry – my ex – had moved out. He was a computer programmer who worked at home and couldn’t stand the tantrums that Jacob would throw when the slightest thing set him off: a bright light in the bathroom, the sound of the UPS truck coming down the gravel driveway, the texture of his breakfast cereal.
By then, I’d completely devoted myself to Jacob’s early intervention therapists –a parade of people who would come to our house intent on dragging him out of his own little world. I could see the improvement. Given that, there wasn’t even a choice to make.
I made a face and he would try to guess which emotion went with it. I smiled, even though I was crying, and waited for Jacob to tell me I was happy. He works for Apple and he rarely speaks to the boys, although he sends a check faithfully every month for child support. But then again, Henry was always good with organization.
And his ability to memorize an entire Shakespeare folio at first reading – which had seemed so academically sexy in college – wasn’t all that different from the way Jacob could memorize the entire TV guide schedule by the time he was six. It wasn’t until years after Henry was gone that I diagnosed him with a dash of Asperger’s, too. It’s a term we use to get Jacob the accommodations he needs in school, not a label to explain who he is. If you met him now, the first thing you’d notice is that he might have forgotten to change his shirt from yesterday, or to brush his hair. If you talk to him, you’ll have to be the one to start the conversation.
He won’t look you in the eye. And if you pause to speak to someone else for a brief moment, you might turn back to find that Jacob’s left the room. Anything new has to be introduced early on, and prepared for – whether that’s a dentist appointment or a vacation or a new student joining his math class midyear. I knew that he’d have his faux crime scene completely cleaned up before eleven o’clock, because that’s when the Free Sample Lady sets up her table in the front of the Townsend Food Co- op. She recognizes Jacob by sight, now, and usually gives him two mini eggrolls or bruschetta rounds or whatever else she’s plying that week. By the time I grab my coat and purse, Jacob is already sitting in the back seat.
He likes it there, because he can spread out. He doesn’t have a driver’s license, although we argue about it regularly, since he’s eighteen and was eligible to get his license two years ago. He knows all the mechanical workings of a traffic light, and could probably take one apart and put it back together, but I am not entirely convinced that in a situation where there were several other cars zooming by in different directions, he’d be able to remember whether to stop or go at any given intersection. Franklin assigned an essay about our favorite subject, and I wanted to write about lunch, but he won’t let me.”. He says lunch isn’t a subject.”.
I glance at him. Shouldn’t he know that?”. I stifle a smile.
Jacob’s literal reading of the world can be, depending on the circumstances, either very funny or very frustrating. In the rear view mirror, I see him press his thumb against the car window. I remember once, when he was four, he was reading the sign for a doctor’s office when the postman walked by. The guy couldn’t stop staring, but then again, it’s not every day you hear a preschooler pronounce the word GASTROENTEROLOGY, clear as a bell.
I ignore a perfectly good parking spot because it happens to be next to a shiny orange car, and Jacob doesn’t like the color orange. I can feel him draw in his breath and hold it until we drive past. We get out of the car and Jacob runs for a cart; then we walk inside. Online streaming What Are You? in english with subtitles in 4K. She comes at 1. 1 and leaves at 1.
Something must have happened.”. Bunion surgery,” calls an employee, who is stacking packages of carrots within earshot.
I glance around the store, mentally calculating whether it would cause more of a scene to try to get Jacob out of here before the stimming turns into a full- blown breakdown; or whether I can talk him through this. Pinham had to leave school for three weeks when she got shingles, and she couldn’t tell you beforehand?
This is the same thing.”. But it’s 1. 1: 1. Jacob says. Pinham came back, right?
And everything went back to normal.”. By now, the carrot man is staring at us. Jacob looks like a totally normal young man.
He’s clearly intelligent. But having his day disrupted probably makes him feel the same way I would, if I was suddenly told to bungee off the top of the Sears tower. He backs away from me, into a shelf full of pickle jars and relishes.
A few bottles fall to the floor, and the breaking glass sends him over the edge. Suddenly Jacob is screaming – one high, keening note that is the soundtrack of my life. He moves blindly, striking out at me when I reach for him. I press my lips close to his ear. There were times I swear I played that song twenty- four hours a day just to keep him calm; even Theo knew all the verses before he was three.
Sure enough, the tension seeps out of Jacob’s muscles, and his arms go limp at his sides. A single tear streaks from the corner of his eye. Jacob sits up, too, and hugs his knees to his chest. In addition to the carrot man, the manager of the store, several shoppers, and two twin girls with matching constellations of freckles on their cheeks are all staring down at Jacob with that curious mix of horror and pity that follows us like a dog nipping at our heels. Jacob wouldn’t hurt a fly, literally or figuratively – I’ve seen him cup his hands around a spider during a three- hour car ride so that, at our destination, he could set it free outside. But if you are a stranger and you see a tall, muscular man knocking over displays, you don’t look at him and assume he’s frustrated.
You think he’s violent. It’s the electric shock they need to tear their gaze away from the train wreck. As if nothing’s happened, the shoppers go back to sifting through the navel oranges and bagging their bell peppers.
The two little girls dart down the dairy aisle. The carrot man and the manager do not make eye contact, and that suits me just fine.