by Chase Connor
My mother was well enough then to make sure that Noe and Ila were taken care of and fed in the evenings when I was not there. She would make sure that they were taken care of and safe when I had to be away, but she was unable to understand how to help Noe with his hair. Because of this, even though I would get in late from work each night, I would get up early in the morning with Noe two hours before school so that we could maintain his hair. Only once or twice a week did we shampoo his hair together, depending on how dry it was, but every day required conditioning and putting oil on his scalp and hair. Noe had no problem styling his own hair afterward, but the products needed to maintain his hair’s cleanliness and moisture were too overwhelming to his touch sensitivities. If Noe got the oil on his hands, he could not wash it off quickly enough to avoid at least a minor meltdown, which presented another challenge.
The challenges did not bother me, but the thought that he would have to face these impossible challenges simply because he had no help did. So, getting up extra early on very little sleep was something that I would do. It was better than waking him up when I got home to take care of his hair and depriving him of sleep. Out of the two of us, I was able to function on little sleep the best. Having the school calling and complaining to my sick mother about him being sleepy in classes or being “difficult” due to his sleepiness was something I wanted to avoid. My mother was not in a position to go to the school every time the inexperienced teachers didn’t know what to do with a student such as Noe. And I needed to rest during the mornings and early afternoons so that I could be energetic and awake for work. The teachers never wanted to focus on how intelligent Noe was, how easily he grasped anything they told him—especially in his maths classes—but his perceived stubbornness they zeroed in on with wicked glee.
Two things about this bothered me. One, he wasn’t stubborn. He was on the Autism Spectrum. The way he saw, processed, and coped with every day life’s minutiae was different than the way kids without ASD did. He didn’t have a bad attitude; he had a different disposition and mental process than his fellow students. Two, Noe was black. Anytime a teacher called him “stubborn” or “combative” or “rude,” I couldn’t help but wonder if this was not coded language for “black.” If he had been a white student with ASD, would they have tried harder? Been a little more understanding of his special needs in a world that was not designed with his special needs in mind? Resoundingly, my mind always told me that my theories were correct. Especially since Noe was against hugs, except for when I came to pick him up from school when the teachers said he had to leave for the day. He hugged me on those days. And I glared angrily over his shoulder at the teachers as he squeezed me, burying his face under my chin. I never hugged him back, that was not acceptable to him—but he was happy to hold onto me in those instances.
Noe wasn’t nonverbal. Sometimes he would talk a lot. But he only liked to talk when he felt in the mood to talk. He couldn’t be forced to do so when he was having a difficult time, or on a day where he was particularly anxious—especially if he was having a day where breathing was laborious for him. His moaning and groaning disrupt the class. A black student with a medical problem and ASD was nothing but a disruption to the teachers at his school instead of being a student who needed more love, attention, patience, and empathy. Noe wasn’t difficult. He was the easiest person to get along with that I knew, as long as you were willing to realize that your preconceived notions about how people should operate did not necessarily apply to him. The two of us could always meet halfway between our abilities and our needs. I could always find a way to calm him down and soothe him if he needed it.
Except on the day I sold our couch to the two men, and I had the word “leukemia” ringing in my head. People with Downs can be ten to twenty times more likely to develop Leukemia than most other people. That is something the doctors often fail to mention to families who have members with Downs. I don’t know if it is because they feel it will cause the family undue worry, if they think that the family already knows this, or because they do not want to deal with the emotional and psychological fallout from providing such information. Of course, not telling a family means that they might shrug off a family member’s night sweats or unusual chronic fatigue and weakness as being something else. For example, the symptoms might be attributed to someone suffering grief from the loss of their grandmother and father. Many families find out about the higher risk of leukemia once leukemia has encroached upon what was once a very happy life.
It was acute, the leukemia. And we were treated by the doctors as though this was something we should have expected, even been anticipating, so that we would have spotted the symptoms sooner. There were many things that I could say about my disappointment with Ila’s health care. About her doctors and their lack of empathy and thoroughness in making sure we understood her particular challenges and health needs that were different from other teens in her age range who did not have Downs. In the end, it didn’t really matter what we did or didn’t understand about leukemia. Cancer didn’t kill my sister. A massive infection—a “complication”—following a surgery to remove her spleen is what took her from us. Unlike the many times I had gone into surgeries and woken up to my disappointed parents, crying over my bed, Ila simply never woke up after surgery. We had to cry and hope that somehow, she would know how much we would miss her.
Going through the catalog of hugs shared with Noe in my memory, that is the only time I remember squeezing him back and not having him pull away.
Do You Want to Live or Exist?
Peter’s crossed eyes looked enormous behind the reading glasses that were obviously made for someone with very poor eyesight. His tongue sticking out like a happy dog and his waggling head made him look even more ridiculous. Laughing at his ridiculous display—because it was funny—but also to keep from remembering how we had held each other on my bed an hour before, my laugh seemed to echo off of the walls of the cavernous pharmacy. Luckily, the two of us were the only customers present in the pharmacy so late at night, so there was no one to shoot me a worried or judgmental look. Peter cycled through a variety of increasingly ridiculous expressions for a few seconds, each one drawing laughter from me. Finally, he stopped smiling and stood up straight, his head tilting back so that his nose stuck haughtily in the air as he surveyed me from the other side of the display.
“Do these make me look sexy?” He asked in a grave tone, as though my response would decide my fate.
“Surprisingly, they do nothing to hide how handsome you are.” I was blushing again, though I was smiling too widely at his previous displays to want to hide it from him.
“Just as I suspected.” He waggled his head haughtily. “I must buy a pair for every day of the week.”
“Stop.” I chuckled.
Peter removed the reading glasses with a grin and a wink, then returned them to their place on the display.
“I guess the pharmacy is a happening place to be on a weeknight, huh?” He winked.
“Oh, yes.” I gave an exaggerated nod. “The clubs are worried that the pharmacies will soon take away all of their business. As soon as they put in a bar and a dance floor—”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I am ridiculous?” I laughed.
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“That’s not an argument.” Peter teased. “And it doesn’t change the fact that you’re ridiculous either way. So, if you were trying to defend yourself, you failed miserably.”
“You are infuriating.” The smile that came to my face, and my tone did not match the words that came out of my mouth. “Frustrating!”
“It’s one of my many talents.”
“Should I ask about your other talents?” I teased.
“Do you want the naughty ones or the family-friendly ones?”
“Hm.” I looked up at the ceiling and pretended to consider this. “Tell me the family-friendly ones first, I suppose.”
/> “Well,” Peter leaned forward, folding his arms on top of the display to bring his face closer to mine. I did not move away, and had to keep myself from leaning in to put my face right next to his, “I’m a decent cook. I’m particularly proud of my mac and cheese from a box. I’m kind to animals and children that don’t annoy me too much. I’m an exceptional typist. I rarely, if ever, trip over my own feet—no more than once a week. I’ve only burned my tongue on hot pizza a few dozen times in my life—so, super smart. I tip more than is required in restaurants and never stop in the middle of the sidewalk without moving to the side. I let people get off of the elevator before I try to get on. I read a book a week, so that proves how exciting I am. And…I’m a good snuggler.”
My grin told him all he had to know.
“I like macaroni from the box. And reading is really cool.” I said.
“We were meant to be together.”
For some reason, my cheeks felt very hot.
That was the reason we were in the pharmacy. After I had finished crying on my bed in my apartment, with Peter snuggling up next to me, we silently got off of the bed and left. We didn’t hold hands as we walked away from my apartment. Peter’s hands were in his pockets, and my hands were in my own. In silence, we walked along the empty streets of the city, in and out of pools of light created by streetlamps, letting what just happened sink into our brains. When we had been walking for what seemed like forever, Peter had spotted the all-night pharmacy and suggested we go inside to warm up and “maybe get a snack.” I couldn’t exactly say “no” to either activity. Being warm and eating were two of my favorite things.
“I mean…” Peter started to correct himself, then seemed to think better of it, “…no. That’s what I meant. I think.”
“You think?”
“That’s what I think if it doesn’t upset you.” He smiled tightly. “If it bothers you, I was only teasing.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I answered quicker than I should have.
That made my blush deepen, and Peter’s tight smile turn into a grin.
“What are your talents?” Peter asked gently, not removing his arms from the display. “Family-friendly or the naughty ones. Your choice.”
“Well, I do not know what my naughty talents are.” I shrugged impishly. “Yet. But I am a decent cook, too. I am proud of my instant noodles. I am kind to children and animals, too. Even if they annoy me. I love to read, though I probably read more than a book a week. So, I am much cooler than you are. I have discovered that cold pizza solves the problem of burning your tongue. I trip over my own feet at least twice a day, though I have only made myself bleed a few times. And…I like to write.”
“You write?”
“When I have time.”
“Anything I can read?”
“No,” I answered too quickly again and had to correct myself. “I mean, I would be embarrassed. Nobody has ever read my writing except for teachers.”
“What do your teachers think?”
“It depends on the teacher.” I shrugged.
“What do you write about?”
“Life.”
“Is most of what you write sad or happy?”
“It is both, I guess?”
“Life is both, right?”
“Right. And I have only ever written in French, so—”
“I might struggle to read it?”
“Yes.”
“You speak English very well.”
“My accent is horrible.”
“It’s charming.”
“I wouldn’t write in English well.”
“I think you would.”
“What do you know?”
“I know you would write well in English if you tried.” He said. “I think you do anything you decide you’re going to do.”
“How do you think I became such a good Instant Noodle chef?”
“Enzo…” Peter trailed off again.
“Yes?” I wasn’t going to wait this time.
“You make me happy I came to Montreal.” He said. “Even if it was for work.”
“I am happy you came to Montreal for work, too.”
“Have you ever kissed anyone?” He asked suddenly, his cheeks looking flushed suddenly. “I know you haven’t…but have you ever kissed anyone?”
“No.” I breathed the word.
“Why?”
“I have never met anyone I have wanted to kiss before.”
“What about now?” He asked gently. “Have you met someone now?”
“Yes.” I breathed that word, too.
It was if I could not stop my tongue from telling the truth around Peter. Never before in my life had I spoken to someone so openly, unguardedly, and without caution. If I had been in possession of top government secrets and he had asked, I would have told him without hesitation. Maybe I had lied to Peter at The Lazy Duck. It was possible that I was a dangerous person at times.
Peter cleared his throat.
“This is unfair.”
“What?” I asked, shaken by the sudden change in his tone.
“That we only have tonight.” He replied sadly. “It actually physically hurts me to think that tonight will end.”
He laid a hand against his chest.
“I do not like that thought, either.”
Peter sighed, then suddenly he was out of sight, crouching next to the display on his side. When he popped back up, he held two packages of M&Ms in his hands, a wicked grin on his face.
“Snacks.” He said simply.
“You should get Smarties,” I said. “You are in Canada.”
“Smarties?” He frowned comically. “I want chocolate.”
“They are chocolate.”
“What?” He produced comically wide eyes. “Smarties in the U.S. are these chalky disks that just taste like sugar that fruit was rubbed against.”
I laughed.
“Smarties are just like M&Ms, except the orange ones have an orange flavor. Kind of. They are all chocolate, though.”
“Why not both?” He shrugged. “I think I could eat a bag of M&Ms and a bag of Smarties.”
“Box.” I corrected him haughtily. “Smarties come in a box.”
Peter waggled his head. “Faaaaaancy.”
I chuckled as Peter searched the candy display, which was on his side of the aisle. After a few moments, he disappeared for a second again, then he rose up once more, two boxes in one hand and two bags in the other.
“Perfect.”
“If these are awful, I will be very upset with you.”
“Oh?” I folded my arms on top of the display and leaned towards him. “Will you have to punish me in some way?”
Peter’s eyes grew wide in shock, then we were both laughing nervously, our cheeks a matching shade of rose red. Quite a few moments passed with our nervous, excited laughter echoing off of the walls of the pharmacy. Just as our laughter would taper off, we would look at each other, blush again, then start laughing some more. A few minutes passed before we could look at each other without laughing hysterically, but once we had ourselves under control, we made our way to the cashier to purchase the Smarties and M&Ms. When we exited the pharmacy, the city was still cold in the wee hours of the morning, but the wind had abated, making it much more tolerable.
We walked in silence down the street from the pharmacy, putting space between us and the bright lights of the signage and that which poured from the windows onto the sidewalk outside. The city is never all that dark, even in the wee hours of the morning, simply because of all of the businesses, streetlamps, and numerous other sources of light provided by modern-day technology. However, there is something equally tranquil and sinister about the city during such hours. Fewer people out and about means more silence, especially since the tall buildings create a buffer from the sounds from one street to another. Walks through the city can be enjoyed more at night since one is not expected to return smiles and greetings, adhere to social norms, or even pretend that they care
about anyone but themselves. Without many people on the streets, though, danger seems to lurk at every corner, in every pool of shadow and dark alleyway. The experience of walking through the city at such an hour is exhilarating and frightening. It always made me feel alive.
“Where should we have our chocolate picnic?” Peter asked suddenly, interrupting my thoughts on the eerie quiet of the street.
“Anywhere.” I smiled. “The city is ours, yes?”
“True.” He gave me a glancing smile as he gestured across the street. “How about there?”
“Parc La Fontaine?”
“Sure,” He said. “I mean, if that’s what it’s called.”
I laughed.
“La Fontaine Park is closed,” I explained. “People will not be allowed back inside until six o’clock, Peter. We will have to find another place to have our…picnic.”
“Don’t you want to be dangerous in a way that doesn’t hurt?” He dared me with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“But—”
“Who is going to keep us out of there?”
“There are fences.”
Peter gave me an incredulous look.
“Okay.” I relented. “A fence is not sufficient. But…what if we get caught?”
“I’m an American who wanted to see the park,” Peter said, lacing an arm through mine and pulling me in the direction of the park. “You thought it would be a shame if I did not get to see it on my last night in Montreal. You were really just doing a service for city tourism. If all else fails, say I begged you.”
I chuckled.
“No one would believe that.”
“You’d be surprised what people will believe when they do not want to offend tourists and their money.”
“Maybe.”
“So?” Peter stopped in the middle of the empty street to stare at me. “Are we going to be dangerous? Do you want to live? Or do you want to exist?”