Minutes later we’re all watching Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise play two adult brothers. Tom Cruise is Charlie Babbitt, a selfish, impatient businessman forced into taking care of his older autistic brother, Raymond, whom he hardly knows. Raymond has an amazing memory like mine, but his thing is for baseball and numbers. As the story unfolds, Charlie learns to love and admire his disabled brother. The movie is kind of like Paul’s and my relationship. Except of course that Paul has no idea I’m smart and he never will.
Speaking of Paul, he’s sitting on the couch, his arm draped comfortably over Ally’s shoulder. Her right hand rests on top of his leg.
Tim sits on the floor next to Cindy. They are a little way apart and they aren’t letting Paul or Ally notice that every so often they sneak their hands along the floor until they touch. Once touching, they grasp hands briefly, their fingers rubbing together, then quickly pull away so they won’t get caught.
Why they are trying to hide this, I don’t know. Maybe this is a requirement of Tim and Paul’s friendship, or maybe Cindy is embarrassed that Paul will find out. But I can’t stop thinking, selfishly, full of self-pity, that Ally has Paul and he has her. It’s good seeing Cindy and Tim like this. But before, I felt like part of the group, and now I’m just the fifth wheel. Who do I have? Who will I ever have? I zone out of the movie and wonder if I can survive—being alone and feeling so lonely. Again I ask myself, “Was Dad right to want to kill me? Would it be better to be out of my misery?”
Okay, shake it off, Prince Pity Party! Enough is enough already!
It’s just the way it is....
Think about better stuff....
Get a grip!
13
As if suffering through the Rain Man lovefest yesterday wasn’t enough, today is my birthday. Yaaaaaay!
It’s hard to lose the sarcasm. How can I get juiced about birthdays anymore? Today I’m fifteen years old, and I’m pretty sure this birthday is going to be exactly like birthdays fourteen and thirteen and twelve and … you get the picture.
My day started with Paul singing me his version of the Beatles’s White Album song “Birthday.” We’ve always been a Beatles-addicted family—I know all the words to all their songs. Paul’s rendition, screeching the violent-sounding guitar solos, is grating and annoying in a hilarious way. And it’s not as if Paul can help himself. He sings this song to everyone in the house on their birthday and to all his friends over the phone on their birthday, as well. And he really rocks it, ’til your ears are ringing, if not bleeding, but you almost don’t mind.
My mom brought to my school earlier today a white cake with white frosting that had red and blue and green and pink frosted balloons on it and the words “Happy Birthday, Shawn.” My Diaper-Changer William and Gorgeous-Steaming-Hot Becky, the teacher’s aides, and Mrs. Hare, the teacher, and my classmates gathered around my chair and sang “Happy Birthday.” Well, I should say that a few of the kids sang—those who wanted to and could actually sing. The rest of us just sort of sat there like we always do, lumps of mostly silent humanoid non-playas.
After the song I was, of course, unable to blow out any candles. But somehow, all the kids, led by several who tend to salivate and spit a lot when they “help,” managed to extinguish them and make my birthday wish come true—which was for the candles to go out before the smoke alarm went off.
As if we didn’t look bad enough already, we all got ugly, pointy birthday party hats attached to our skulls (Debi would have loved them). Next we had the cake.
The kids who could eat on their own scarfed down their pieces of cake and then signaled or asked for more. The kids who couldn’t feed themselves, like me, got bites spooned into their mouths. When we were finished, it looked like a cake explosion had taken place. Frosting and mashed cake covered everyone’s faces, chins, eyebrows, and pointy-hat tips. Cake on our bibs and hands and pant legs. Cake and frosting smeared into chairs and on the floor underneath. Really, it’s amazing how one little cake can spread so far when being fed to me and my special needs classmates.
Tonight, at my family party, the big surprise is when my dad shows up. This is the first time Dad’s been back here since that night he tried to … you know. I gotta admit it feels pretty weird. As he walks into the house, he hands Mom a birthday card for me, no doubt including a check for the occasion, and Mom says, “Thanks.”
Dad hugs Cindy, waves to Debi rather uncomfortably, and then holds out his hand to Paul, who shakes it. To say Paul and Dad have had a rocky relationship is putting it mildly. Paul has never been able to forgive Dad for bailing on us after I was born so messed up. But recently things have been better. Now Paul is civil to Dad and will speak to him.
Dad says to Paul, “Your mom says you are homing in on a school—maybe Stanford or U-dub.”
Paul looks at Dad, takes a quick breath, and says, “Yeah. Nothing’s for sure yet.”
“Well,” Dad says, “whatever you decide, we’re with you.”
I can see the wheels turning in Paul’s head, almost hear him self-censoring all kinds of smart-ass things he would say if their uneasy cease-fire weren’t in place.
Finally Paul smiles. “Thanks, but we’re here for Big Boy’s fifteenth, right?”
Dad smiles too. “Absolutely,” he says, adding, “Quinceañero.”
It’s fine with me if they use me to avoid their conflict. I mean, think about it, it’s really the only way I’ve ever been able to help my brother—well, other than letting him steal my girlfriend who didn’t know she was my girlfriend, but I digress.
Debi is sulking and mumbling and looking pissed because she hasn’t been able to stick with her routine tonight.
Paul tries to cheer her up. “You look nice today, Debi,” he says.
Debi smiles at Paul and says, “I like when you say dat.”
Cindy catches the vibe and, maybe trying to add on to the Debi-looks-nice theme, asks Debi if she has a boyfriend. Debi smiles even wider. “Dat’s for me to know and you to find out.” She laughs at her joke.
Mom insists that Debi join us for my birthday party, which, now that dinner is done, consists of having yet another birthday cake, after which I’ll “open” my presents. I already know that these so-called presents will be the usuals: socks, T-shirts, and bib overalls with snaps on the inseams so I can have my diaper changed easily. In other words, my birthday presents are just normal things that I need anyway, wrapped in brightly colored kiddy wrapping paper that my family “helps me” tear off.
“I like presents!” Debi says, eyeing my gifts.
“Yes,” Mom says, “presents are fun. These are for Shawn’s birthday.”
Debi looks bummed. She glances away from the presents and mumbles, “I like McDonnos.”
Dad asks, “What?”
Everyone else just ignores it.
“Happy birf-day, S-S-S-Swan,” Debi says, breaking the awkward silence.
I think, “Tanks a million Deb-o-reeno!”
When Debi spots the cake, chocolate this time, and the tub of French vanilla ice cream, her spirits seem to rise dramatically.
Everybody sings “Happy Birthday” to me and Mom cuts the cake, scoops on the ice cream, and serves each of us.
She feeds me a bite at a time, while everyone else eats too. My eyes drift to the faces around the table, everyone smiles and visits with one another, even Debi seems happy. I understand that birthdays are the one day out of a year when a person should get to feel special just for being alive.
On my birthdays I have always wondered why I was born. My parents divorced because of me. My Mom lugs me around like an overgrown baby all day. And nobody thinks that I’m anything more than a guy with the mental abilities of large zucchini squash and a broken drool switch stuck on high. But I look at these faces again, my family and Debi, and they all look so happy, truly happy to be here celebrating me.
Why can’t I just be happy too? Seriously, what the hell’s gotten into me lately? Okay, Shawn, that’s it! I mean it! B
e honest. This year doesn’t feel as much like a farce. Dad showed up. I’m still alive. I’ve had two cakes in one day. My family cares about me enough to be happy that I was born, glad that I’m here with them. Plus I have new socks. I really like new socks!
Is this your life, Shawn?
Yer damned straight it is!
Cheer up!
Get a flippin’ clue, dude!
Some things never change … then again some things do!
14
Yes, things are changing. Debi and Rusty have been living here for three weeks. Rusty hasn’t eaten me, and life with them has started to feel … normal?
“Normal” isn’t right, because I don’t think it’s possible to have a “normal” life with me in the house. At least not like the homes of families I see on TV. But weird as we might be, Debi and Rusty coming here has juiced up our lives. They have changed us, and we’re living a new definition of “normal.”
Debi has a routine: She gets up every morning, Monday through Friday, makes her bed, and makes her own lunch for school. Debi is a stickler for putting her laundry away. Mom says that Debi’s bedroom is by far the tidiest spot in the house.
Each morning Debi unloads the dishwasher without being asked. Unfortunately, a couple days ago, Mom hadn’t run the dishwasher the night before, so the dishes were still dirty; Debi put them away anyway. After her chores, she sits on the little bench in the entryway and waits for her white, square paratransit bus to take her to “schoo.” The same bus brings her back home at around four. To be honest, I’m glad I don’t have to take that bus. It doesn’t look to me anything like a high-end limo service.
On weekends Debi hangs out in the basement and plays her favorite movie over and over and over again. She calls this movie The Sound of the Music and she’s watched it, and this is not an exaggeration, two times each Saturday and two more times each Sunday every weekend since she moved in. And she plays it LOUD! My main sitting spot upstairs is right above a heat vent that carries the sound. So I’ve heard “Doe, a deer, a female deer; ray, a drop of golden sun” and every other line from every other song twelve times over the last three weeks. I have no reason to believe I won’t hear it another four times every weekend for the rest of our lives together. One word: torture.
Yesterday when Debi returned from school, Mom noticed something odd in her appearance. “Debi,” Mom asked, “are you hiding something under your coat?”
Debi said, “No hiding … it okay.”
Mom approached her and said, “I need to see what you have, honey.” Mom gently pulled Debi’s coat open. Stuffed into the arms of the coat and under her shirt, down the front of her pants, and even into her bra, were plastic bags. Mom helped her pull them out, counting as she went: twenty-eight, ranging from the small, lightweight bags they give you at supermarkets to carry your apples to the larger ones you get when they ask “Will that be paper or plastic?” Apparently Debi is the unofficial plastic bag collector for the North Neighborhood Community Center.
“What are all these for?” Mom asked Debi.
Debi didn’t answer right away. “I need dem.”
Mom asked, “What for?”
Debi said, “To go with me … my bed.”
“Your bed?” Mom asked.
“Under,” Debi answered.
Mom followed Debi downstairs and twenty minutes later came back upstairs carrying a huge armful of plastic bags, hundreds and hundreds of them, some covered in dust bunnies and all of them mashed together, wrinkled up into a giant ball. Debi must have been bringing them home every day.
Cindy said sarcastically, “Well, everybody needs a hobby.”
Mom gave Cindy a dirty look, but Debi said, “Yeth, hoppy good,” and laughed.
Mom said, “There isn’t enough space in your bedroom, Debi, for so many of these bags. We’ll have to get rid of a few.”
Debi kind of nodded and mostly just stared at the floor.
But the plastic bag collection wasn’t all Mom found. While pulling out the bags, Mom also discovered twenty-three library books, ranging from kids’ picture books to three volumes, A, B, and D, of the World Book encyclopedia.
Mom asked, “Do you have a library card?”
Debi answered, “It okay … don’t need.”
Debi somehow managed to steal all these books, getting them through the book detector machines at the downtown public library during field trips there with her Learning Skills group.
Mom said, “Actually, Debi, you need to check books out when you borrow them from the library.”
Debi said, “No, they free.”
Mom said, “They’re free to borrow, Debi.”
Debi answered, “No borrow … keep ’em … I like ’em.”
Mom sighed and said, “No, Debi, we have to return these.”
“Dat okay,” Debi said. “Dey got more.”
I’m not sure Mom’s efforts to explain to Debi the concept of a lending library made a lot of sense to Debi, but in the end she said, “It okay, Linny … I okay.”
Like I said, our family is making a new normal because of Debi.
And Rusty is part of this too. Rusty has become the family dog. Well, more truthfully, Paul’s dog, although Debi doesn’t seem to mind or notice. Rusty and Paul wrestle all over the house with Rusty barking and wagging his tail, jumping and scratching and biting Paul in ways that leave little red streaks on his arms and hands but never break the skin. Paul gives as good as he gets, tossing Rusty off him and slapping him around in ways that make Rusty more and more excited and playful.
Paul has Rusty trained really well. They can be fighting, rolling around, looking like they might kill each other, and then Paul just says, “Rusty, sit,” with a certain tone in his voice. Immediately, Rusty will plant his butt on the floor. If Paul commands, “Stay,” he can walk away and Rusty won’t budge. When Paul says, “Okay,” Rusty will come running back up to him, wagging his tail.
Paul has even trained Rusty not to attack and bite the wheels of my wheelchair anymore. From his very first day here, the dog has thought of my wheelchair as a dangerous satanic object that requires constant monitoring and attention. Despite Paul’s training, whenever Rusty comes into a room where I am, he dips his head low, staring with scary intensity at my beautiful chrome ride; sometimes the fur on his neck puffs up and he lets out a low growl. I wish I could explain to him, “Hey Rusty, I don’t like this wheelchair any more than you do.”
Actually, I’m still scared of Rusty. Even though he’s average size—I heard Cindy say fifty-five pounds—he’s so strong and powerful. If he wanted to hurt me, he could do it easily. So far he hasn’t mistaken my leg as part of the evil enemy wheelchair—so far.
15
Debi came home from “schoo” yesterday and announced to Mom, “I no friends with B-B-B-Barbara no more.”
Mom said, “Did something happen at school today?”
“Yeth,” Debi answered.
Mom asked, “Did you and Barbara quarrel?”
“No me,” Debi answered, “J-J-J-Janeth.”
“Janet and Barbara quarreled?”
“Yeth … no quarry … hit and bite.”
Mom asked, “But you didn’t hit or get involved?”
“No tanks,” Debi answered.
Mom said, “Well that’s good, sweetie. You just be nice to everyone and they’ll be nice to you, right?”
“Yeth,” Debi answered, but I’m not sure she really accepted Mom’s logic. Truthfully, I’m never sure how much Debi gets or doesn’t get out of any conversation.
Thinking about Debi, I wonder about her seeing her two classmates hit and bite each other. No matter what advice Mom gives her, Debi is pretty much defenseless. If you think about that word, it’s pretty heavy. Defenseless. It never means “less defense.” It means no defense. When a person is defenseless, it means that he can’t defend himself at all, right?
Sometimes I get scared that I’m defenseless, too. Debi is slow, but at least she can run a
way or yell or hit back if someone is bothering her. When you look at me, you’d think I am completely defenseless. And technically my only defenses are my central nervous system, the automatic part of my brain—the kind of defenses no one ever thinks about. If I never blinked, my eyes would quickly dry out and I’d become blind, but my eyes blink when they need to; if something like a fly or a gnat gets near them, my eyelids do their job. I also breathe, sleep, awaken, swallow, wiggle, shift positions, stretch, yawn, laugh, excrete, and dream. In these supersimple ways, my body takes care of itself. Also, it’s not like I’m paralyzed; I feel sensations of touch like pain and pleasure and I react to these feelings. When the doctor hits my knee with his little rubber hammer, my lower leg kicks. If you grab me by my arm and squeeze too tight, I’ll cry out. I can’t will my body to do what I say, but my body wills me to do what it says.
We consider old people and babies as being defenseless, but if you think about it, most everyone in the world can easily become defenseless. Swim in the ocean and get eaten by a great white shark. Jump from an airplane 150 times for fun, and on the 151st jump, your parachute and your backup chute both fail. While walking into your house from the mailbox on a cloudy day, you get struck by a bolt of lightning. If you think of it that way, we’re all always at risk at some time or another. And either by chance or bad luck or even by just living long enough to get old and weak, every one of us ends up defenseless. It just so happens I’m like this all the time.
As I sit in the family room by my window, my head happens to shift and Rusty comes into focus. He’s lying on the floor in what has become the regular spot for him, the passage between the family room and the kitchen, where Mom is cleaning up. I see Debi in the background, out of focus, waiting for her bus. Paul and Cindy have already taken off for school.
Life Happens Next Page 4