Carry the Ocean

by Heidi Cullinan

  “Because I have autism.”

  I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. I’m pretty sure I stared, possibly with my mouth open. “You—you’re autistic?” I bit my tongue before I could add, you can’t be. Something was off about him, yes, but…autism? Weren’t autistics unable to speak, unable to touch people?

  Emmet kept staring at the tree. “Yes. I have autism spectrum disorder. My brain is wired differently than most people’s. But it’s not like depression where they think it’s about monoamines. It manifests as social disorder and in how my body behaves, my mannerisms. I’m intelligent, more so than most people, but I have a hard time interacting with others. So most people act like there’s something wrong with me, that I’m stupid.”

  Which is basically what I’d done. I felt awful. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. They’re the ones missing out.” He paused again, but this time I was pretty sure he was working out what to say, not waiting because he felt he was supposed to. “I was hoping you’d want to be friends with me.”

  I remembered he’d said he’d been wanting to meet me for a long time. I realized he’d worked up the courage to introduce himself to me, as if I were someone people clamored to get to know. The thought made me feel wonderful and self-conscious at once. “I’m not interesting. I…don’t have many friends.”

  “Me either.” He turned his face so he almost looked at me, and he held out his hand. “What do you think? Should we give friendship with each other a whirl?”

  I stared at his hand, unsure of what to do with it. Confused, flattered, terrified, and above all hypnotized, I put my hand in his. When he squeezed my fingers, a thrill raced through me.

  For the first time since my meltdown, I wasn’t thinking about how to make the world stop, how to escape the failure that was my life. I thought about Emmet Washington, and physicists, and autism, and monoamines.

  I thought about what it would be like, being Emmet’s friend.

  Chapter Three

  Emmet

  I was thrilled with how well meeting Jeremey had gone. I’d worried his panic attack was a bad sign, but even that had worked out. Jeremey was everything I’d hoped and more.

  I felt bad, though, that he had depression and his parents weren’t helping him with therapy. I worried about him leaving for college in the fall, with no friends to help him.

  It wasn’t fall yet, though. We’d exchanged cell numbers, and I already had an appointment in my calendar to text him in the morning and arrange a date. Except Jeremey made an appointment to text me first.

  I was working some math problems at 9:18 p.m. when my phone buzzed. It was the single buzz that meant someone new had texted me, which meant it might also be spam. Usually I ignore those and let my dad sort them out because once the spam was bad and it upset me. But then I remembered I hadn’t assigned Jeremey a vibration pattern or set up his contact at all beyond his name and number. That was unusual for me, and I don’t do anything unusual.

  Jeremey was not usual to me.

  I hummed for a minute and rocked in my chair while I tried to decide what to do.

  Here’s the thing about my brain—it acts like an octopus, my mom says. This is another metaphor, but unlike the spoons, I understand this one. I don’t actually have a mollusk inside my skull, but part of my brain acts like one. It sits quiet until something pokes it, and then it puts tentacles all over and makes me feel nervous. I don’t like this metaphor. An octopus on your brain is bad, even a pretend one, but Mom says we can’t take it out without hurting me, so I live with an octopus. It’s gross, but I can’t change it. So I hum to it and rock and flap my hands.

  I had to do everything—hum, rock and flap—until 9:23 p.m. I wanted to talk to Jeremey, but I couldn’t know if it was Jeremey until I looked to see if it said Jeremey Samson or unknown or nasty bad spam. I could ask my mom, but she would want to talk, and I didn’t want to talk to her right now. I wanted this to be my thing, with Jeremey. No Mom, Dad or Althea.

  If it is bad spam, I will ask for the foam hammer to bang on my bed with, I promised the octopus, and that worked. I flipped over my phone and touched the home button.

  I saw Jeremey’s name and number appear in the preview notification with the word hi.

  Now I hummed because I was happy. I unlocked the phone with my fingerprint, and when I opened the text app, I laughed. There was my text to myself, my joke I’d sent when I’d entered my number into his phone and sent a text so I’d have his number in mine.

  Hello Emmet, this is yourself from Jeremey’s phone. It was still funny. I tell good jokes.

  I wanted to text back, but first I filled out his contact information and gave him a vibration pattern so I would know it was him when he texted next time. I gave him the heartbeat pattern because he made my heartbeat go funny, and because I wanted him to be my boyfriend. You use hearts for boyfriends. Or girlfriends, if you’re not gay or if you’re lesbian.

  I hoped Jeremey was gay. I wished I could ask him, but Dr. North and my parents all told me with serious faces I could not ask people that right away. It is something I don’t understand. If it’s natural and okay to be homosexual, why is it such a big deal to ask if someone is or not? Except they tell me it’s because of the people on the TV and in the bad churches. Their hearts are sick, which they can fix but they usually don’t want to. It’s dangerous to be around them. They project hate onto people they don’t understand, and it can hurt me and other gay people. Some countries kill gay people.

  I’m glad I live in Iowa, not those countries, and I’m glad our church is not a bad one. Iowa is a good state with lots of equality. It has same-sex marriage and had the first female lawyer and said people of different skin colors could get married to each other before the Civil War happened. Iowa is a good place. Some people here still have sick hearts, but most people are okay.

  I worried if Jeremey was okay. I would need to use the foam hammer for a long time if he had a sick heart.

  I was done entering Jeremey’s contacts, so I texted him.

  Hello Jeremey. This is Emmet. You don’t need to say it’s you in a text, but I prefer to. I like the way it looks, as if I’m there in the words. I’m glad you texted me.

  He didn’t text back right away, but I was patient because he might have had to go to the bathroom, or his bedtime might be earlier than mine. But I didn’t wait long before I felt the heartbeat vibration in my hand.

  Thank you for introducing yourself today. I enjoyed meeting you.

  The text made me smile. Not as big as when he wanted to be my friend, but it was still a nice stretch on my face. I hummed as I replied. I would like to meet you tomorrow. What activities do you enjoy? What time are you free?

  I wanted to see Jeremey tomorrow. I had several open spaces in my schedule. It could work.

  He replied again. I don’t have anything going on. Wide open.

  I hesitated as I tried to understand what was wide open. Before I could figure it out, he texted again.

  What do you enjoy doing?

  I relaxed. I understood this question. Many things. Math is wonderful, but so are computer games. Sometimes I make computer games. Minecraft is good, but not on the server. I don’t care to shoot things in games. I like reading. I enjoy poker, but people don’t want to play poker with me.

  Why not? he texted back.

  They don’t like it when I count the cards, but it makes me nervous to play without counting.

  Huh. Well, I don’t know how to play poker anyway. I play some computer games. But I like old ones, like Pharaoh.

  I put down the phone and Googled Pharaoh computer game. You have to add computer game, or it will tell you about Ancient Egypt. I looked at the game pictures and read some reviews, then texted Jeremey. I found it online. It looks fun.

  Do you want to come over tomorrow and see it?


  Also a hard answer. Yes, I did, but I got nervous thinking about going into Jeremey’s house. I would rather he came to mine. But Pharaoh was a PC game, and I only have Apple products, because they’re better. I hummed and rocked while I tried to think of what to do.

  Jeremey texted back before I could answer. Or we can go to your house.

  That made me feel better. But I remembered Jeremey had panic attacks. Will you be nervous to come here?

  Yes, but I’m nervous all the time.

  It made me sad to think Jeremey was always nervous. His brain octopus must be bad. I wanted to say I could go to his house so he wouldn’t be nervous, but I didn’t think I could. We were stuck. I didn’t want to go back to only watching him in his yard when he mowed the lawn. If it didn’t rain, he only mowed once a week, and never in a scheduled pattern, so sometimes I missed it.

  Then I had an idea.

  We could meet at the train tracks. Whoever is less nervous will go to the other person’s house.

  Jeremey wrote back in thirty seconds. That could work. What time do you want to meet?

  I opened my calendar to my schedule. It’s always full, but the events are colored. Red events can’t be changed. Like bedtime. Yellow events mean I have to talk to my mom before I alter them. But green events are okay, and I can change them on my own. I had green events at nine, ten, eleven, one, two, three and four. I wanted to maybe use several events to be with Jeremey. So I would pick an early one. But I didn’t know if it should be morning or afternoon.

  Do you wake up early, or do you sleep late? I asked him.

  Usually I sleep late, but I can set an alarm.

  It made me feel good to think he would change his sleep schedule for me. Though he shouldn’t. Sleep was important. Let’s meet at 1 p.m. Does that work with your schedule? I am free until 5 p.m. I wanted to explain I go shopping for dinner with Althea at five, but this is extra information, and people don’t always want to know. Plus I’d have to explain Althea, and that’s not always easy.

  One o’clock sounds good. I’ll meet you at the train tracks.

  I smiled. I had a date. My first date. But then I remembered the train.

  Sometimes there is a train at 1 p.m. They have an irregular schedule, but sometimes there’s one at the time we agreed to meet. If a train comes, wait in your yard and we can meet when it’s over. You shouldn’t go too close to trains. Accidents can happen.

  Okay. I’ll watch for the train. And for you.

  My mom knocked on my door—four knocks, so I’d know it was her. “Bedtime, sweetheart.”

  She was right. My 9:50 p.m. alarm was about to go off to tell me to brush my teeth, get into pajamas, lay out tomorrow’s clothes and go to bed. I texted Jeremey. I need to get ready to sleep now. I will see you tomorrow.

  Okay. Good night. Thanks for talking with me.

  Jeremey could make me smile so much. My smile made my face stretch as I replied to him. You can text me in the morning if you want, if you don’t sleep too late. I can’t talk at noon because it’s lunchtime, but I have a vibration alert for you, and I will always know when you text me. I’ll answer unless I’m in a place inappropriate to answer a text.

  I wanted to tell him about the heartbeat vibration pattern, but it was extra information. It also would mean I would have to explain I wanted him to be my boyfriend. Which it’s too early to say out loud, even I knew that. Sometimes feelings have to wait.

  Jeremey texted back. Thank you. Maybe I will text you.

  Good night, Jeremey.

  Good night, Emmet.

  Chapter Four

  Jeremey

  Nobody ever asked me what it’s like to have depression. Not Bart, not the school guidance counselor, not our doctor, not my parents. Everyone treated me like a freak and wrote me off.

  Everyone until Emmet.

  A train did come at one when we were supposed to meet, but I could see him waiting in his yard, rocking on his heels and tapping his finger on his leg as the cars rolled by. He didn’t look at me, which still felt strange, but the truth was, sometimes when people stared at me, I felt overwhelmed and had to look away.

  I wondered if he was overwhelmed, or if with autism it was different.

  I wondered if I could ask him about it.

  When the train passed, I started down the ditch to the train tracks, and so did he. He still didn’t meet my gaze, though he glanced at me a few times. A tiny smile played around his lips.

  “Seventy-seven cars, three engines. One at the back.” Emmet wrapped his arms around himself and stood rigid, fixing his gaze over my shoulder and rocking slightly on his heels. “I’m sorry. That’s a rude way to greet someone. Hello, Jeremey. It’s good to see you again.”

  I smiled and wrapped my own arms around my body, mirroring his pose. “It’s good to see you too.”

  He seemed agitated, but when he spoke, his voice was clear and even. “It’s a nice day. Seventy-seven degrees, only seventy percent humidity. No chance of rain. I enjoy rain, but today I’m okay without it. It’s sunny, but we have an umbrella on the deck and large trees. It’s shady and comfortable. Would you like to sit outside on our deck?”

  The no eye contact wasn’t half as difficult as the wall of words he threw at me. I did my best to sift through for the question. Did I want to sit on the deck with him? I did, but it took me a minute to answer. “Yes, thank you.”

  “If you’re too nervous, we could sit on your deck. Except my mom made banana bread. Gluten free, no sugar. We use stevia. The effects of gluten on ASD are unsubstantiated, but it doesn’t hurt to cut it out in case there are hidden benefits. Sugar is inflammatory and bad for your brain and your body. Health is important and food is health. Except sometimes my dad takes me for ice cream anyway because he says fun is important for health too.” He paused and started to rock again. “I think I am giving you too much information. I’m sorry. I’m nervous. It’s hard to remember what not to say to you.”

  This, his bluntness, was what had drawn me to him yesterday, and it pulled me in just as much today. To say Emmet was honest was as understated as saying the surface of the sun was warm.

  Plus, he was cute, and I could stare at him because he wasn’t looking at me. His lips were not too thin, not too plump and a soft pink. But more than anything I liked his neck. The cords, the divots of his clavicle, his smooth skin. I worried if it was okay to think he was cute. I worried, a lot, that it made me a perv to crush on him. Then I worried it was rude not to perv on him, since he’d demonstrated clearly that autism wasn’t mental retardation.

  Though this is pretty much me in a nutshell. I worry about all the rules, and then panic because there’s no definitive answer to anything.

  I hadn’t said anything back to him. Except he wasn’t angry or agitated. Only waiting.

  I took a deep breath and replied. “I’m nervous, but I always am. It’s okay. Let’s go sit on your deck. The banana bread sounds good.”

  He relaxed. “Okay. Let’s go.” He started toward his house, but he kept talking, turning his head so I could hear. “She makes two kinds. One with walnuts and one without. I don’t care for walnuts in food. The texture is too strange. You can have whichever kind of bread you want. But she’ll probably make us have water to drink.”

  I nodded, realized he couldn’t see, since he wasn’t actually looking at me, so I said, “Okay.”

  He kept talking, explaining all the ingredients in banana bread and how different flours behaved in baking and the binding properties of egg versus gluten, and I listened, but mostly I was thinking. I’d never met anyone like Emmet. He reminded me of a guy in our class, Kyle, who had cerebral palsy. With CP sometimes there’s brain damage and sometimes there isn’t, but the physical defects made him seem different. In middle school Kyle and I were friends, but he moved away in ninth grade. Kyle wasn’t dumb any more than I w
as. But it was easy to forget that his barking laugh and strange noises and flailing hand gestures outside didn’t accurately reflect his insides.

  It’s the same with me. I’m quiet, and it’s hard for me to explain what I’m feeling, but I feel a lot of things, and I do want friends. It was tricky with Emmet, though. I usually watch people for cues to know how to behave around them, and Emmet didn’t give any. I wished I could ask him about autism, but I worried it would be rude. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  As we came onto the deck, Emmet pointed at a chair. “You sit here. I’ll put up the umbrella and tell my mom we’re ready for a snack.”

  He turned the crank on the umbrella until the canvas spread above us. He watched the crank as it turned, and I thought I heard him hum, but only once. When he was finished, however, he didn’t go inside the house. He pulled out his phone. He texted something, then put the phone on the table and sat down.

  “I’m leaving the phone out, but I’ll only answer if it’s my mom. She might have questions. Oh. Which kind of bread did you want? With the walnuts or without?”

  I had a moment of panic, trying to decide which was the right or wrong choice, but it was difficult to stay nervous when Emmet was so nonthreatening. Besides, I didn’t like walnuts either. “Without, please.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell her.” He typed another text, then pushed the phone aside. He sat on the edge of the chair, and I got the idea he was deliberately not rocking. “What should we talk about?”

  It was a simple question, but it felt like a land mine, or rather a big rushing chute, sending me down a river into waters I didn’t know how to navigate. I didn’t know what to talk about. I never did. This was going to be a disaster. I felt sweaty and uncomfortable, and I wanted to go home. Then I felt horrible for feeling that way. The dark waters pulled me harder.

  “You have hunched shoulders. You’re nervous. Did I say the wrong thing?”

  His question drew me out of the mire enough to blink in surprise. “What? No. I’m…sorry. I’m not good at this.”