Sophie's Throughway

by Jules Smith

  “No, he’s not. He loves you. I’ll see what I can do about the router but no promises,” I soothed. “Go to bed, get some rest.”

  “Get it back, I mean it.” He lifted himself from the carpet, his t shirt ripped from the brawl and raised, angry scratch marks down his arm. I winced at the sight of my child in this state.

  As he lumped himself upstairs I went into the lounge where Karl was sitting watching the news. His face was tight and his stare was way beyond the physical being of the newsreader represented on TV. He was in another place and I knew he found it unbearable. God knows I did.

  “We need to talk about this.” I sat on the edge of the sofa and clasped my hands in my lap waiting for him to reply.

  “Not now, I’m really not in the mood.”

  “Neither am I but we can’t go on like this. I can’t have you both fighting like that, its horrendous. It scares me and it scares Bryony; she was in tears.”

  Silence.

  “Please, you need to walk away from it and not react, I know it’s hard but coming back at him just provokes the situation, not help it. You are the grown up remember.”

  “Right now I couldn’t give a flying fuck about who the adult is,” he spat. “He uses Aspergers as a fucking excuse and it’s not. I want him out of this house. I cant live like this anymore. He goes or I do.”

  Clearly now wasn’t the right time. Neither one of them appeared to be rid of their ‘ego humungous’. But when was the right time?

  “I get it. I know it’s difficult not to react but what happened earlier isn’t going to work. Your son hates you, he believes you hate him, he’s got scratches on his arm…”

  “Yeah where I was holding him by his shirt when he threw himself to the ground. I didn’t hurt him Sophie, is that what you think? I just stopped him from pushing his weight around.”

  “Whatever. It’s still not right,” I continued, “and he wants the router back. You should have warned him before you just took it away. That’s what we’ve been told to do. To give warnings. Three chances.”

  “I don’t care what we’ve been told to do by these psycho babbling, hippy-fied, do-gooders who have no comprehension of what we live with everyday. That child needs to get a grip and learn to respect the rules of this house or get out.”

  He snatched the remote and killed the newsreader mid sentence. I waited like a berated child, wondering if he was still going to talk or not. He threw the TV control on the sofa and without even looking at me, said, “I’m going to bed,” and left the room.

  I felt depleted, angry and useless. I didn’t cry very often but the sobs came involuntarily, like exorcised demons. I stayed, head in hands, until they finally abated.

  ***

  On the day Karl left he stood on the threshold like a man torn in half. A man on the crossroads of choice; neither being a road he wished to travel down. Though tall and stocky he appeared as a weak and shattered resemblance of his former self. I didn’t believe he would actually go but the fighting and the strain of our day to day life had triumphed over any shred of love that was left.

  “I’ll miss you and I’ll always love you,” he whispered. As his eyes looked up from his bent head, they were filled with tears.

  I gripped the Victorian radiator in the hallway, hoping that the heat burning through the enamel into my hand would somehow deaden the sickening pain that was threatening to engulf my entire being.

  “I know.” I replied, “I know.”

  Chapter 4

  Nearly six weeks had passed by since Karl’s departure and though it was hard to maintain my job and a structured, non deviating, Aspergers friendly regime at home, I’d managed to make it so far. Brendon had become more tyrannical than ever insisting that he was now ‘man of the house.’ He played the role of despot a little too well and had taken to telling Bryony what she could and couldn’t do.

  I had found it difficult to sleep, what with the break up and the work load and my appearance was suffering. The heady days of waking up fresh faced and dewy eyed were a thing of the past: it was more like sallow skinned and bad hair day 24/7. I made the decision to have my long hair cut off into a short bob that just tucked neatly behind my ears and was easy to get done at 6.30 in the morning. I wasn’t sure whether I had done this because it made life simpler or I was reinventing myself as a single woman, trying to be in charge of her life. The new look did not go down very well with Brendon. Aspergers and change do not walk down the same street.

  “You look like a lesbian,” he said blank faced as he looked at me, “I hate it and I don’t want to look at you.” He walked off to his computer desk to avoid me.

  “Really. That’s nice.” I shouted after him. “And exactly what do lesbians look like?”

  “Like that.” He turned and nodded in my direction without making eye contact.

  “Well good for lesbians, for they are clearly the most beautiful and stylish women on the planet. I don’t like the way you pigeon hole people Brendon, we have discussed this and it’s wrong.” I followed him through to his computer station.

  “Whatever fam.” He turned on his screens and began to load World Of Warcraft, League of Legends and Facebook simultaneously.

  “How would you like it if someone said, ‘You look autistic or you must be like Rain Man?”

  “What? Who’s Rain Man?”

  “Never mind. The point is that you’re not and you are an individual. That’s how you should treat everyone.” I pressed.

  “Mother, I really don’t care what people think of me, so can you please desist from nagging like a fishwife and leave me to my guild.” He sat down, put on his noise reduction headphones and began to type and Skype to his warrior friends.

  I left him to go and make dinner and hoped that every time I said these things they were actually sinking in.

  “Your hair looks lovely,” Bryony appeared in her ‘Girl Power’ onesy. She was beautiful. Frighteningly so. Although only fourteen she looked much older and stood at 5’7″ with a figure that belonged in glossy magazines.

  “Thank you, angel.” I hugged her tight. I was mindful to give her as much attention as possible since Brendon demanded the majority of it. We cooked lasagne together and chatted about boys and homework and Justin Bieber. I was very careful to remain positive on this subject despite thinking he was a precious little diva.

  I served the portions of lasagne and poured myself a well deserved glass of Rioja and spent the next three minutes removing every trace of mushroom from Brendon’s food. He hated them passionately and if one was to be present on his plate, the whole dinner would have been ditched.

  “Bren, your dinners ready,” shouted Bryony as she set the table with knives and forks.

  Brendon was a world away. A virtual, sword wielding, spell making world away.

  “What the fuck are you doing man? You noob, Tom! Focus Katarina…I’m going in…have you got ult?…” he was shouting directions to his team members through his mic. I sighed and wandered through to his room and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “DINNER.”

  He pulled his headphones to one side. “You’ll have to bring it here I’m in an instance. Thanks Mommy, I love you, you’re the best.” He returned to his virtual world and I brought his dinner to the Starship Enterprise. Some things weren’t worth an argument.

  Once we had eaten Bryony scurried away to snapchat her friends whilst I slumped on the sofa with my iPad and some background TV. I clicked on the word game app on my tablet. I’d been playing an online scrabble game for a good year whenever I got a spare minute. I loved it and it kept me focussed and distracted from my reality. I had a few friends on there and some random players that I’d played with for some time. They were a nice bunch, mostly from the States since I tended to play in the evening or when I couldn’t sleep at night. I only had about five games so I decided to get another opponent as the others didn’t seem to be in speedy, play mode. I pressed random play and a new game appeared.

 
My opponent was called ‘The Voice’

  S P T G E O D were my letters. Despot, I could play despot. How wildly appropriate.

  SOPHISTICATED played Despot for 12 points.

  My word appeared on the virtual board with a musical tring.

  After one glass of wine and an hour of the History channel my body was giving up the will to function and the soft downs of my huge empty bed were beckoning. I got up and went to fetch a glass of water and noticed that Brendon was still playing online.

  “Brendon, it’s past 11, you should go to bed now it’s school tomorrow.” I stood at his side, repeatedly yawning.

  “I’m not going - it’s French and I hate French. The only good thing about it is my teachers fit and has an awesome pair of… you know, she has a very pleasant personality Mother!” he finished with a wicked grin.

  I heard the cackle of pubescent boys through the Skype channel at the thought of Miss Frenchy’s upper assets.

  “You’re going,” I insisted. “Besides, I’m coming in for your weekly review with Mrs. Armitage in the morning.”

  “Oh God, another wasted hour of my life.”

  “Bed.” I left the room and made my way upstairs, desperate for sleep.

  I slipped into the sheets and shivered. The huge, super-king sized bed was so cold with just me inside. I reached down to the floor and retrieved my hairdryer where it had been tossed after drying my lesbian haircut earlier. I turned it on underneath the sheets to warm them up until I got the temperature to a point where I knew I could maintain it with my own body heat and went to switch off my bedside lamp.

  My mobile phone pinged. I sighed, hoping I wasn’t going to have to enter into some lengthy texting session with someone. It was a notification from my word game to say someone had played.

  The Voice had left me a chat message. They hadn’t played a word yet, just left some text. I opened the little green chat bubble and read:

  THE VOICE: Despot. Is that the best you can do?

  Chapter 5

  I was rudely awoken by Bob Marley and his three little birds pulsating through the house at 8.11 am. I never realised that Bob had the vocal ability to make a house shudder.

  “Shit!” Realising how late I was, I unwrapped myself from my warm cocoon and scurried downstairs.

  “Turn that down!” I shouted to Brendon who looked like he hadn’t even moved from the Starship Enterprise where I’d left him last night. “Did you go to bed?”

  “Nah, got caught up in a battle, I’ll go in a bit bro.”

  “ERRR, we’ve got to be at school in 45 minutes so NO. How stupid. Get ready now!” I stormed out to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. Bryony arrived downstairs, make up expertly donned, hair in a messy concoction of gorgeous (which I knew would have taken ages to perfect) and her skirt rolled up to the perfect length.

  “Oh My God are you not dressed yet?” She rolled her eyes.

  “Tired. Overslept. Get yourself some cereal and get some for your brother please and there’s a fruit salad in the fridge for lunch, I’ve got to get ready.” I grabbed my tea.

  “NOW BRENDON!” I shouted as I rushed past his room.

  On route to school Brendon took his lack of sleep out on Bryony. “Why have you got all that SHIT on your face? ‘Ooh, My names Bryony and I have to follow what everybody else does because I can’t think for myself,” he mocked in a schoolgirl accent.

  “Shut up and leave her alone,” I snapped.

  Bryony stuck her middle finger up at him from the back seat.

  “Less of that!” I glared at her through the rear view mirror.

  “Do you wanna do that again?” he threatened, twisting to look at Bryony in the back seat.

  She had the sense to remain silent and I pulled up, letting her out of the car quickly near the lower school reception so she could walk with her friends. “Bye darling, see you later,” I smiled. She slammed the door and scowled at her brother through the passenger side window as she walked past, pulling at her waistband to get her skirt just so.

  “MARDY BITCH!” Brendon yelled through the window he had quickly zipped open, as we drove by her to the upper school. I gave him a stern look as I shut it from my control panel. I decided not to start an argument right then as we were just about to have his weekly review with the Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator(SENCO) on his behaviour and he was already on the edge of being more vile than usual.

  I parked up in the school car park and made my way to the reception of Hillfields School to the lady on the desk as Brendon skipped through school via a shortcut.

  “Hello Ms. Rhodes. For Mrs. Armitage?” She knew that’s exactly who I was here to see because I came at the same time every week. Plus those additional days when Brendon had one of his episodes and would neither leave the school premises or attend a lesson and I was called in to assist in his removal or calm him down by phone.

  “That’s right.” I filled in my visitors pass for the umpteenth time and made my way up to the BASE unit. The BASE was a retreat area for kids with special educational needs or behavioural issues that needed time out or had scheduled sections of their day there. Brendon had right of access as and when and would go there when he felt like it because Brendon made his own rules.

  I walked in to BASE to see him, coat still on and slumped at a desk with his head down in his folded arms. Janice Armitage was sitting next to him ready with her pen and papers and going through some notes.

  “He didn’t go to bed last night.” I said, just so she was aware that he was likely to be hideous today.

  “Are you OK?” she smiled and put her head to one side as she looked up at me.

  “Getting there.” I pulled a chair out from the opposite desk and sat down.

  “Right, well I’ve got the weekly report on Brendon.” The report was to identify areas of both good and unacceptable behaviour. Hillfields School adopted a comments policy that rewarded ‘normal’ behaviour which I had often voiced was rather ridiculous. For one, what is normal behaviour? For Brendon, his behaviour was normal. Between us we had formulated a reward system whereby if Brendon managed to make it through the week with very few, negative written comments or no detentions then he would have extra computer time or Janice would give him chocolate treats. The reward had to be tangible to him to be worth attaining. A firm slap on the back and a “Good on ya, kiddo!” would have meant nothing.

  Mrs. Armitage pulled out the sheets of reports. The fact that there were sheets made me realise it wasn’t going to be good.

  “Unfortunately there’s been a few incidents this week, some of which we’ve talked about on the phone, so if we can just go through some of those… Mr. Locks will be joining us in a few minutes to talk about some of them.” Mr. Locks was the deputy head. He was a big jolly guy who reminded me a little of Stephen Fry. She put on her glasses and began to read:

  ‘Ms. Limson - Brendon was constantly shouting out silly words during the lesson when they should have been revising for their additional maths GCSE exam.’

  “So was Liam, so was Joe. Did they get a written comment? Err, no,” said Brendon’s voice from under his arms as he remained head down.

  “This is about you Brendon,” Mrs. Armitage replied.

  “If you re-read the sentence I think you’ll find the word “They” in it. Should give you a clue.”

  He had a point but it was trivial and we both ignored it.

  “You know I got an A in my mock exam for maths so what’s the problem?” he pushed.

  “Your behaviour,” I replied, nodding at Janice to continue. Brendon’s intelligence was never in question. He was exceptionally clever and Mrs. Armitage believed he was bordering on genius with a photographic memory. He had insisted that all the SEN teachers take an online IQ test which proved to be a mistake as his came out twenty points higher, and that (he’d said) was even when he was rushing and not concentrating. Since then, he would never deal with substitute teachers as they weren’t proper teachers in his mind
and had the inability to deal with him properly. If left in a class with a sub teacher he would find their weak point, push their boundaries and have them quitting for a job in retail within minutes. Their lack of skills in managing a child like Brendon, only fed his internal, scripted belief that they were not up to the job and he would only ever entertain senior level staff.

  We skipped through the other numerous, mildly rude and defiant comments. Whilst these would be considered unacceptable by usual standards they weren’t that bad for a child with Aspergers or PDA and it was only the really awful incidents that had to be punishable. Like the one Janice read out next:

  IT department: ‘Brendon broke into the Impero computer system for the 7th time this year. He somehow managed to close down the whole system so it could only be controlled by him and then set to printing several copies of the World Of Warcraft book from different printers around school. When asked why he had thought it was OK to do something like this he replied, “My friends can’t afford the book.” Isolation issued.’

  “Well, they can’t!” He raised his head for the first time. “That’s called being nice to my friends. You said I had to be nicer.”

  “But not by manipulating the whole school system and bringing it to a standstill,” Janice retorted.

  Mr. Locks came through the door and Brendon put his head back onto his folded arms. “Morning, morning,” he gushed, “so terribly sorry for my tardiness I’ve been dealing with another pressing matter.” He grabbed a chair and sat next to Mrs. Armitage.

  We all spoke about the incidents of the week and how severe improvements needed to be made, particularly since this was GCSE year. Janice and Mr. Locks tried to explain to Brendon how his actions, particularly with the school computers, were wholly unacceptable and how he would be serving an isolation. Isolation’s never worked well with Brendon. This particular punishment involved sitting in a room on your own all day long without any breaks or time outside. For people with Aspergers it bordered on torturous and served no purpose but to make them nastier and ten times more frustrated. Whilst I didn’t agree with isolations, I had to accept it and support the teachers in front of Brendon to form a united front.