The Shortest Way Home

by Juliette Fay

  R

  He smiled at this, thinking of receiving news of her ongoing furniture crises at an Internet café in some decrepit third world city. He wouldn’t be around to do the actual moving, of course, but he could badger her until she found someone else to help. Someone with a strong back . . . maybe whoever she was with tonight . . .

  Don’t be an idiot, he told himself, and responded:

  Doran Furniture Removal, always at your service, ma’am.

  S

  CHAPTER 32

  After breakfast the next morning, Aunt Vivvy went out to the backyard and slowly snipped at an overgrown bush of some kind, while George patrolled the perimeter of the property as if she were on duty at a maximum security prison. Sean had second thoughts about his aunt’s using the pruning shears, but he knew George would get his attention if things went awry.

  He went into the den, powered up Deirdre’s laptop, and opened up Rebecca’s e-mail again. He clicked through to the Web sites on sensory integration, sometimes called sensory processing disorder. It was described as a neurological dysfunction in processing information from the five senses: taste, touch, smell, sound, and sight. Though doctors had been noting and theorizing about the symptoms for approximately forty years, it had only recently coalesced into a definitive condition—one which the medical community was still coming to terms with.

  In the “Sensory Modulation” section, Sean found Kevin.

  This group over- or underresponded to sensory input, meaning that they might experience a normal sound as too loud or not loud enough, a neutral food to be terrible-tasting or tasteless. The input was the same, but the person’s neurons weren’t making sense of it at the appropriate level. There was a checklist with symptoms that included:

  “Uncomfortable being touched, especially if unexpected . . . avoids certain materials or fabrics . . . distressed by sock seams or clothing tags . . . needs heavy blankets to sleep . . . repeatedly touches objects that are soothing . . .”

  Sean thought of Kevin’s stubborn refusal to wear the latex gloves at Cormac’s Confectionary, and how he now always seemed to have his hand in George’s fur.

  “Excessively bothered by normal sounds like loud laughter or lawn-mowing . . .”

  Lawn-mowing, thought Sean, slumping in shame. Jesus Christ.

  “Overreacts to bad smells, such as bathrooms, but also to an overabundance of pleasant smells such as perfume or food . . .

  “May seem intensely stubborn or easily upset about small things . . .”

  “Tends to prefer being alone rather than risking the discomfort of sensory overload . . .”

  It was Kevin to a T.

  Sean had a thought and went upstairs to Kevin’s bedroom. There were no fewer than seven blankets on the kid’s bed. Sean opened the dresser drawers—there were pairs of underwear, shorts, pants, T-shirts . . . but no socks. There was not one pair of socks anywhere in the room. Evidently Kevin did not wear socks, a fact that Sean had completely overlooked. He pulled out shirts and underwear. Each and every one had had its tag carefully snipped out. In fact, there was a pair of scissors sitting on the dresser, apparently kept there for just that purpose.

  Sean sat down on the heavily blanketed bed. He wondered what it was like to feel as if you were under assault by things that everyone else thought were normal. And to have no one to talk to about it.

  Sadness hit Sean like a body slam. But it quickly turned to anger. Why had no one been there for Kevin? Had his teacher, Ms. Lindquist, seen this and done nothing? What about Deirdre or his aunt? There were things that would have helped—Hugh’s soothing music, for one. But there were many other suggestions for helping an overly sensitized child learn to manage the perceived mayhem around him. Why had no one helped Kevin?

  Sean glanced out the bedroom window and saw Aunt Vivvy sitting on the wrought-iron gardening bench in the backyard. He went down to the kitchen, filled two glasses with water and brought them out, sat down next to her, and handed her a glass.

  She took a sip. “It’s summer,” she said with a hint of disgust.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Only with regard to pruning,” she responded drily, “properly conducted in the early spring or late fall.”

  “At least you only did one bush.”

  “Which has now been carelessly thrown into biological confusion.”

  Sean wondered how she could find such compassion for plants when she evidenced so little for other living things that had actual feelings.

  “It’s happening more and more, isn’t it?” he said.

  “You tell me. I’m hardly aware of it.”

  “What does it feel like when you are?”

  She stared fiercely at the newly shorn bush. “It’s much like when you’re falling asleep and a dream begins. You know you’re lying in bed, but then you sense that you’re being pulled toward some greater reality. And you go.”

  A trickle of sympathy hydrated his parched anger toward her, and he reached over and took her hand. She quickly disengaged it. “The only unpleasantness is when you return and see that everyone is staring at you and behaving as if you were a hallucinating child.”

  He put his hand back in his lap. “I need to ask you about Kevin.”

  She sighed. “Proceed.”

  He summarized the information he’d learned about sensory processing, and what he’d noticed about Kevin’s difficulties. “How long has he been avoiding socks?”

  “Since he was old enough to pull them off.”

  “That young? Did Hugh know about it?”

  “Know about it? How could anyone within a quarter mile miss the crying and screaming? ‘No sock! No sock!’ Practically his first words.” Aunt Vivvy rested her glass on the arm of the bench. “I told Hugh he needed to take control, but that was about as effective as telling a street sweeper to run for president.”

  “How did he handle it?”

  “In warm weather, the child wore no socks. In cold weather, Hugh bought every different kind of sock he could find. He must have spent a small fortune trying to find a pair that wouldn’t send the boy into paroxysms, all to no avail.”

  “So he just doesn’t wear them. Ever.”

  “Correct.”

  Sean considered this—not the sock aversion; that was completely consistent with everything he’d just learned about the disorder. What fascinated him was Hugh’s response: a Holy Grail–like quest for the perfect sock. It was another example of Hugh’s fatherly dedication.

  “And he tossed the boy constantly,” Aunt Vivvy interjected suddenly. “It was very irritating.”

  “Tossed him how?”

  “Into the air. Onto the couch. Over his shoulder. The man was a human trampoline. It’s a wonder the child hasn’t joined the circus.”

  A trampoline . . . thought Sean. Hanging upside down . . . These were on the list of suggestions for parents with oversensitized children. Somehow Hugh had figured out activities that would help Kevin and had used his own body to provide them.

  “He must have gotten very strong,” said Sean.

  Aunt Vivvy’s eyes cut toward him. “He was always complaining of back pain.”

  * * *

  Sean left his aunt to contemplate what further gardening blunders she might commit, worried that he might start saying things he’d later regret. Cold-hearted witch, he thought, returning to the den. Uncaring, miserable tyrant . . .

  He’d seen the postings of parents who’d been told by relatives and professionals alike that their child was simply manipulating them, and that the correct course of action was to be firm, to punish them if need be. Tragically, Aunt Vivvy’s take on it was quite commonplace.

  And yet what made Sean’s own back ache all the more, like some sort of delayed sympathy pain, was the fact that he hadn’t known.
Or more specifically, hadn’t lifted a finger to find out. Hugh had been a single father whose child had an unknown, untreated condition, muddling through as best he could, tossing the kid into the air by the hour and buying socks by the dozen . . . and his own brother hadn’t picked up on it during the one brief visit while all three of them were alive. Had never written a letter to say, “How’s it going with you and the kid?”

  Something Deirdre had said when he’d first gotten home came back to him. You’ve been all about you, she’d said. You haven’t given a shit about anyone else your whole life.

  It wasn’t true.

  He had cared deeply about many people—the embattled indigenous Indians of Guatemala, the de facto slaves in the Dominican Republic, the unthinkably poor of India, the wounded and abused of Africa. He thought of conversations with people like Yasmin Chaudhry, the few who understood what it meant to live as they did, to sacrifice so much, to see things no one else wanted to see—and to try and be that drop of water in the desert.

  Bullshit, said the Deirdre in his head. You did what you wanted to do.

  And that was true.

  More than anything he had wanted to leave Belham. And he had wanted to believe that his screwed-up life had a purpose. He had wanted something to feel good about, instead of feeling shitty all the time. He had saved lives and healed people and brought babies safely into the world—he had made the difference he’d wanted to make.

  But in doing so he’d neglected his own sister and brother, his aunt (though God knows she never wanted any help, and a case could be made that she hardly deserved any), and his nephew. And knowing that he’d missed his chance to be there for Hugh, through what were likely his toughest times, Sean felt more committed than ever to helping Kevin now. He would get things on track, and he wouldn’t leave until he knew Kevin was okay.

  In the spirit of his newfound commitment to Kevin’s health and happiness, Sean turned to Deirdre’s laptop, his fingers hunting and pecking across the keyboard like a kind of therapy. He entered the Belham Middle School Web site and got himself on the parent e-mail list; he clicked over to Juniper Hill School and sent an e-mail to Ms. Lindquist. And then he made a few purchases.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sean couldn’t have been happier to spend the day at the Confectionary if it had been a swimming pool and he’d been on fire. It was a relief to attend only to people’s baked-good needs, spar with the ever-sardonic Tree, and help out his old friend. Besides, the money would come in handy.

  It was late morning, the slowest part of the day, and Cormac told him to take his break.

  “Hey,” he said to Cormac, pulling off his apron. “Think I could borrow your father again next week? Something I ordered requires assembly.”

  “Heck, yeah!” Cormac turned toward the kitchen and raised his voice. “You want Pop? He’s all yours.”

  A loud grumble replied, “Nothing I’d like better than getting sprung from this sweatshop! Especially with Goliath for a boss.”

  “Kinda makes you yearn for a slingshot, right, Uncle Charlie?” Cormac’s cousin Janie said, approaching the counter.

  “Ain’t that the truth!” called Mr. McGrath.

  Sean took a bottle of water for his break and Janie got her coffee and joined him at a seat by the window.

  “I saw you the other day,” Sean said. “I was jogging around the lake and you and the guy you’re with, you were standing on the front step of a house. Looked like a serious conversation, so I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Janie thought for a moment. “Yeah, that.”

  His eyebrows rose a little, inviting further comment, but not wanting to pry.

  She shrugged. “Just trying to figure it all out,” she said. “It’s not like when you’re in your twenties and you love someone and that’s all you need to know. Now there are kids and houses, and potential kids and potential houses. . . .”

  “Complicated.”

  “Way too complicated. And me personally? I just don’t think I’m that complicated.”

  “Me either.”

  “Wanna get married?” she said, deadpan, and they both burst out laughing.

  “Okay, how’s this for complicated,” he said. “My father, who dumped us with my aunt almost thirty years ago and never came back? He’s back.”

  Janie’s face dropped. “No way.”

  “Yeah, he’s holed up at the Comfort Inn out on Route 9, waiting for me to decide whether I want to see him again. Beat that.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “Wow, Spinster. What’re you going to do?”

  He shrugged. “Half of me wants to go just to tell him how badly he screwed us all up. Half of me wants to say, ‘Sorry, that door’s closed.’ ”

  Janie nodded. “I have no idea what I’d do if my father showed up out of nowhere.” She looked up at Sean and there was a melancholy behind her eyes.

  “You’d see him,” he said.

  “Yeah. I probably would. I don’t know what Cormac told you, but my husband was killed in a bike accident almost two years ago. I met the old guy who hit him, and he was out of his mind with regret. Gave me a new perspective on forgiveness.”

  “My father says he just wants to apologize.”

  They sat there for a moment. “Maybe you should see him, Sean,” she said gently. It was the only time he could remember her using his actual name.

  * * *

  After work, he walked. He started off heading for home, but then decided to see if Rebecca was back from the spa yet. Her house was in the opposite direction, but it felt good to move after standing in one place all day.

  Janie’s words bobbed around in his head. There were as many reasons to see Da as there were not to. Sean was coming to the conclusion that the dilemma defied analysis when he turned onto Rebecca’s street. The house was dark. He rang the doorbell anyway. No one came. He considered waiting, but she could be taking the later shift and have clients until eight. Or she could have plans after work. With someone other than him. If he’d had a cell phone, he would have called, but he didn’t, so he turned back down her street and began the long walk home.

  * * *

  He was tired and hungry when he arrived, and made sandwiches for himself and his aunt. Deirdre’s sticky work sneakers had been left in the front hallway, but she was gone now. The dog paced around the kitchen as Sean spread mustard over the slices of deli turkey. The dinner was quiet until Aunt Vivvy said, “Please remind me of Kevin’s whereabouts.”

  “He went to Boy Scout camp. He’ll be back at the end of the week.”

  “Boy Scout camp—the only participants being boys, I assume?”

  “That’s how it works.”

  “Sounds noisy. Are you sure he wanted to go?”

  “Are you suggesting that I made him go?”

  “I’m suggesting that living with a bunch of rowdy boys for a week doesn’t strike me as Kevin’s cup of tea. He likes you very much. He might have done it to please you.”

  A prickle of anxiety ran across Sean’s scalp. He had pushed the idea, and Kevin had certainly been ambivalent about it. But he seemed okay when Sean dropped him off.

  “No, he definitely wanted to go,” said Sean. “He loves the ­outdoors.”

  Aunt Vivvy took another bite of her sandwich and declined to comment further.

  * * *

  That night, with the house dark and quiet, Sean called the Comfort Inn. He waited while the desk clerk connected him to his father’s room.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet you.”

  Da sighed. “I appreciate it, son. I know it’s not easy.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I had it in mind that we might try the old IHOP over by the post office.”

  “Fine. How’s eight?”

  “Of cours
e. I’ll be there waiting. I’ve got gray hair now.”

  “I’ve got a bit of gray myself.”

  “Don’t you worry, lad. I’d know you with my eyes closed.”

  * * *

  The next morning Sean pulled into the IHOP parking lot, but he could not make himself get out of the car. He could feel his pulse racing and counted it just to be sure. Ninety beats per minute. High, but not heart-attack high. Apparently he would survive this.

  Still he couldn’t get his legs to move, and he suddenly had a desperate wish not to be facing it—him—alone. Deirdre had made her intentions clear, but even if she had agreed to come, she probably would’ve made it harder. Her temper was a lit fuse these days. Aunt Vivvy was unthinkable. And Hugh probably would’ve arrived stoned. A reunion with the man who abandoned you as a child—what better excuse to smoke a bone? The idea did have some appeal.

  But that was pothead Hugh. What about sock-buying Hugh? For the hundredth time, Sean felt the regret of never having known that side of his brother. The strange thing was that he could almost imagine it. There had always been a patience and a generosity to Hugh that outshone even his worst tendencies.

  Sean had never prayed to his brother—a more unlikely saint there never was. But he found himself thinking of him now, praying for guidance, and for the strength Hugh had obviously shown in the face of Kevin’s difficulties. Sean closed his eyes, and he could almost feel Hugh sitting in the car with him.

  It’s all good, man, said St. Hugh. Loosen up.

  Easy for you, you dead bastard.

  A saintly laugh. Breathe. You’re up to this.

  No, I’m really not. What if he falls apart?

  Toss him in the air a few times—works like a charm.

  What if I fall apart?

  Then I’ll toss you.

  CHAPTER 34

  Martin Doran sat at a booth, back straight, wearing a button-down blue shirt. His hair was, in fact, completely gray. It had been tar black the last time Sean had seen him.