by Beth Hautala
“. . . You’ll still be able to tell people you can fly!”
“Yeah!” I smiled and tried to believe it would be that easy. “Yeah.”
“Good,” said Charlie, more serious. “I’m glad you’re going to do it. And maybe Jacob will surprise you.”
“Yeah right.”
“Well, I still think you’ll be great,” Charlie said.
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
And whatever feeling he had, his superpower was working, because after we said goodbye, I walked back down the minimal maintenance road almost like someone had sprinkled pixie dust on me. Almost like I could fly.
15
Decisions
WHEN I GOT back home, Mom and Dad were furious. Dad was walking back and forth across the kitchen, over and over. And then he leaned against the counter like he was too worked up to sit down, arms folded across his chest.
“Are you going to tell us where you were?” Mom asked.
“I—I went for a walk, like I said in my note. I went down the road toward the zoo, and met my friend Charlie Winslow about halfway there. He was taking a walk, too. We just sat and talked.” I was definitely in trouble. Again. I knew when I wrote the note and slipped out my window that they’d worry. Maybe I had even wanted them to.
“Charlie Winslow? I’ve never heard you mention him before.”
“I just met him yesterday, actually. He’s Vera’s son. He’s very nice.”
Mom leaned back in her chair, her forehead wrinkled. Dad just nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Well, what kinds of stuff did you talk about?” He seemed more interested than upset all of a sudden.
“Just stuff. Autism. And the play,” I said. “Things that go missing, and how I’m good at finding them. He’s blind, so we talked about that, too. I told him about Jacob’s ostrich. Stuff like that.”
“Oh.”
We were all quiet, and then Dad sighed and sat down heavily in a chair.
“Okay, Olivia. Here’s the deal. You are not allowed to leave the house without telling us where you’re going. Not ever. Or at least not until you are much older than you are now. Are we clear? Your mom and I were very worried.”
“Sorry,” I said softly.
“I can understand if you need to take a walk or if you need some time alone to think,” Mom said. “I feel that way, too, sometimes. But you need to let us know where you’re going. Even if you’re upset. Even if we are upset. Is that clear?”
I nodded.
“And also, you need to call Dorothy and Stephen before it gets any later. They need to know what you’ve decided about the play.”
I took a deep breath. Even though I didn’t know what it would be like to be in a play with Jacob, this wasn’t about him. It was about me. “Actually, I changed my mind,” I said.
“You did?”
“Yes. I want to be Peter Pan. I really do. And even if Jacob has a meltdown and ruins the whole play, well, at least I’ll be able to tell people I can fly.” It sounded even better now than when Charlie had said it.
Dad smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, honey.”
I didn’t tell them why I had changed my mind. And I didn’t tell them about my new plan to search for Jacob’s missing ostrich, either. How if Charlie and I could just find the ostrich—before opening night—it wouldn’t matter if Jacob was in the play, because he wouldn’t melt down and he’d be able to go back to being the kind of person he was before he lost it.
I didn’t say any of that. I just took the slip of paper with the phone number on it from Dad and called the Ramshackle Traveling Children’s Theater Company. I listened as the phone rang once, twice, three times.
“Hello, this is Dorothy.”
“Hello! This is Olivia Grant. I’m calling about the part you offered me in—”
“Olivia! I’m so glad to hear from you!” she said. “Have you called to tell me you’re ready to be our Peter?”
I laughed. That sounded so good.
“Yes, I am!” I said. “I’m ready to be your Peter Pan.”
16
Mapping It Out
I’D BARELY HUNG up the phone when Jacob suddenly wailed long and loud from where he was working on his puzzle in the living room. My smile fell to the floor. I watched seven hundred miniature puzzle pieces go flying as Jacob flipped over the card table he’d been working on.
“Jacob, what—?” Mom jumped up, and Dad heaved a small, weary sigh.
It didn’t always take much, but if Jacob was tired or overexcited, or just a little too frustrated, a meltdown was almost certain.
Mom and Dad put their calm, determined faces on and went to work.
“It’s okay, Jacob. Here, why don’t we make a few small piles, okay?” Mom said. “Can you put all the blue pieces over here?”
“Great idea,” said Dad. “I’ll help you, Jacob.”
But Jacob ignored them. He kicked the card table and fell to his knees in the middle of all the puzzle pieces.
“Nooooooooooo!” He screamed and rolled around. I inched away until I was against the wall. Jacob just kept thrashing, and then he tried to bite Dad.
I froze. All I could do was watch. I was . . . afraid. I was afraid of my brother.
I’d never been afraid of him before.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” He yelled and thrashed around, throwing puzzle pieces like rocks on a playground.
I remembered what Mom had said—about Jacob needing to make big things small. Only, whatever was big in Jacob’s head, he couldn’t seem to get it into small enough pieces now. Or maybe there were too many pieces to start with, because when he finally did calm down, he just sat there in the middle of the living room floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, rocking back and forth.
Mom and Dad sat there with Jacob on the floor, their shoulders hunched and their faces tired. They didn’t touch him because Jacob was showing us that he didn’t want to be touched. It was awful.
I squeezed my arms tighter and tighter, too, trying to hold all the pieces of myself together.
* * *
• • •
Later that night, I lay in bed, listening to Mom and Dad in the kitchen. I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help it.
“He’s getting worse.”
“No, sweetheart, he’s just tired tonight, and so are you . . .” Dad’s voice trailed off and they talked some more. I couldn’t hear everything, but words like “therapy” and “treatment” kept coming up, and then I heard my mom say something that made me sit up in bed.
“I think it’s time to have him reevaluated. Officially. I think his therapist will agree. I need to know that it’s not something I’m imagining. And if he is getting worse, we need to look at options.” She paused. “I’ll call in the morning.”
I couldn’t hear much else after that, so I tried to go to sleep. But I couldn’t.
The sound of my brother crying and screaming over those puzzle pieces echoed in my ears. And the way he had looked at us—but also, not looked at us—was seared into my brain. Like one part of him was crying for help and the other part of him didn’t even know what was going on. He’d looked lost. I didn’t even know it was possible to get lost like that, inside your own skin.
Hours later, I still couldn’t sleep. I sat in bed and pulled my knees to my chest. I held myself together there, in the dark. I needed to fix this. I needed to find Jacob’s ostrich.
Charlie said we should start with a map. But I couldn’t wait for him. I needed to do this now. I climbed out of bed, switched on my desk lamp, and looked around for a piece of paper. All I could find was my little notebook, and that wasn’t big enough. Mom had some paper on her desk. I opened my door and tiptoed out into the hall. I didn’t want to wake anyone
up.
“Hello, Olivia!”
“Eeeee!” I kind of half squeaked, half screamed. My brother jumped. He was standing in the middle of the living room, alone, in the dark.
“What are you doing out here, Jacob? You scared me!” I was whispering, but I wanted to be yelling.
“I am okay, Olivia,” he said. “I am okay.”
“Well, that’s great,” I whispered. “Why don’t you go to bed, Jacob.”
“Okay. Good night, Olivia,” he said.
“Night.”
* * *
• • •
I waited until he was in his room with the door closed before I snuck into Mom’s home office and switched on the desk lamp.
I never meant to snoop. I was just looking for a piece of paper. But as I started opening drawers and shuffling through the things on Mom’s desk, I saw it. An article. She was always reading about autism. Always trying to learn more so she could help Jacob. But this article was different.
Recurrence of Autism Spectrum Disorders in Siblings
I picked up the paper and held it. And then my hands started shaking so much I had to set it back on her desk. Why was she reading an article about the possibility of multiple kids in the same family being autistic? Did Mom think I could be autistic, too?
I was breathing fast. Too fast. I had to sit down.
My hair felt like it was lifting off the top of my head. Did she think I could be like Jacob? No! That was impossible. We were so different!
I stared at the words on the page in front of me, reading very slowly. Reading some things more than once. Trying to make sense of it all.
The article was about the likelihood of brothers or sisters of autistic kids being autistic, too—even if they don’t show signs of it when they are little. It was called latent autism, which, according to the article, was another way of saying someone could start being autistic when they’re older. Then it went on to say some stuff about technical genetic mutation that I didn’t understand. Something about how certain genes could be tied or linked to parents and children and aunts and uncles and cousins. Not that autism was hereditary, exactly, but that genetic anomalies and mutations sometimes got passed along.
I set the paper back down on Mom’s desk and took a deep breath. Was I dreaming? I shook my head a little and looked around the room, just to be sure. Everything seemed normal. It was dark, except for the light that flooded over Mom’s desk. I could hear Dad snoring down the hall. Everything else was quiet. I was definitely awake.
I rested my head on my arms, taking deep, shaky breaths and trying not to cry. Why would Mom think I could be autistic? Did Dad think so, too? Did I act like Jacob? Did I do the same kinds of things he did? What kinds of things were autistic things? I reviewed what I knew. Getting really upset over small things. Acting a whole lot younger than your age. Solving problems in strange or unique ways.
I tried to think back, and the longer I thought, the harder it was to breathe. Because there were things. I lost my temper too fast sometimes. I stomped my feet and slammed doors. I ran off down the road toward the zoo without telling anyone. I was extraordinarily good at finding things because of the way I could remember details and gather clues. I didn’t have very many friends, but what if that wasn’t because of Jacob? What if it was because of me?
I clapped my hands over my mouth, trying not to make a sound, but I felt like screaming. I shut my eyes and started counting instead, because it was the only thing I could think of. Mom counted with my brother sometimes, to help him focus and calm down. 1-2-3-4. Deep breath in. 1-2-3-4. Let it out. 1-2-3-4. Another deep breath. 1-2-3-4. Let it out again. By the time I’d counted to four and breathed eight times, I could take my hands off my mouth. I was still shaking, but I had an idea.
I snatched a few pieces of paper from Mom’s desk, tiptoed back down the hall to my room, and grabbed a notebook from my bedside table. I rummaged around in the drawer until I found a red pen.
After Jacob lost his ostrich, he started acting even more different. All the things that bothered him before began to bother him much more. All of his little tics got bigger, and he did them more often. Rocking, twisting his shirtsleeves, copying what people said—Had he known that things were changing inside him? I wondered.
I had an advantage. I knew that things could be changing inside me. And I knew what kinds of behaviors were autistic things. If I could keep myself from doing those things, I could keep myself from becoming like Jacob. The only hard part was that sometimes it was tough to determine what was an autistic behavior and what was an emotional behavior, where Jacob was just acting on what he felt. So, I had to be extra aware, and I had to keep myself in check.
I opened the notebook and wrote the date at the top. On the first page, I wrote Olivia’s Neverdo List. I needed a way to keep track.
One by one, I carefully listed everything I had done that might be considered autistic, or even just overly emotional reactions. If it was on my list, it would be a reminder to never do it again—unless I wanted to be like Jacob.
Never overreact.
Never lose my temper.
Don’t yell at Mom and Dad.
Don’t stomp my feet, pound on wall, or slam doors.
Don’t cry uncontrollably.
Never kick rocks and hurt people (even by accident).
Don’t talk to myself out loud.
When I finished, I closed my notebook and made a promise to myself not to do any of those things tomorrow. I would work as hard as I could to be normal and calm. And in the meantime, I wouldn’t stop searching until I found Jacob’s ostrich.
I would fix this. For Jacob—and if I could fix it for Jacob, I could fix it for me, too.
Then I grabbed the pieces of paper I had taken from Mom’s desk and smoothed them out. If I was going to make a map, I had to track down the details so I could make a calculated search of all the possible places Jacob could have lost his ostrich. I had to be smart about this, and I needed to look for new clues. Seven months was a lot of time for something to be missing. But timelines weren’t as important as places, and I’d already searched many of them. So, that was a start. With this map, my ability to find missing things, and Charlie’s help in clue gathering, we could do this.
Only now I had a new deadline. I had to find that ostrich—now. Because if Mom and I were right, and if Jacob was truly getting worse—if his autism was progressing or growing, or getting bigger—was there a point of no return? Could the old Jacob be lost forever?
I shivered.
If that was true for Jacob, then it was true for me, too. This felt like a race against time. And against myself.
I racked my brain, thinking, and then drew a picture of our house in the middle of the page. It was as good a starting point as any. Thank goodness we’d never moved! It wasn’t perfect, but it looked pretty much like our house—if you were a giant and had lifted the roof off so you were looking at it from above. I marked the recent places I’d already looked for the ostrich with a small X—like the porch and the shed. That way I wouldn’t waste time searching where I didn’t need to. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe this was the way real finding happened.
If I still couldn’t find Jacob’s ostrich after I searched the whole house again, I’d go back to the other places Jacob went, like the library, the park, and the grocery store—that kind of thing. On a second piece of paper, I drew those places, too, and then I taped both pages together.
It was going to be tricky, but it was so nice to know I wouldn’t have to do everything on my own. That I’d have Charlie’s help. I only hoped it would make a difference. Even if it didn’t, it would be nice to have his company. To have a friend. I couldn’t risk losing that. So, I couldn’t tell Charlie about this new development—about the article I’d found. It would change everything.
Suddenly, I heard a slight rustle,
and I looked up. There, in the backyard, was Ethel. A life-size version of my brother’s ostrich. Real. And very much out of her enclosure. Again.
I pushed back the curtains. The giant bird caught the movement and froze in the yard, watching me.
Mom and Dad had forbidden me to leave the house without telling them where I was going. I thought about it for a minute and then tiptoed out of my room and down the hall, past the kitchen and living room, past Jacob’s room, and to my parents’ closed bedroom door. I opened it just a crack.
“Mom? Dad?” I whispered.
No answer.
“I promised to tell you if I was leaving the house. Well, I’m telling you. I’m leaving the house. I’m bringing Ethel back to the zoo.”
No answer. Just Dad’s snoring.
“Okay. I’ll be back soon,” I told them.
Just like I promised.
17
Guessing the Direction of the Wind
I WALKED ETHEL back to the zoo for the second time, leaving a trail of Cap’n Crunch for her to follow. And once she was inside the main gate, which was unlocked again, I raced home in the dark.
Running in the dark is dangerous because your imagination can convince you of pretty much anything. Even once I was back in my own house, in my own room, and snuggled under my covers, my heart wouldn’t quit racing.
Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, I fell asleep.
* * *
• • •
I woke up with thoughts of Peter Pan racing around in my head. In the excitement of bringing Ethel back to the zoo last night, I’d forgotten that today, this very afternoon, I would climb the stairs to the stage and be Peter Pan for the first time. Or at least practice being him. Butterflies swirled around in my stomach. I pushed them down.
First, I had Responsibility Hours.
* * *