The Ostrich and Other Lost Things

by Beth Hautala

  39

  Found

  THAT SUMMER IT took my brother, a temporary zoo, Peter Pan, an ostrich, all the colors—visible and invisible—my friend Charlie, a bit of mapmaking, autism, and a whole lot of searching before I finally came to understand that there really is no such thing as normal. That we are all a little bit lost and a little bit found, and that both of those things are beautiful.

  * * *

  • • •

  Jacob didn’t magically get better as summer drew to a close and school started again. If anything, he kept growing up and getting more complicated. But Mom and Dad and I got better at being patient and asking questions in a different way, and loving him and each other.

  Mom and Dad weren’t too happy when they found out I’d been sneaking out of the house all summer long to bring Ethel back to the zoo. Discovering there’d been an ostrich in the backyard throughout the summer was bad enough. And they were pretty freaked out when they found out Jacob had been leaving the house, too. They made me promise not to leave the house, by means of the window or the chimney or any other way, without telling them first—and not in quiet whispers outside their bedroom door while they were sleeping. To their faces when they were awake. So, I wouldn’t. But I still kept my window open at night.

  As for Jacob, Mom and Dad made him start wearing a special bracelet that’s a kind of tracking device, just in case he ever ran away again or got lost. It was a safety precaution. He actually thought it was pretty cool and showed it to people. “Did you know I have a superpower bracelet?” he’d say. “You can find me anywhere in the world.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Prue’s portion of the zoo went back to Tulsa the last week in August, just before school started. Charlie and Vera went with it, along with Phil, Bridget, and Maggie.

  It was hard to say goodbye to Charlie, but we promised to stay in touch. He hugged me for a long time, and I knew he was saying things about loving, and being real, and no such thing as normal, and being found.

  I hugged him long and hard right back.

  I gave Charlie a special goodbye present, too. I bought a bunch of packages of Starburst and took out all the pink ones before carefully wrapping only those back up and taping the package shut. I knew he would understand.

  Charlie and my brother and an ostrich had shown me how to look inside people, where they were the most real, the most lost, and to love them anyway. They taught me that we’re all all the colors, and that if you insist on pretending to be anything else, you’ll never be found and loved all the way. Not really.

  As for me, I was a finder of lost things and a lover of found things. I was learning to be brave, even when I was scared, and I was learning that I could be Jacob’s sister and still be Olivia, too. That those things might be different at times, but that I was always still me, whether I was acting in a play, or hanging out with Jacob, or spending time with Charlie, or studying at school, or doing anything anywhere and everywhere else.

  Most of all, I was learning to love, even when it was hard. Because, after all, there’s nothing more important than that.

  Author’s Note

  This book is not meant to be a commentary on autism or some kind of fictional discussion of the vast array of spectrum disorders. In fact, the field of study continues to expand in areas of autism, Asperger’s, and spectrum disorders faster than I could ever hope to follow, much less write about.

  If you have read this story, and you yourself are on the spectrum, or you love someone who is, please know there were times as I wrote this tale that I intentionally challenged Olivia’s ability to show empathy. She had a lot of learning and growing to do.

  Olivia’s story is merely a glimpse through a keyhole into an imagined life. One tiny picture of what it might be like to learn how to love better. Both others and self. And this is a difficult thing for each one of us, no matter where we land on the spectrum.

  As this story came to be, people I love dearly—those with intimate personal experience, and those with professional medical experience—came to my aid in its telling. They steadied me where my lack of experience and understanding failed. They corrected my errors with grace and kindness. They helped me shape the fictional characters in this book with greater depth. And in so doing, they let me into their own experiences. They shared their stories and their hearts. They opened their homes to me, and they took off their masks. And for that I am forever grateful. I know my telling of this tale isn’t perfect. Perhaps you will find places where I got it wrong. Because I am still learning, too.

  To those on the spectrum, to those with disabilities, to those misdiagnosed, to those on the edge of breakthrough, and to all those who hold their hearts and walk this difficult road with them: You are so brave.

  Thank you for letting me tell a story that doesn’t look away.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book (like directing a play, or running a zoo, or raising a child) is never a one-person job. It takes a team. And mine has been fantastic, offering cues from the wings, making sure all the animals are in their cages at night, and cutting off sandwich crusts (figuratively speaking) as this story came to life. I couldn’t have done this without them.

  Thank you to my family: my husband, Aaron, and our kids, Caleb, Ella, Lucy, and June. You all continue to give me perspective and lend texture to my writing endeavors. You also continually bring me back to what truly matters in life by teaching me how to love better and how to be brave, day in and day out.

  Thank you to my parents, who read and applaud and believe no matter what. And thanks to my sisters, to whom this book is dedicated. We don’t get to pick our family, but had I been given the option, I would have chosen all of you.

  Thank you to Dr. Monica Goodwin, MD, and your family. And Dr. Stephanie Parrish, OD. You both offered medical expertise and knowledge, answered questions, and helped me sort out details that I couldn’t have understood on my own. Thank you for helping to make both Jacob and Charlie come alive on the page.

  Thanks to Jolene L., who read and offered so much encouragement; Jodi C., who read and prayed while she cut my hair; Katie, for reading and listening; Jodi S., for being my first set of editorial eyes (I’d never be where I am today without you); and Angela, who is always reading and cheering for me (page 3 belongs to you, girl!). Thanks to Kelley, Leah, Sarah, Liz, Tab, Kara, Jill, Megan, and all the women in our book club. Doing life with all of you saves me more often than you know! And to Caitlin, Grace, and Paige: You have been there so often to play with my children as I pounded words against the page. You are caretakers of my precious Littles, and “thank you” doesn’t go far enough.

  I am a better woman because I have you all in my life. Thank you for being my people.

  And thanks to the rest—families who will go unnamed here for the sake of respecting your privacy. Your stories and your hard work, carried out with love and courage, will never be fully recognized for what it is. But you are changing the world, one kid at a time. I am honored to know you. Forgive the parts of this story that have oversimplified or glossed over the vast breadth of what it means to work and parent as you do, going about life through difficult challenges. I hope I have at least given the world a glimpse.

  Thanks to the team of dream-makers at Philomel/Penguin Random House: Michael Green, Tony Sahara, David Briggs, Talia Benamy, and especially Liza Kaplan. Thank you for editing, advising, and encouraging with sensitivity, kindness, and extraordinary skill. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  Thank you to my agent, Danielle, and the good people at Upstart Crow for believing that this was a story worth telling, and that I was the one to tell it. Your belief makes me able.

  And finally, my lifelong gratitude to my Heavenly Father, who didn’t leave me lost.

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