Dear John (11 page)

“No . . . you don’t understand. There’s a spectrum of Asperger’s, from mild to severe—”

I barely heard her. “And you respect him for the same reason. But it’s not as if you really liked him.”

“No, wait—”

I pulled away and got to my feet. Suddenly needing space, I walked to the railing opposite her. I thought of her continual requests to visit with him . . . not because she wanted to spend time with him. Because she wanted to
study
him.

My stomach knotted, and I faced her. “That’s why you came over, isn’t it.”

“What—”

“Not because you liked him, but because you wanted to know if you were right.”

“No—”

“Stop lying!” I shouted.

“I’m not lying!”

“You were sitting there with him, pretending to be interested in his coins, but in reality you were evaluating him like some monkey in a cage.”

“It wasn’t like that!” she said, rising to her feet. “I respect your dad—”

“Because you think he’s got problems and overcame them,” I snarled, finishing for her. “Yeah, I get it.”

“No, you’re wrong. I like your dad. . . .”

“Which is why you ran your little experiment, right?” My expression was hard. “See, I must have forgotten that when you like someone, you do things like that. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

She shook her head. “No!” For the first time, she seemed to question what she’d done, and her lip began to quiver. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. But I just wanted you to understand him.”

“Why?” I said, taking a step toward her. I could feel my muscles tensing. “I understand him fine. I grew up with him, remember? I lived with him.”

“I was trying to help,” she said, eyes downcast. “I just wanted you to be able to relate to him.”

“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t want your help. And why is it any of your damn business, anyway?”

She turned away and swiped at a tear. “It’s not,” she said. Her voice was almost inaudible. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?” I demanded. “That you think something’s wrong with him? That I shouldn’t expect to have a normal relationship with him? That I have to talk about coins if I want to talk to him at all?”

I didn’t hide the anger in my voice, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw a couple of fishermen turn our way. My gaze kept them from coming closer, which was probably a good thing. As we stared at each other, I didn’t expect Savannah to answer, and frankly, I didn’t want her to. I was still trying to get my mind around the fact that the hours she had spent with my dad were nothing but a charade.

“Maybe,” she whispered.

I blinked, unsure that she’d said what I thought she had. “What?”

“You heard me.” She gave a small shrug. “Maybe that’s the only thing you’ll ever talk about with your father. It might be all he can do.”

I felt my hands clench into fists. “So you’re saying it’s all up to me?”

I didn’t expect her to answer, but she did.

“I don’t know,” she said, meeting my eyes. I could still see her tears, but her voice was surprisingly steady. “That’s why I bought the book. So you can read it. Like you said, you know him better than I do. And I never said he’s unable to function, because obviously he does. But think about it. His unchanging routines, the fact that he doesn’t look at people when he talks to them, his nonexistent social life . . .”

I whirled away, wanting to hit something. Anything.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice low.

“Because if it was me, I’d want to know. And I’m not saying it because I wanted to hurt you or insult your father. I told you because I wanted you to understand him.”

Her candor made it painfully clear that she believed what she was saying. Even so, I didn’t care. I turned and started up the pier. I just wanted to get away. From here, from her.

“Where are you going?” I heard her call out. “John! Wait!”

I ignored her. Instead I picked up the pace, and a minute later I reached the stairs of the pier. I pounded down them, hit the sand, and headed for the house. I had no idea whether Savannah was behind me, and as I neared the group, faces turned toward me. I looked angry, and I knew it. Randy was holding a beer, and he must have seen Savannah approaching because he moved to block my path. A couple of his frat brothers did the same.

“What’s going on?” he called out. “What’s wrong with Savannah?”

I ignored him and felt him grab my wrist. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Not a wise move. I could smell beer on his breath and knew that the alcohol had given him courage.

“Let go,” I said.

“Is she okay?” he demanded.

“Let go,” I said again, “or I’ll break your wrist.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” I heard Tim call out from somewhere behind me.

“What did you do to her?” Randy demanded. “Why’s she crying? Did you hurt her?”

I could feel the adrenaline surge into my bloodstream. “Last chance,” I warned.

“There’s no reason for this!” Tim shouted, closer this time. “Just relax, you guys! Knock it off!”

I felt someone try to grab me from behind. What happened next was instinctive, over in a matter of seconds. I drove my elbow hard into his solar plexus and heard a sudden groaning exhale; then I grabbed Randy’s hand and quickly twisted it to its snapping point. He screamed and dropped to his knees, and in that instant I felt someone else rushing toward me. I swung an elbow blindly and felt it connect; I felt cartilage crunch as I turned, ready for whoever came next.

“What did you do?” I heard Savannah scream. She must have come running once she saw what was going on.

On the sand, Randy was wincing as he clutched his wrist; the guy who’d grabbed me from behind was gasping and on all fours.

“You hurt him!” she whimpered as she rushed past me. “He was just trying to stop the fight!”

I turned. Tim was sprawled on the ground, holding his face, blood gushing through his fingers. The sight seemed to paralyze everyone except Savannah, who dropped to her knees at his side.

Tim moaned, and despite the hammering in my chest, I felt a pit form in my stomach. Why did it have to be him? I wanted to ask if he was okay; I wanted to tell him I hadn’t meant for him to get hurt and that it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t started it. But it wouldn’t matter. Not now. I couldn’t pretend as if they should forgive and forget, no matter how much I wished it hadn’t happened.

I could barely hear Savannah fretting as I began to back away. I eyed the others warily, making sure they’d let me leave, not wanting to hurt anyone else.

“Oh, geez . . . oh, no. You’re really bleeding . . . we’ve got to get you to a doctor. . . .”

I continued to back away, then turned and climbed the stairs. I moved quickly through the house, then back down to my car. Before I knew it, I was on the street, cursing myself and the entire evening.

Ten

I
didn’t know where to go, so I drove around aimlessly for a while, the events of the evening replaying in my mind. I was still angry at myself and what I’d done to Tim—not so much the others, I admit—and angry at Savannah for what had happened on the pier.

I could barely remember how it had started. One minute I was thinking that I loved her more than I’d ever imagined possible, and the next minute we were fighting. I was outraged by her subterfuge yet couldn’t understand why I was this angry. It wasn’t as if my dad and I were close; it wasn’t as if I even thought I really knew him. So why had I been so angry? And why was I still?

Because,
the little voice inside me asked,
there’s a chance she might be right?

It didn’t matter, though. Whether he was or wasn’t, so what? How was that going to change anything? And why was it any of her business?

As I drove, I kept veering from anger to acceptance and back to anger again. I found myself reliving the sensation of my elbow crushing Tim’s nose, which only made it worse. Why had he come at me? Why not them? I wasn’t the one who’d started it.

And Savannah . . . yeah, I might be able to head over there tomorrow to apologize. I knew she honestly believed what she was saying and that in her own way, she was trying to help. And maybe, if she was right, I did want to know. It would explain things. . . .

But after what I did to Tim? How was she going to react to that? He was her best friend, and even if I swore it had been an accident, would it matter to her? How about what I’d done to the others? She knew I was a soldier, but now that she’d seen a small part of what that meant, would she still feel the same way about me?

By the time I found my way home, it was past midnight. I entered the darkened house, peeked into my dad’s den, then proceeded to the bedroom. He wasn’t up, of course; he went to bed at the same time every night. A man of routine, as I knew and Savannah had pointed out.

I crawled into bed, knowing I wouldn’t sleep and wishing I could start the evening over again. From the moment she’d given me the book, anyway. I didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. I didn’t want to think about my dad or Savannah or what I’d done to Tim’s nose. But all night long I stared at the ceiling, unable to escape my thoughts.

I got up when I heard my dad in the kitchen. I was wearing the same clothes from the evening before, but I doubted he was aware of it.

“Mornin’, Dad,” I mumbled.

“Hey, John,” he said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Sure,” I said. “Coffee ready?”

“In the pot.”

I poured myself a cup. As my dad cooked, I noted the headlines in the newspaper, knowing he would read the front section first, then metro. He would ignore the sports and life section. A man of routine.

“How was your night?” I asked.

“The same,” he said. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t ask me anything in return. Instead, he ran the spatula through the scrambled eggs. The bacon was already sizzling. In time, he turned to me, and I already knew what he would ask.

“Would you mind putting some bread in the toaster?”

My dad left for work at exactly 7:35.

Once he was gone, I scanned the paper, uninterested in the news, at a loss as to what to do next. I had no desire to go surfing, or even to leave the house, and I was wondering whether I should crawl back into bed to try to get some rest when I heard a car pull up the drive. I figured it might be someone dropping off a flyer offering to clean the gutters or power-wash the mold from the roof; I was surprised when I heard a knock.

Opening the door, I froze, caught completely off guard. Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Hi, John,” he said. “I know it’s early, but do you mind if I come in?”

A wide strip of medical tape bridged his nose, and the skin surrounding both eyes was bruised and swollen.

“Yeah . . . sure,” I said, stepping aside, still trying to process the fact that he was here.

Tim walked past me and into the living room. “I almost didn’t find your house,” he said. “When I dropped you off before, it was late and I can’t say I was paying that much attention. I drove by a couple of times before it finally registered.”

He smiled again, and I realized he was carrying a small paper sack.

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked, snapping out of my shock. “I think there still might be a cup left in the pot.”

“No, I’m fine. I was up most of the night, and I’d rather not have the caffeine. I’m hoping to lie down when I get back to the house.”

I nodded. “Hey, listen . . . about what happened last night,” I began. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

He held up his hands to stop me. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t. And I should have known better. I should have tried to grab one of the other guys.”

I inspected him. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It just happened to be one of those nights in the emergency room. It took a while to see a doctor, and he wanted to call someone else in to set my nose. But they swore it would be good as new. I might have a small bump, but I’m hoping it gives me a more rugged appearance.”

I smiled, then felt bad for doing so. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” he said. “And I appreciate it. But that’s not the reason I came here.” He motioned to the couch. “Do you mind if we sit? I still feel a little woozy.”

I sat on the edge of the recliner, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. Tim sat on the sofa, wincing as he got comfortable. He set the paper bag off to the side.

“I want to talk to you about Savannah,” he said. “And about what happened last night.”

The sound of her name brought it all back, and I glanced away.

“You know we’re good friends, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Last night in the hospital, we talked for hours, and I just wanted to come here to ask you not to be angry with her for what she did. She knows she made a mistake and that it wasn’t her place to diagnose your father. You were right about that.”

“Why isn’t she here, then?”

“Right now, she’s at the site. Someone’s got to be in charge while I recuperate. And she doesn’t know I’m here, either.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know why I got so mad in the first place.”

“Because you didn’t want to hear it,” he said, his voice quiet. “I used to feel the same way whenever I heard someone talk about my brother, Alan. He’s autistic.”

I looked up. “Alan’s your brother?”

“Yeah, why?” he asked. “Did Savannah tell you about him?”

“A little,” I said, remembering that even more than Alan, she talked about the brother who’d been so patient with him, who’d inspired her to major in special education.

On the couch, Tim winced as he touched the bruising under his eye. “And just so you know,” he went on, “I agree with you. It wasn’t her place, and I told her so. Do you remember when I said that she was naive sometimes? That’s what I meant. She wants to help people, but sometimes it doesn’t come across that way.”

“It wasn’t just her,” I said. “It was me, too. Like I said, I overreacted.”

His gaze was steady. “Do you think she might be right?”

I brought my hands together. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but . . .”

“But you don’t know. And if so, whether it even matters, right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “Been there, done that,” he said. “I remember what my parents and I went through with Alan. For a long time we didn’t know what, if anything, was wrong with him. And you know what I’ve decided after all this time? It doesn’t matter. I still love him and watch out for him, and I always will. But . . . learning about his condition did help make things easier between us. Once I knew . . . I guess I just stopped expecting him to behave in a certain way. And without expectations, I found it easier to accept him.”

I digested this. “What if he doesn’t have Asperger’s?” I asked.

“He might not.”

“And if I think he does?”

He sighed. “It’s not that simple, especially in milder cases,” he said. “It’s not as if you can pull a vial of blood and test for it. You might get to the point where you think it’s possible, and that’s as far as you’ll ever get. But you’ll never know for sure. And from what Savannah said about him, I honestly don’t think much will change. And why should it? He works, he raised you . . . what more could you expect from a father?”

I considered this while images of my dad flashed through my head.

“Savannah bought you a book,” he said.

“I don’t know where it is,” I admitted.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “I brought it from the house.” He handed me the paper bag. Somehow the book felt heavier than it had the night before.

“Thanks.”

He rose, and I knew our conversation was nearing the end. He moved to the door but turned with his hand on the knob.

“You know you don’t have to read it,” he said.

“I know.”

He opened the door, then stopped. I knew he wanted to add something else, but, surprising me, he didn’t turn around. “Would you mind if I asked a favor?”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t break Savannah’s heart, okay? I know she loves you, and I just want her to be happy.”

I knew then that I’d been right about his feelings for her. As he walked to the car, I watched him from the window, certain that he was in love with her, too.

I put the book aside and went for a walk; when I got back to the house, I avoided it again. I can’t tell you why I did so, other than that it frightened me somehow.

After a couple of hours, however, I forced the feeling away and spent the rest of the afternoon absorbing its contents and reliving memories of my father.

Tim had been right. There wasn’t any clear-cut diagnosis, no hard-and-fast rules, and there was no way I’d ever know for certain. Some people with Asperger’s had low IQs, while other, even more severely autistic people—like the Dustin Hoffman character in
Rain Man
—were regarded as geniuses in particular subjects. Some could function so well in society that no one even knew; others had to be institutionalized. I read profiles of people with Asperger’s who were prodigies in music or mathematics, but I learned that they were as rare as prodigies among the general population. But most important, I learned that when my dad was young, there were few doctors who even understood the characteristics or symptoms and that if something had been wrong, his parents might never have known. Instead, children with Asperger’s or autism were often lumped with the retarded or the shy, and if they weren’t institutionalized, parents were left to comfort themselves with the hope that one day their child might grow out of it. The difference between Asperger’s and autism could sometimes be summed up by the following: A person with autism lives in his own world, while a person with Asperger’s lives in our world, in a way of his own choosing.

By that standard, most people could be said to have Asperger’s.

But there were some indications that Savannah had been right about my father. His unchanging routines, his social awkwardness, his lack of interest in topics other than coins, his desire to be alone—all seemed like quirks that anyone might have, but with my father it was different. While others might freely make those same choices, my father—like some people with Asperger’s—seemed to have been forced to live a life with these choices already predetermined. At the very least, I learned that it
might
explain my father’s behavior, and if so, it wasn’t that he
wouldn’t
change, but that he
couldn’t
change. Even with all the implied uncertainty, I found the realization comforting. And, I realized, it might explain two questions that had always plagued me regarding my mother: What had she seen in him? And why had she left?

I knew I’d never know, and I had no intention of delving further. But with a leaping imagination in a quiet house, I could envision a quiet man who struck up a conversation about his rare coin collection with a poor young waitress at a diner, a woman who spent her evenings lying in bed and dreaming of a better life. Maybe she flirted, or maybe she didn’t, but he was attracted to her and continued to show up at the diner. Over time, she might have sensed the kindness and patience in him that he would later use in raising me. It was possible that she interpreted his quiet nature accurately as well and knew he would be slow to anger and never violent. Even without love, it might have been enough, so she agreed to marry him, thinking they would sell the coins and live, if not happily ever after, at least comfortably ever after. She got pregnant, and later, when she learned that he couldn’t even fathom the idea of selling the coins, she realized that she’d be stuck with a husband who showed little interest in anything she did. Maybe her loneliness got the better of her, or maybe she was just selfish, but either way she wanted out, and after the baby was born, she took the first opportunity to leave.

Or, I thought, maybe not.

I doubted whether I would ever learn the truth, but I really didn’t care. I did, however, care about my father, and if he was afflicted with a bit of faulty wiring in his brain, I suddenly understood that he’d somehow formed a set of rules for life, rules that helped him fit into the world. Maybe they weren’t quite normal, but he’d nonetheless found a way to help me become the man I was. And to me, that was more than enough.

He was my father, and he’d done his best. I knew that now. And when at last I closed the book and set it aside, I found myself staring out the window, thinking how proud I was of him while trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

When he returned from work, my dad changed his clothes and went to the kitchen to start the spaghetti. I studied him as he went through the motions, knowing I was doing exactly the same thing that I’d grown angry at Savannah for doing. It’s strange how knowledge changes perception.

I noted the precision of his moves—the way he neatly opened the box of spaghetti before setting it aside and the way he worked the spatula in careful right angles as he browned the meat. I knew he would add salt and pepper, and a moment later he did. I knew he would open the can of tomato sauce right after that, and again, I wasn’t proved wrong. As usual, he didn’t ask about my day, preferring to work in silence. Yesterday I’d attributed it to the fact that we were strangers; today I understood that there was a possibility we always would be. But for the first time in my life, it didn’t bother me.