Life Happens Next (5 page)

Walking into the kitchen, Tim notices Cindy and Ally first. He seems to blush a little as he says, “Hey.”

Paul looks away from his spinning basketball, tosses it into the air off the tip of his finger, grabs it, and says, “Hi.”

Ally smiles and says hi back. Cindy doesn't say anything.

Paul asks, “Whatcha doin'?”

Cindy says, “We were gonna watch a movie.”

Paul asks, “Oh yeah, which one?”

The storage area of the cabinet on which our big-screen TV sits houses hundreds of flicks.

Ally answers, “We're thinkin' maybe
Rain Man
.”

Paul laughs. “I'm an excellent driver,” he says, imitating and quoting a line from the character Raymond, the autistic man in the movie who is every bit as addicted to driving his dad's 1958 Buick Roadmaster as Debi is to saying, “I like McDonnos.”

Cindy and Ally laugh at Paul's excellent mimicry of obsessive Raymond.
Rain Man
is a favorite around here; we have lots of movies about messed-up heroes. Although
Rain Man
is probably number one on our disability hit parade, there are plenty of others. Most are about brain-damaged types:
My Left Foot
,
I Am Sam
,
Riding the Bus with My Sister
,
To Kill a Mockingbird
(“Hey, Boo Radley”),
Regarding Henry
, and even the much maligned
Tropic Thunder
(“You went full retard, you never wanna go full retard”). I personally believe that Mom wants to educate the world, one DVD viewing at a time, about people like me and now people like Debi too.

As I watch from my spot across the family room, I see something I've never noticed before: Cindy and Tim are an item too. They keep trying not to stare at each other, but they can't stop themselves. Every time they make eye contact, they both blush and quickly look away, only to come back to gazing into each other's eyes a few seconds later. Paul and Ally do this whole gazing thing too. But, like I said before, they act like they've been together forever. I don't know for how long Cindy and Tim have felt this way about each other, but it's clear to me that they want to keep it a secret.

Ally asks the guys, “You want to watch with us?”

Paul says, “Nah, we're gonna shoot some hoops—” He pauses and asks, “Sorry, Timbo, do you wanna watch
Rain Man
?”

Tim hesitates a moment before he answers, “I've never seen it.”

“Really?” Paul says. “My mom would shoot you! If you'd rather watch, we can—it's a great movie.”

Tim asks, “You sure?”

“For sure,” Paul says. Now imitating Raymond's flat, emotionless, weird way of speaking again, he says, “Qantas … Qantas has never crashed.”

“What?” Tim asks.

Paul laughs. “You'll see.”

Cindy spins my wheelchair so that I can see the TV too. They move to the kitchen and grab some snacks, and Paul slips me a bite of potato chip and pours a sip of Coke into my mouth. Most of this food and drink dribbles down my chin. I'm glad that Rusty is in the backyard—otherwise he might eat my head. What dog could resist the temptation to chow down on a potato-chip, Coke-soaked snack of retard face? Sheesh, for a guy who wanted to juggle chain saws five minutes ago, I sure can turn into a wimp fast.

Minutes later we're all watching Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise play two adult brothers. Tom Cruise is Charlie Babbitt, a selfish, impatient businessman forced into taking care of his older autistic brother, Raymond, whom he hardly knows. Raymond has an amazing memory like mine, but his thing is for baseball and numbers. As the story unfolds, Charlie learns to love and admire his disabled brother. The movie is kind of like Paul's and my relationship. Except of course that Paul has no idea I'm smart and he never will.

Speaking of Paul, he's sitting on the couch, his arm draped comfortably over Ally's shoulder. Her right hand rests on top of his leg.

Tim sits on the floor next to Cindy. They are a little way apart and they aren't letting Paul or Ally notice that every so often they sneak their hands along the floor until they touch. Once touching, they grasp hands briefly, their fingers rubbing together, then quickly pull away so they won't get caught.

Why they are trying to hide this, I don't know. Maybe this is a requirement of Tim and Paul's friendship, or maybe Cindy is embarrassed that Paul will find out. But I can't stop thinking, selfishly, full of self-pity, that Ally has Paul and he has her. It's good seeing Cindy and Tim like this. But before, I felt like part of the group, and now I'm just the fifth wheel. Who do I have? Who will I ever have? I zone out of the movie and wonder if I can survive—being alone and feeling so lonely. Again I ask myself, “Was Dad right to want to kill me? Would it be better to be out of my misery?”

Okay, shake it off, Prince Pity Party! Enough is enough already!

It's just the way it is....

Think about better stuff....

Get a grip!

A
s if suffering through the
Rain Man
lovefest yesterday wasn't enough, today is my birthday. Yaaaaaay!

It's hard to lose the sarcasm. How can I get juiced about birthdays anymore? Today I'm fifteen years old, and I'm pretty sure this birthday is going to be exactly like birthdays fourteen and thirteen and twelve and … you get the picture.

My day started with Paul singing me his version of the Beatles's
White Album
song “Birthday.” We've always been a Beatles-addicted family—I know all the words to all their songs. Paul's rendition, screeching the violent-sounding guitar solos, is grating and annoying in a hilarious way. And it's not as if Paul can help himself. He sings this song to everyone in the house on their birthday and to all his friends over the phone on their birthday, as well. And he
really
rocks it, 'til your ears are ringing, if not bleeding, but you almost don't mind.

My mom brought to my school earlier today a white cake with white frosting that had red and blue and green and pink frosted balloons on it and the words “Happy Birthday, Shawn.” My Diaper-Changer William and Gorgeous-Steaming-Hot Becky, the teacher's aides, and Mrs. Hare, the teacher, and my classmates gathered around my chair and sang “Happy Birthday.” Well, I should say that a few of the kids sang—those who wanted to and could actually sing. The rest of us just sort of sat there like we always do, lumps of mostly silent humanoid non-playas.

After the song I was, of course, unable to blow out any candles. But somehow, all the kids, led by several who tend to salivate and spit a lot when they “help,” managed to extinguish them and make my birthday wish come true—which was for the candles to go out before the smoke alarm went off.

As if we didn't look bad enough already, we all got ugly, pointy birthday party hats attached to our skulls (Debi would have loved them). Next we had the cake.

The kids who could eat on their own scarfed down their pieces of cake and then signaled or asked for more. The kids who couldn't feed themselves, like me, got bites spooned into their mouths. When we were finished, it looked like a cake explosion had taken place. Frosting and mashed cake covered everyone's faces, chins, eyebrows, and pointy-hat tips. Cake on our bibs and hands and pant legs. Cake and frosting smeared into chairs and on the floor underneath. Really, it's amazing how one little cake can spread so far when being fed to me and my special needs classmates.

Tonight, at my family party, the big surprise is when my dad shows up. This is the first time Dad's been back here since that night he tried to … you know. I gotta admit it feels pretty weird. As he walks into the house, he hands Mom a birthday card for me, no doubt including a check for the occasion, and Mom says, “Thanks.”

Dad hugs Cindy, waves to Debi rather uncomfortably, and then holds out his hand to Paul, who shakes it. To say Paul and Dad have had a rocky relationship is putting it mildly. Paul has never been able to forgive Dad for bailing on us after I was born so messed up. But recently things have been better. Now Paul is civil to Dad and will speak to him.

Dad says to Paul, “Your mom says you are homing in on a school—maybe Stanford or U-dub.”

Paul looks at Dad, takes a quick breath, and says, “Yeah. Nothing's for sure yet.”

“Well,” Dad says, “whatever you decide, we're with you.”

I can see the wheels turning in Paul's head, almost hear him self-censoring all kinds of smart-ass things he would say if their uneasy cease-fire weren't in place.

Finally Paul smiles. “Thanks, but we're here for Big Boy's fifteenth, right?”

Dad smiles too. “Absolutely,” he says, adding,
“Quinceañero.”

It's fine with me if they use me to avoid their conflict. I mean, think about it, it's really the only way I've ever been able to help my brother—well, other than letting him steal my girlfriend who didn't know she was my girlfriend, but I digress.

Debi is sulking and mumbling and looking pissed because she hasn't been able to stick with her routine tonight.

Paul tries to cheer her up. “You look nice today, Debi,” he says.

Debi smiles at Paul and says, “I like when you say dat.”

Cindy catches the vibe and, maybe trying to add on to the Debi-looks-nice theme, asks Debi if she has a boyfriend. Debi smiles even wider. “Dat's for me to know and you to find out.” She laughs at her joke.

Mom insists that Debi join us for my birthday party, which, now that dinner is done, consists of having yet another birthday cake, after which I'll “open” my presents. I already know that these so-called presents will be the usuals: socks, T-shirts, and bib overalls with snaps on the inseams so I can have my diaper changed easily. In other words, my birthday presents are just normal things that I need anyway, wrapped in brightly colored kiddy wrapping paper that my family “helps me” tear off.

“I like presents!” Debi says, eyeing my gifts.

“Yes,” Mom says, “presents are fun. These are for Shawn's birthday.”

Debi looks bummed. She glances away from the presents and mumbles, “I like McDonnos.”

Dad asks, “What?”

Everyone else just ignores it.

“Happy birf-day, S-S-S-Swan,” Debi says, breaking the awkward silence.

I think, “Tanks a million Deb-o-reeno!”

When Debi spots the cake, chocolate this time, and the tub of French vanilla ice cream, her spirits seem to rise dramatically.

Everybody sings “Happy Birthday” to me and Mom cuts the cake, scoops on the ice cream, and serves each of us.

She feeds me a bite at a time, while everyone else eats too. My eyes drift to the faces around the table, everyone smiles and visits with one another, even Debi seems happy. I understand that birthdays are the one day out of a year when a person should get to feel special just for being alive.

On my birthdays I have always wondered why I was born. My parents divorced because of me. My Mom lugs me around like an overgrown baby all day. And nobody thinks that I'm anything more than a guy with the mental abilities of large zucchini squash and a broken drool switch stuck on high. But I look at these faces again, my family and Debi, and they all look so happy, truly happy to be here celebrating me.

Why can't I just be happy too? Seriously, what the hell's gotten into me lately? Okay, Shawn, that's it! I mean it! Be honest. This year doesn't feel as much like a farce. Dad showed up. I'm still alive. I've had two cakes in one day. My family cares about me enough to be happy that I was born, glad that I'm here with them. Plus I have new socks. I
really
like new socks!

Is this your life, Shawn?

Yer damned straight it is!

Cheer up!

Get a flippin' clue, dude!

Some things never change … then again some things
do!

Y
es, things are changing. Debi and Rusty have been living here for three weeks. Rusty hasn't eaten me, and life with them has started to feel … normal?

“Normal” isn't right, because I don't think it's possible to have a “normal” life with me in the house. At least not like the homes of families I see on TV. But weird as we might be, Debi and Rusty coming here has juiced up our lives. They have changed us, and we're living a new definition of “normal.”

Debi has a routine: She gets up every morning, Monday through Friday, makes her bed, and makes her own lunch for school. Debi is a stickler for putting her laundry away. Mom says that Debi's bedroom is by far the tidiest spot in the house.

Each morning Debi unloads the dishwasher without being asked. Unfortunately, a couple days ago, Mom hadn't run the dishwasher the night before, so the dishes were still dirty; Debi put them away anyway. After her chores, she sits on the little bench in the entryway and waits for her white, square paratransit bus to take her to “schoo.” The same bus brings her back home at around four. To be honest, I'm glad I don't have to take that bus. It doesn't look to me anything like a high-end limo service.