The Shortest Way Home

by Juliette Fay

  “My aunt isn’t much of an intervener. I think she’s taken good care of him, but she was never one to get overly involved, even when I was a kid.”

  “She raised you, too?”

  “Yeah. Long story.”

  “Okay, well . . . Your aunt did come to the school and meet with the guidance people when Kevin was in first grade.”

  “How did that go?” Sean had a feeling he already knew the answer.

  “Well, the file says she agreed that Kevin had some challenges . . .” Claire hesitated a moment and tucked a strand of her thin hair behind her ear. “But she pointed out that Kevin was fine at home. The house was quiet. No one touched him unnecessarily. She seemed to feel that if Kevin struggled at school, it was the school’s problem. There were several requests from guidance to have him evaluated, but she wouldn’t sign off, saying she wasn’t going to waste money to have someone tell her he was sensitive. She already knew that. ­Everyone knew it, and everyone knew the only remedy was for Kevin to toughen up.”

  Sean looked out the window. He had tied George’s leash to a handicapped parking signpost, and he could see her lying in the shade of a nearby tree with her head on her paws. When Sean turned toward her, the dog’s head came up to look at him through the glass.

  “Yeah,” he told Claire, still gazing at the dog. “That’s my aunt in a nutshell.”

  They sat there in silence for a moment, and then he said, “So we’ll get him evaluated.”

  “It might be good to see if there are any other learning issues he’s handling, aside from the sensory stuff. But I’m guessing that’s the main thing.”

  Sean was surprised she wasn’t pushing it more, and asked her why.

  “No, I definitely think he should get tested, but you have to understand, it’s possible that confirming the diagnosis won’t really matter at this point. Despite everything, Kevin’s pretty smart, and his grades haven’t suffered. He’s very conscientious about homework and reviewing for tests—which is terrific since he has a hard time concentrating in school. See, he’s developed a successful coping strategy on his own. The public schools only provide services for kids whose learning is affected by their disability. There isn’t much evidence of that with Kevin.

  “However, they could put him on what’s called a 504 plan, which means he doesn’t qualify as special needs, but we get it that he needs a little extra help. For instance, they might let him off the hook for gym class, which is loud and smelly and involves a lot of bumping. They might let him eat his lunch somewhere other than the cafeteria. They would keep an eye on him a little more.”

  “That would be great,” said Sean, thinking how much easier it would be to leave knowing the school was giving him the attention he needed. He shook his head. “I can’t believe my aunt wouldn’t get him tested.”

  “You know, she’s not completely wrong. Obviously, I believe every child with special challenges should be given as much help as possible. But ultimately, Kevin does need to learn to live with a little more noise and physical contact. The world doesn’t conform to meet unusual needs very much. And if he builds a life that allows him to avoid everything that’s hard for him, he’ll be a pretty lonely guy.”

  She smiled and reached over to the top drawer of her desk. She took out a piece of paper, crisscrossed with fold lines, and handed it to Sean. “This is what makes me know he can do it.”

  Dear Ms. Lindquist. The writer had clearly taken great care with his penmanship, pressing down hard and purposefully with a sharp pencil.

  This was a good year. It was the best year I had at Juniper Hill. I am sorry I got mad or cried sometimes when everything got too much. But even when I was mad or sad, I still liked you, and I still knew you were mostly right when you said keep trying.

  I wish you would be a teacher at the middle school next year. Even if I didn’t get to be in your classroom all the time, I would still know you were there. I will miss you. Maybe I will come back and visit but I will be quiet and not distract your class. I’ll just stand in the back and listen.

  Have a nice summer. Thanks.

  Sincerely,

  Your student for one more minute,

  Kevin Doran

  “See?” said Claire, and her eyes were just the slightest bit glossy with emotion. “That’s what’s special about him, too. Not just the sensitivity to noise and smell and touch. The sensitivity to other people. Nothing has ever made me feel better about being a teacher than that note. How many kids would have even thought to write it?”

  CHAPTER 41

  Claire Lindquist loaned him several books on sensory integration that she’d pulled from the guidance department shelves. They were titles he’d seen referenced online. One was specifically for parents, and after their talk he was anxious to flip through it.

  As he walked home with George, he found himself wishing Kevin were there so he could ask him questions—mainly, what does it feel like? What makes it feel better? How can I help?

  And he thought about the letter. So earnest and appreciative. Claire had it right—what eleven-year-old would think to write a thank-you note to his teacher? God knew no one had coached him to do it. No one coached him to do anything. And Sean got a little chuckle out of that “Your student for one more minute” line. Kevin had clearly written it ahead of time and carefully considered when he would present it to her. Sean had actually watched him do it just moments before the Clap Out. And then Kevin had let her hug him.

  Two priceless gifts. Quite a kid.

  Aunt Vivvy had told the guidance people that her house was quiet and no one touched Kevin. No one tossed him or hung him by his ankles, either, which he needed. And yet Kevin had progressed, developing his own set of coping skills—studying at home, spending time in the pleasant-smelling woods, piling his bed with blankets to create the pressure that soothed him. The enormity of these accomplishments began to dawn on Sean as he walked home.

  * * *

  “Did anyone call?” Sean asked his aunt when he got to the house.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I didn’t hear it ring, but I was outside in the yard for a bit.”

  “How long were you out there?”

  She gave him her standard this-has-grown-tiresome look. “My sense of time isn’t what it once was,” she said wryly.

  Had Rebecca called? They’d talked about getting together tonight, but there was no actual game plan. He figured since she had suggested it, she would initiate. Then again, he was the guy—was he supposed to call? Maybe she was annoyed that he hadn’t contacted her yet; on the other hand it was entirely possible that his calling would make her feel hounded.

  He needed some sort of manual, like Relationship 101 . . . assuming that’s what they were doing now. Having a relationship. Or was this more of a friends-with-benefits thing?

  I’m forty-three and I have the dating skills of a twelve-year-old stamp collector.

  * * *

  Paralyzed by indecision, he did nothing. Rebecca eventually called between clients and said she’d be off at nine, could they get a late dinner?

  Yes. He was open.

  By eight-thirty he was showered and ready. He had taken longer than his usual nanosecond to decide what to wear. He only owned six shirts, so that reduced the decision making somewhat. When he heard a car pull into the driveway he was out the door like a kid after an ice cream truck.

  It was not Rebecca. It was Chrissy.

  “Hi!” She strode toward him, and he knew she thought the look of anticipation on his face had been for her. She threw her arms around him and when he responded in kind—not knowing what else to do—she actually lifted her feet up so he was carrying her for a few moments. His back twanged indignantly.

  “I was going to say I was in the neighborhood.” She
grinned coyly after he’d nearly dropped her. “But I wasn’t. I came over specifically to see you. On purpose.”

  “Oh, that’s so . . . great. I was thinking I should call.” In truth he’d been apprehensively avoiding it. In the past, he’d only ever had to remind the woman that he’d been clear it wasn’t a relationship. But he didn’t have that to fall back on this time.

  Chrissy was looking up at him expectantly now, but her smile had dimmed, as if she were just getting the barest whiff of something about to spoil. “What’s up?” she said.

  He stammered and stumbled through an overgrown forest of words: how great it was to spend time with her, old friends hanging out, so pretty, so smart, such a good mom . . .

  At first she affected a slightly perplexed expression. Then she just looked annoyed. “You’re breaking it off.”

  “Well . . . it’s not that I don’t . . .”

  She gave the little head-wag/eye-roll. “Sean Doran is dumping me,” she muttered disgustedly to herself.

  “No!” he said. “Dumping . . . that’s . . . such a harsh word.”

  Then she put her hands up, lacquered nails rising like parapets above her slim fingers. “Please,” she said. “Just. Stop. Talking.”

  Sean stood there stupidly, watching her pull out of his driveway, feeling sick and exuberant all at once. He was still standing there a few minutes later when Rebecca pulled in. He got in the passenger side. “Hey,” he said breezily. He hoped it was breezily.

  “Hey.” She smiled. He leaned over to kiss her, and got her cheek, the one that bulged out a little. She turned to peck him back, but he hadn’t actually withdrawn from his peck, letting his lips linger an extra second against the warm satin of her skin. His lips were positioned perfectly for hers. His hand came up to the back of her head and his fingers filtered into the downy hair at the nape of her neck. And then they were making out. Right there in the driveway.

  After a few minutes she pulled back, and so he pulled back. Following her lead was so much easier than deciding a course of action for himself. She looked at him and a crooked little smile curled around the corners of her mouth. He smiled, too. She laughed, putting her fingers up to her lips. “This is so weird,” she said from behind them.

  “Yeah?”

  “No, I mean good weird. Unexpected. Right? Aren’t you surprised?”

  “Well, after the other night—”

  “No, the whole thing. Did you see it coming? I did not see it coming.”

  “Not like a month ago . . . but maybe two weeks ago.”

  “Two whole weeks?”

  Sean felt like his brain was at warp speed, careening through hyperspace to locate the correct response to each of her questions. “I don’t know. Yeah. I mean . . . I’m attracted to you. I guess that’s pretty obvious.” He watched her face for clues as to whether his spaceship had landed on the right answer planet, or whether he was even in the right galaxy.

  “But you didn’t used to be.” This was a question, too.

  “Well, I wasn’t un-attracted to you, I just didn’t . . . I guess I thought of you as a friend . . . and then . . . that . . . changed.” It was exhausting, this intergalactic answer-locating business. “How about you?” he said, to take himself off the hot seat.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, when did you realize that you were . . . um . . . interested?”

  A blush crept out of the top of her peasant blouse and up her neck. The blush said, always.

  * * *

  They went to a funky storefront restaurant called Pizza My Heart that had mismatched chairs and Frank Sinatra music playing. Things got a little dicey when they were negotiating pizza toppings—he liked meat and spicy stuff, she was more into broccoli and mushrooms. They had to send the waitress away twice while they were deciding and in the end ordered something that was completely different on one half than it was on the other.

  But then, like dance partners who had finally found their mutual tempo, they talked. Sean told her all about the meeting with Claire Lindquist, knowing she’d be interested even though it had nothing to do with her. She told him how her parents were considering leaving their Floridian trailer park paradise to come up and “help” her move the furniture.

  “No,” Sean told her. “Absolutely not. That is such a bad idea.”

  “I know, okay? But what do I say—‘I don’t want you here’? It sounds so ungrateful.”

  “Listen, I heard you on the phone—you were playing them like violins, saying how considerate they were and everything. You know how to handle them, Rebecca, you just have to remember that you know.”

  She smiled at him, half grateful, half amused. He wanted to crawl over the table and kiss that smile. “Hey,” she teased, “if the third-world nurse gig doesn’t work out, you’d be an excellent life coach.”

  No I wouldn’t, he almost said. You have no idea how many answers I don’t have.

  After dinner, he put an arm around her as they walked back to the car, and she slid hers around his waist. It felt so good to stroll down the sidewalk, hip to hip, and as they waited at a curb for traffic to pass, he turned and kissed her head. She gave him a little squeeze in response, and he thought, This is what it would be like, having someone.

  And it did not feel like handcuffs.

  When they got in the car she started the motor but didn’t pull out. “Um . . .” She cut her eyes toward him. He worried for a moment that she was hesitating before crushing him with the news that he couldn’t come over. But then she raised her eyebrows.

  He could feel himself grinning like an idiot as they drove to her house.

  When they walked through the door she said, “Do you want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” He pulled her up close and kissed her. Her hands slid up under his shirt back, fingernails skimming across the surface of his skin. He ran his hand down the back of her jeans and pulled one of her thighs up to his hip. She let out a soft little sound in the back of her throat, and the blood sluiced through him so that he felt he couldn’t press hard enough against her, and so he released her leg and walked her backward to the couch, letting her down onto it and himself down onto her. And for a moment, the relief of pressing against her was so great he was certain his brain would burst into flames, but then it was suddenly desperately unsatisfying to have anything between them, and he rose off her so they could remove their clothes in a flurry of tossed shirts and flung undergarments.

  She reached up to stroke him, and he thought his heart would seize. He froze there kneeling over her until he almost lost control, and then he leaned down, stabilizing himself with a hand against the couch, the other reaching between her legs. He kissed her neck and her breasts until she pulled him down onto her, into her, and nothing in the world seemed to exist except her.

  * * *

  “Hey,” he whispered into her hair just as her room was starting to become visible around them in the predawn light. “Where were you the other night when you said you had plans?”

  He wasn’t even sure she was awake, half thinking this was a trial run before he asked for real. But then her finger began to run lightly across his knuckles, fingering them like worry beads. He felt her chest expand. “I had dinner with a guy that I used to be with. We broke up about a year ago, and lately he’s been calling because he wants to get back together.”

  The sudden pounding of Sean’s heart was amplified by the fact that he was holding his breath. “Oh,” he said. “So . . .”

  “So I told him I had reconnected with an old friend, and something was happening but I wasn’t sure what, and we could still hang out but I couldn’t consider being with him until . . . things ­resolved.”

  Sean began to breathe again, because it was good that she’d told the guy no. Temporarily at least. Until things “resolved.”

 
“I’m trying to be honest,” she said.

  “No, I appreciate it.”

  “But you’re not saying anything.”

  “I’m not really sure what to say. I guess I’m not clear what you mean by ‘resolved.’ ”

  Slowly she rotated toward him so that they faced each other, though it was still too dark to see clearly. “Sean,” she murmured, and her voice was soothing, conciliatory. But also a little sad. He was always amazed by what he could hear in her voice when he couldn’t see her. “I know you’re leaving. Being here in Belham is a temporary detour for you, and I’m fine with that. I’d never ask you to stay because I know you’d just get all conflicted and start to resent me.” She kissed him lightly on the chin, as if to prove how fine with it she was. “Let’s just enjoy this,” she said. “Let’s just be together until you leave, and not worry about what happens after.”

  It was so reasonable. He wanted very much to enjoy this, and not worry about anything. However, he couldn’t help but wonder if her enjoyment was made easier by knowing there was another guy waiting in the wings.

  * * *

  By three o’clock he’d shopped for groceries, vacuumed, paid bills, WD-40’d several squeaky door hinges, and blasted the tub grout with some hideous cleaning product that smelled like an atomic bleach bomb. Still three more hours until Rebecca was off work.

  He took George for a long walk and ended up in the vicinity of Our Lady Comforter of the Afflicted Church. It was almost four by then, and Mass was about to start. Sean sat down to rest on a bench near a statue of St. Mary.

  He did not want to go to Mass. He hated Mass, he reminded himself. It was always a disaster for him these days. God was MIA.

  And yet, it was sort of like sticking his tongue into the empty socket of a pulled tooth. For some reason he kept feeling for it to make sure it was still missing. Looping the dog’s leash through the arm of the bench, he went inside and sat in the last pew.