by Anne Dayton
“Riley, wait.” Tom chases after me, but the RealMobile comes into view up the block.
I turn back on my heels and level my eyes at his sorry head. “What I need from you is to forget I ever existed.”
He laughs and reaches out for me. “Stop acting like such a baby.”
I dodge his hands and keep walking backward. How could he have pulled the wool over my eyes? Now that the scales have fallen away, he’s so transparent. “Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t contact me in any way.”
“Fine. You’re too immature anyway.”
I open my mouth, thinking up a thousand insults, but I stop myself. He’s trying to draw me in, get me to scream and yell at him until I feel better, and then he’ll weasel his way back inside my heart.
“Bye, Tom.”
His mouth hangs open in shock.
I leave him standing in the dark, looking scared, alone, and lost. But for a change, I feel found.
41
I yawn and twist on the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room. We woke up early and did the world’s fastest tour of the Academy of Sciences, then came straight here. It seemed easier to really go than to answer all of Michael’s questions about why we weren’t going. I don’t need a meltdown today of all days.
“I’m sorry, who did you say you are again?” A small line forms between the receptionist’s eyebrows as she squints at me.
I gulp. “We’re here to see Dr. Matt.” I motion at Michael, who’s happily counting to himself. “Michael McGee. Dr. Matt’s expecting us.”
“Yeeees.” She tilts her head to the side and makes a mark in her appointment book. “I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you.” I nod at her, trying with every inch of my being to look twenty years older.
“Is Chase coming too? And Jamal?” Michael rocks back and forth in his chair. The sound of kids playing drifts down the hall, and he rocks faster.
“No, we’re only going to see Dr. Matt today.” I block all doubts out of my mind. We’ve made it this far. It’s got to work, for Michael’s sake. “I thought it’d be nice to say hi.”
We both turn at the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Michael is on his feet in seconds. He flies down the hall and yells hi at an Asian man wearing glasses.
“Michael, it’s good to see you.” Dr. Matt does not reach for Michael or wave. He smiles and searches for eye contact with him.
Michael blinks and starts flapping his arms by his side. The arm flapping was one of the first signs that my baby brother was different from other kids. At first we thought it was kind of cute and even called him Birdie, but once the doctors told us what it was about, the flapping became a sign of the struggles he would always face.
“I’ve missed you this year. All your old friends miss you.”
I smile as I hold out my hand to Dr. Matt. “Riley McGee.”
He shakes my hand and then peers behind me. “Did your mother step out for a minute?”
“Duh! She’s not here.” Michael’s tone is teasing, and he waits for Dr. Matt to get the joke.
I motion down the hall and begin walking. “Can we talk for a moment in your office?” Dr. Matt is frozen in place, but I keep wandering down the hall, hoping to pass a door labeled something obvious like “Dr. Matthew Nguyen.” I stop several yards away. “Please? I’ll explain the situation in private.”
Michael runs down the hall after me, oblivious. “Come on, Dr. Matt.”
Dr. Matt glances back at the receptionist, who is doing her best to look like she’s not paying attention, but her People magazine is drooping. He sighs and walks down the hall, then stops short and walks into a room I already passed.
Michael and I wander in behind him. He motions at two chairs on the other side of a modern white desk, presses the heel of his hand into his right eye, and sits down.
“Look, I can explain everything, but . . .” I glance nervously at Michael. It’s tempting to try to talk over his head, but even though he misses social cues, he’s not dumb. I know he understands a lot more of what’s going on at home than he lets on.
Dr. Matt clears his voice. “Michael, I need your help today. Can you help me?”
This is a mere formality with most people, but this question is full of meaning for Aspies. On good days, Michael can help. But when he has sensory overload, when he’s having a bad day, when something is unnerving him about his surroundings, he really can’t help. Dr. Matt really wants to know how he’s doing today.
“Yes,” Michael says into his lap. “I’ll help.”
“Wonderful.” Dr. Matt stands up, circles around the desk, and opens the door of his office. “We got a new game for the PlayStation, and the guys are stuck on level three.”
“Okay.” Michael joins him at the door. As they walk down the hall, I hear him say, apropos of nothing, “The albino alligator had seventy-five teeth. That’s about average.” I smile to myself. I thought I’d never tear him away from the alligator at the Academy.
When Dr. Matt comes back into the room, his face is sour. He sits down behind his desk and sighs. “Your parents aren’t here, are they?”
I shake my head. Though Dr. Matt’s appearance is impeccable, with short nails, a neat haircut, and a crisp white doctor’s coat, his office is messy and disorganized. There are tall stacks of manila folders on his desk, his computer is from the dark ages, and there are books stacked all over the floor.
“And it wasn’t your mom who contacted me?”
I shake my head again.
He peels off his wire-rimmed glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I should have known. They didn’t exactly part on the best of terms with me or the center.”
“Really?” I remember the day we picked Michael up as being tense, but I thought it was because we’d all missed him so much. “What happened?”
“Riley . . .” Dr. Matt hesitates as if he’s not sure if he has my name right. “I can’t discuss a patient with anyone other than his parents or his legal guardian. And I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There’s a better way to do this.”
“No, wait!” I bolt to my feet. After everything I did to get us here and all that’s on the line, I’m not going to let him shuffle us right back out again. “I’m his sister, which means that someday I will be his legal guardian. Did you ever think of that?” I gulp at my own words. I’m not sure if I’ve ever admitted that to myself before. After Mom and Dad are gone, I will be Michael’s keeper. The responsibility sends my head spinning.
“But you’re not now, and the law is very clear on this point.” Dr. Matt takes a folder labeled McGee, Michael and shuts it. “Please, encourage your parents to give me a call.”
“Don’t you think I thought of that? It won’t work.” I press my hands to the desk and lean across it. “I’m sorry I tricked you. I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do, but I can’t watch Michael flounder like this anymore, and Mom and Dad are in denial or something.”
Dr. Matt stands, pushes his chair under his desk, and motions to the door. “I wish I could help you. Please know how much I wish I could.” He takes a few steps toward the door.
“Okay, wait.” My brain runs a million miles a second. There has to be a loophole in here somewhere, and I’m going to find it for Michael’s sake. “All I’m asking is that you go in there and talk to Michael. You’re allowed to talk to him, right? You don’t have to do an official assessment or anything like that—just talk to him like a friend. Ask him how he’s doing and stuff.”
Dr. Matt’s back is to me, and he’s holding the brass doorknob in his hand. His shoulders slump, and I hear him draw in a long breath.
“He asks about you a lot,” I say quietly. I squeeze my eyes shut and send up silent prayers, begging for a miracle.
“Stay here,” Dr. Matt finally says and walks out of the room carrying my highest hopes with him. Twenty grueling minutes later he returns. He seems shaken, and his eyes are a little watery.
“Riley, I’m going
to level with you.” Dr. Matt sighs. “Not as a doctor, but as a friend. I’m telling you that he needs to be in a special program.”
“Did you see the hand flapping?” I stand and take a few steps toward him. “When he first came home from UCSF, he almost never did that anymore.”
Dr. Matt nods slowly. “I noticed.” The sound of a meltdown happening a few doors down drifts into the room. “But more importantly, he’s deeply unhappy. It broke my heart to hear him talk about high school.”
“I couldn’t watch him all the time, but I really tried.” A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard to push it down.
“It’s not only that. The way the classes are taught doesn’t fit his needs. He can’t follow what’s going on in half of them.” Dr. Matt goes over to his bookshelf and rummages around. He finds a book with a thick spine on the third shelf and hands it to me. How to Teach Autistic Kids. “Here, take this. I think you’ll find it really interesting.”
I take the heavy textbook from his hands. “Thank you.” I wait for him to say more, but he stays silent. Am I supposed to leave now? This is all I get? A book?
No, no, no. I can’t leave now that we’ve agreed that Michael is totally depressed. I flip idly through the book, wondering how to push the issue.
“Riley, is there someone your parents might listen to?” Dr. Matt takes his glasses off and begins to polish the lenses on his shirttails. “Can you reach out to someone, explain what’s going on, and ask them to make your parents listen?”
Tom’s mom is the head of the faculty here. Surely Mom and Dad would listen to her, but that might not be such a good idea unless I want that creep back in my life. Hmm . . . I could read this book and sit Mom and Dad down and try to make them hear me. But they’d never listen to a teenager, especially one who’s not going to college.
“I’d do it myself, but they were quite upset with my assessment of Michael last summer.” Dr. Matt puts his glasses back on. “They made it pretty clear that my opinion was no longer wanted.”
What I need is some kind of expert they trust. An impartial observer. Then it’s as though there’s a break in the clouds. All of a sudden the answer is as clear as day. I grab my purse off the chair and loop it over my arm.
“Actually, I do know someone.”
42
I wait till I’m back on the freeway to make the call. Michael stares out the window while the suburbs of San Francisco fade away. As the phone rings, I pray that my luck hasn’t run out quite yet.
“Riley?” Ms. Moore’s voice is high. “Is that you? Is everything okay?”
Maybe she sounds weird because I’m calling on a Saturday afternoon, or because we haven’t really talked in months, but I kind of doubt it. Ms. Moore has a way of reading minds or something. “I need to talk to you. Do you have time, um, now or maybe today?”
“Yes, of course. Where are you right now?” I can hear wind whipping around in the background. It’s been an especially stormy April, and the sky is overcast and moody today.
“I’m coming back from San Francisco.”
“Do you have a pen? Let me give you the address.”
I find a pen and piece of paper in the console while Michael reminds me that talking on the phone while driving is illegal. It’s not a threat that he’s going to tattle on me, just a fact. “Okay, I’m ready.”
She reads out an address to me. I know the general area, but what on earth is she doing all the way on the south side of town?
“Are you sure now is fine?” I try to sound extra desperate, even though I’m giving her a chance to wiggle out of it.
“Of course.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been hoping you’d call.”
***
Asign at the end of the driveway says The Mackinaws and has a horseshoe nailed to it. The closest neighbors must be a mile down the road. I turn down the long dirt driveway, not really sure where I’m heading.
“Where are we?” Michael rolls down the window and studies the tall trees that form a semicircle around the low, no-nonsense brick structure.
“I need to talk to Ms. Moore really quick, then we’ll go home.” I stop at the end of the driveway and shut off the van. There are no signs of life anywhere. “Ready?” I smile and pretend I know exactly where I’m going. Michael shrugs, and we both get out of the van. I slam my door hard, hoping someone will hear the noise and come find us.
I take a few steps toward the front door, then stop. Ms. Moore was obviously outside when I called. Maybe we should circle around to the backyard?
“I want to go home.” Michael scowls, and I see that he’s had enough for one day. I’m probably five minutes from a meltdown.
“But then you’d miss the surprise I have for you!” A familiar man’s voice says.
“Nick?” I turn in time to see Zoe’s brother walk around the corner of the house.
“In the flesh.” He clomps toward us in his giant work boots.
“Natalie’s around back with the surprise.” He motions for us to come with him, and within seconds Michael is at his side, peppering him with questions. I follow behind them, lost in my thoughts. Is Nick dating Ms. Moore? Does Zoe know? And what is this surprise?
As we make our way back, we pass misshapen hedges and lumber through high grass until we finally reach the expansive backyard. Well, it’s more of a back lot, really. How many acres do these people own? To the left, past an old, sagging badminton net, there’s a barn. I see Ms. Moore standing in front of it, smiling and waving, and I’m filled with remorse. She’s clearly on some kind of weird horsey date with Nick, and we’re interrupting it. It was not a good time for her, and she didn’t hesitate to say yes. And the last time I talked to her, I . . .
Michael walks over, says hi to Ms. Moore, and wanders into the barn. Nick disappears in after him.
I linger at the door of the barn with Ms. Moore. The afternoon light is fading already, casting long beams across the hay-strewn floor. I swallow back a lump in my throat and give myself a pep talk. Why is it so hard to say those three little words?
“Listen,” I say, mustering as much courage as I can. “I wanted to tell you how sorr—”
“I know.” Ms. Moore holds up a hand. “I appreciate what you’re going to say, but it’s not necessary. We all go through rough periods.”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s okay to abuse the people who are trying to help you.” I cringe, thinking back to all the ways I shut her out this year, all the quiet betrayals of my thoughts. “It’s no way to treat a person, and I’m really sorry.”
“Well, thanks. You’re long forgiven, but I am cheered by your apology. It shows you’ve grown this year.” She stuffs her hands in her pockets and begins to wander away from the barn door.
I follow a few steps behind her and chew on my lip. “I don’t know if you’re going to think I’m all grown-up once you hear what I’ve done.”
A loud, happy neigh peals across the empty expanse.
“Whatever you did, you can tell me, and I’ll try to help.” We stop at the edge of a fenced-in ring, and I loop my arms over the highest wooden plank and stare into the distance. Ms. Moore leans her back against a solid wooden post and looks off in the other direction.
“I did some things that were technically wrong, but kind of right too.”
Ms. Moore nods, and I try to explain everything, about how my parents didn’t really want her advice and neither did I, but then Michael didn’t get better and I felt him slipping away. I talk about finding Michael’s medical records and breaking into Mom’s e-mail account. Finally, I confess everything about our visit with Dr. Matt this morning and how he saw how serious the problem is.
“I know I shouldn’t have lied and snuck around and all that other stuff, but right now I need your help with my parents.” The sun begins to slide behind the tops of the trees in the distance, and the breeze kicks up again. “I can’t watch Michael be unhappy anymore. It’s killing me.”
Ms. Moore casts her eyes to the
barn on her right. We can hear the muffled voices, the jingling of the bits, and the occasional horse nicker from inside.
“That’s the funny thing about right and wrong,” she says quietly. “As you get older, the lines get kind of blurry. What is wrong in one situation can be a hundred percent right in another.” She pushes herself up and sits on the top rail of the fence. I follow her, and then pull my arms down and hug them to my body.
What’s she saying? That right and wrong can change? Sometimes the best you can do is some of both? Choose the least terrible option? “I hate this. I really don’t know if I’ll ever get it right.”
Ms. Moore smiles and laughs. “That’s how you know you’re getting it right. It’s when you stop questioning that you have to worry.” She jumps down off the rail, takes a few steps back toward the barn, and motions with her head. “C’mon. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
I jog to catch up to her. For being so short, she’s surprisingly quick. “Does that mean you’re going to help me?” Surely Mom and Dad will listen to her if she confronts them a second time. How stubborn can they be? “I know you can convince my parents.”
She links her arm through mine and ushers me to the barn door. “Not me, Riley. We are going to change their minds. Together.”
“They won’t listen to me. Trust me, they think I’m still a kid. They won’t go for it unless you convince them.”
“Well then, we’ll just have to show them that you’ve grown up.” Before I can ask what the plan is, she’s pulling me into the dark barn. Nick is standing next to my brother in front of the second stall on the left. A middle-aged couple is hovering there too.
“Riley!” Michael flaps his arms. “There’s a baby horse over here. She’s a filly. The girls are called fillies, and the boys are called colts. She’s only two weeks and three days old.”
