Come Undone

by AJ Matthews

  Carts crash together when the porter brings in more from the parking lot, and the scent of greasy food in the restaurant at the front of the store makes me hungry. I release Trini’s hand and tilt my head at the fast-food place. “I’m gonna …”

  She turns a slight shade of green. Her stomach must still hurt. She nods, and walks over to sit on the bench near the registers while I head into the restaurant, which thankfully has no lines.

  I order the same thing every time, but I still glance up at the menu board while ordering, like I’m deciding what to get. It’s a tactic for avoiding eye contact.

  “Double cheeseburger, regular fry, large soda.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Whenever someone asks me this question, I want to snap, if I wanted anything else, I’d say so. Mom and Da say this reaction is also inappropriate. Instead, I smile and make the briefest eye contact. “No, thank you.”

  “Three twenty-nine, please.”

  I open my wallet and hand the cashier a five dollar bill and count silently as she makes change into my cupped hand. I’m not so skilled with numbers—I’m not Rain Man—but I do count things out, like beats in my head.

  “Thank you, please come see us again.”

  Not likely, but I don’t speak the words. I’m getting pretty good at suppressing things I shouldn’t say.

  They call my number, and I grab my tray. I fill up my drink cup, then sit and scarf down my burger and fries. Trini probably doesn’t want me eating in front of her. I throw my trash away and get a drink refill before joining her by the bench.

  “Hey, Cheese.” She flinches, casting her eyes to the ground. I am such an idiot. “I-I’m sorry. Should I not call you that? I mean because it’s food?”

  She laughs, but it doesn’t sound like a real laugh. Like it came from her throat and not her belly. “No. It’s okay. Reminds me of when we first met, and things were so easy. We can’t wait to grow up, and when we do, we discover it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Cracked up to be? Right. Not easy or fun or what we expected. The meanings of these idioms confuse me sometimes, and I need to dig deep into my brain—there’s another one—to remember what they mean.

  Trini grabs my hand and squeezes again. She is attempting to comfort me, but her touch makes me all kinds of uncomfortable inside and out. Since I kissed her, my body reacts differently to her. Squirmy inside. Painful outside, in the form of aching erections when she touches me. I never wanted my romantic feelings for her to change our friendship, but the change happened long ago.

  She steers me in the direction of the men’s department.

  “What did you do with your clothes, anyway? I mean the ones I …”

  “Threw up on?” Oops. I didn’t mean to say the words out loud.

  She gives another hollow-sounding laugh. “Yeah, those.”

  “Bagged them and threw them in the motel dumpster out back while you were in the shower.” I shudder at the memory of how gross the dumpster area was—rotting food and flies and gunk oozing from the metal bin across the ground. I almost ran back to the room when the hulking metal bin came into sight. I couldn’t leave the clothes in the room, rotten stench and all, since I’d used them to wipe up the chunks from the floor before mopping up the residue with a wet towel from housekeeping.

  “Ah.” Her hand tightens on mine, maybe because she gets how difficult clean-up duty must have been for me. “Thanks, Mac. I’d be lost without you today.”

  Not the first time she’s said those words, but it means more to me now more than ever. We get to the men’s department, and before I pick out any clothes, I ask, “How long is this going to take?”

  She rummages through a display of vintage graphic T-shirts. “How long is what going to take?”

  “This trip.”

  She stops, holding out a shirt and staring at the vintage soda ad on a white background. “I’m not sure. The drive is less than eight hours from here. After that, who knows? You should go home. I just wanted to buy you stuff to replace the clothes I ruined.”

  “No.” The refusal sounded so much more forceful in my head, but the word barely squeaks out between my slightly parted lips.

  “I mean it. This trip, it’s my battle. What about your routine? You’ve gone so far out of your way …” Her voice dies off into a hush, and I realize she fears the same thing I do.

  A meltdown of epic proportions could come on at any time. The right combination—or should I say, the wrong combination—of sensory stimulants might set off a reaction I can’t control. I take guanfacine to help curb impulses, but sometimes the urges get to be too much and I will hum and rock back and forth. I’ve sat down on the floor in a public building and refused to get up, singing and humming and spinning.

  It’s truly embarrassing for anyone with me. But contrary to popular belief, I’m embarrassed by my stimming too, it’s just that nothing else calms me.

  “Please stop. You sound like my mom. I’m fine. So how long? A few days? Let’s get this shirt.” I take the tee from her, and select two others, checking to make sure they’re tagless. Tags make me crazy. I also find two pairs of shorts in my size. I can wear one pair more than once if we’re gone longer than two days.

  “Let’s go find earplugs in case you need them.”

  It’s the practical thing to do. I want to be strong for my friend, but I am acutely aware of my weakness. If I don’t do something to muffle the noise if we end up in another situation like this, things could get ugly.

  We find the earplugs in the pharmacy section and head to the registers. Trini tries to pay, but I slide my debit card out, swipe, and enter my PIN before she can get her wallet out of her humongous purse. I silently pray there’s enough cash in my account to cover the sixty-something-dollar total.

  APPROVED.

  The comforting word flashes on the screen and my bunched-up shoulders relax.

  We head back to the truck and I drive to the motel. She’s still pale and walking slowly, so I tell her she can drive in the morning.

  “Why the morning? Can’t we leave for Savannah this evening?”

  “The room is paid for till tomorrow, right?”

  She nods as we enter the room, and I close the door and survey the damage to the doorframe. Shit. The repairs could cost us a couple hundred dollars.

  “Let’s rest before we drive any further. If I don’t sleep, my meltdown odds multiply.”

  I look from the door back to her, sitting on the edge of the bed now. She opens her mouth, probably to deny she’s worried, but closes it without saying a word.

  I toss the crinkly bag full of clothes on the desk in the corner and notice the broken table. I’d forgotten about it.

  Something else to pay for. I walk over to the table and kneel to pick up the pieces. Trini sighs, her breath a rush of air in the still room. “I’m gonna go down to the office in a minute and tell them about the damage.”

  “I got this. No worries.” Except, yeah, worries, because I don’t have the money to cover the damages. I’ll call Da later and ask if I can borrow more money.

  “No, let me use the credit card Mom gave me for emergencies. Apparently, me being a fat-ass cow created this emergency.” She motions at the table and I scoot on my knees over to where she’s sitting on the bed. I take her hands in mine this time, hoping I can comfort her the way she tried to comfort me in the store.

  “Stop. You are not a cow, you’re …” I swallow over the lump of fear caught in my throat. “You’re beautiful. I’ll pay you back for the damage to the door. I broke it, not you.”

  She withdraws her hand from mine and swipes at her eyes, sniffling. This means she could start crying heavily, but I hope she’s done. She smiles, and her eyes crinkle up at the corners. I made her happy, which makes me happier than I can accurately describe with words. My insides swirl around again. “Thanks, Mac. You’re the best.”

  I struggle with how to respond. I often don’t believe I’m the best at anythin
g, but we both need to be positive, so I respond with humor. “I know.”

  She chuckles, and I laugh along with her. It seems the appropriate thing to do. She drags her other hand from my grasp and stands. “Okay, I’m gonna go to the office now. Wish me luck.”

  I stand next to her, staring into her soft, round face. A tremulous smile replaces the confident laugh. I want to protect her, pick her up and carry her from the pain of the last few weeks. I want to make her smile for real again. “Do you want me to go?”

  She shakes her head, her black curls falling free from where they were tucked behind her ear, brushing against her light brown skin where my fingers itch to touch. “You shouldn’t come with me. You should go home. I got this. I’m gonna be okay.”

  Her tone doesn’t match her words, but again, she needs to feel in control and fight her battles on her own.

  She thinks she doesn’t need me. At least not for this, but only hours ago, she asked me to come with her.

  I hope I can prove to her how I can be a loyal friend, but also so much more.

  “Key West has long been considered a place for ‘misfits.’ People usually don’t ask too many questions, because they don’t want to provide any answers.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  THE HOTEL OWNER follows me back to the room. He inspects the damage, murmuring “Oh” and “Mm-hmm.”

  He eyes Mac in the chair in the corner. “Is everything okay here?”

  Mr. Frank, as he introduced himself, may be asking me if I am being threatened by Mac. This could be a natural conclusion, given that he showed up after I registered and he broke the door.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Frank. My friend broke the door down when I didn’t answer his knock. He peeked in the window and saw me collapsed on the floor. I passed out and fell into the table.”

  He nods and gives Mac a once-over. Mac has his ear buds in and is paying attention only to his phone. I guess he approves of Mac’s “gentle giant” appearance and believes me. When he tells me the repairs for both the door and table total about one hundred dollars, I fight back tears.

  “That’s all?”

  “Yup, little lady.”

  While I usually bristle at being called “little lady,” I let the comment slide because the man is about eighty years old, and he’s letting me off cheap on this, I sense.

  He continues in his cracking voice, “My grandson’s handy with a hammer and saw, and I can replace the table for about thirty dollars down at the super center.”

  Mr. Frank is being so kind, when he could be angry that the two of us—one of whom isn’t registered—damaged his property.

  He pats my head. “No worries. Let’s get you moved to another room so you can lock up safely tonight and have some privacy.”

  He directs a wink at Mac, who isn’t paying attention to the old man, but I flush at Mr. Frank’s innuendo. I guess my story may sound far-fetched, but it’s pretty close to the truth. I place a hand on Mr. Frank’s arm and gently lead him to the door. We do need privacy, but not for the reasons Mr. Frank assumes. We need rest, and Mac wants a shower.

  I follow him to the office and get a key to a new room.

  When I return, I tap Mac on the shoulder, and he jumps a bit. When he gets engrossed in something, he totally zones. There are pros and cons to this behavior. When he needs to, he can internalize and block things out, but if he gets overwhelmed before he can self-soothe, he retreats into himself and can’t be moved or reasoned with. The situation is more difficult if it occurs in public. Luckily, a few years have passed since anything major like that has happened.

  He yanks out the ear buds, tilting his head to one side and rubbing his chin.

  “We’re moving.”

  He nods and gets up to carry our stuff to the second floor.

  Now we have privacy. Mac can shower, and we can sleep, then get up early and head for Savannah.

  A fresh start for me, or the end of something that never had a chance to begin.

  “Shower me with your sweet song/Soothe my raw nerves and please/Don’t string me along.”—Lyrics from “Your Song” by Mac Kelly

  I WISH I HAD MY GUITAR.

  Words don’t come easily, but the notes I pluck out on the taut strings flow like a river after a rainstorm.

  I’m getting better at coming up with metaphors too, but in my head. Like a good comeback, I always say them too late to matter or make sense.

  Trini is sound asleep at seven in the evening. She still hasn’t eaten, and I can’t blame her. When I’ve thrown up, my stomach will reject anything I try to eat for hours, sometimes even a day or two.

  Her pain makes me want to punch Dean again for hurting her. I’m mad at Trini’s mom for keeping the big secret from her and hurting her, too.

  I’m also partially to blame. What I did was selfish and contributed to her pain and confusion. I want to punch myself, but I don’t. Nothing good comes from self-injurious behavior.

  Instead, I rise from the chair and pace the room twice before stopping near the window. I hold my left arm out and bent at an angle, like I’m holding the neck of my guitar, and with my right hand, I pick at the imaginary strings.

  I close my eyes and the tune blooms in my head. The colors of the song glow beneath my eyelids. A soft, almost pinkish white fades into a bright yellow. The words of Faith Hill’s “Breathe” echo in my ears before I realize I’m singing them out loud. The choice is odd for me —I’m not a huge country music fan—but I learned to play the song for Mom and Da’s fifteenth anniversary. The song tells a story I relate to, not about a torrid affair, but of a steadfast, powerful love.

  The sheets on the bed rustle, and I open my eyes to find Trini staring up at me. My muscles stiffen, straight to my toes, now gripping the carpet through my socks. How long had she been awake?

  She smiles, her eyes turning to me. My own lips curve into an unsure smile. She draws her knees up and hugs them to her chest. “Wow. You always think I tell you this because you’re my best friend, but Mac, you are so talented.”

  I nod and close my eyes. I can’t look at her anymore. I can’t explain why, but it hurts. “Th-thanks.”

  “I want more people to hear you. Your voice is such a gift.”

  “People do get to hear me sing.” I am thankful every day my uncle lets me play at his restaurant. The place has a few hundred patrons every night I’m in there, especially during peak season like now. I dream of playing in front of larger audiences. I’m not sure I want to be a rock star. Celebrity life seems so alien, like the lives of most people.

  I don’t know what more to add to the conversation. It’s rude, but I turn away.

  I dream of making people happy with my music, but I’m afraid of everything required to make my dreams of a bigger audience for my music come true.

  A common misconception holds that people with autism don’t have dreams, that we’re happy with sitting around and not going out or doing anything. I’m clueless about how to get started.

  Okay, not true. I know where to begin. We talked about this in my life skills group. The start means leaving Key West for a place with larger venues and people who can pay me money. It means being on my own, which scares the shit out of me.

  I get around fine by myself in Key West. However, the idea of learning a new town and living with new people makes my skin crawl.

  The toilet flushes and the sink runs. I’d been so absorbed in my own thoughts, I hadn’t heard Trini get out of bed. She comes back out and we make eye contact. She slips her hands in her pockets to keep her from picking at her fingernails. She must be nervous. The “hand in the pocket” thing is a habit we share, and I do it for that reason.

  “So what now?” My voice cracks a little. I mean “what now” as in, do we get something to eat or rest more? But I also mean, “We never discussed the kiss from last night.”

  We could pretend the kiss didn’t happen. That’s what I kinda want to do, but the more I think about her lips, and the way they softe
ned a little when I kissed her, makes me want to kiss her again.

  I won’t, though. Whatever else happens, she has to initiate. I’m along for the ride now, literally, when we get back on the road to Savannah.

  She taps the toes of her left foot and shrugs her shoulders. “What do you want to do?”

  My stomach growls. There’s no surprise. I’m hungry almost all the time. Like an hour after I eat, I want to eat again. Good thing Da thought to give me protein bars, or I’d be dying since I last ate hours ago.

  Trini laughs, the melodious sound striking the right chord inside me. My gut tightens a little, but in a good way. “Ha, there’s old news. You want to eat? There’s a Chinese place across the street. Is that good?”

  I nod and grab my shoes to slip them on my feet. Though they’re lace-ups, I never got the hang of tying.

  “Let’s go get you pepper steak and white rice.” Trini picks up the key from the dresser and brushes her hair out of her eyes again. My gaze follows every move of her fingers, and I breathe hard, like I’ll die if I don’t get oxygen soon.

  If she catches me staring or notices my weird breathing, she doesn’t say a word. We step outside, and she locks the door behind us. She slips the key, and then her hands, into her pocket. I want to hold her hand, but she’s made the action impossible.

  We walk across the access road to get to the strip center where the Chinese place is located. It’s not the Great Wall of China in Key West, but the menus at Chinese carry-outs are similar so at least I can get my favorite. We order the food to go. Between the fish tank and the buzzing lights and bells dinging from the kitchen, there’s way too much going on to stay. I’ve had my fill of sensory to last a few weeks on the super center trip today.

  The only additional sensory input I can take today is the press of Trini’s skin against mine, but the chances of it happening ever again are, as Da says, like a snowball’s chance in Hades.

  “Once the camera rolls, many of the musicians forget about being filmed and talk like I’m an old friend. Others though, are always performing for an audience, keeping up the façade, never letting anyone see inside.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise