The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  Dylan rubbed his palms on his cargo shorts. “I’m not saying I forgive him. I’m just saying it sucks he had the worst case scenario happen to him when it didn’t have to.”

  “Don’t forget he also chose to ignore his doctors’ advice for his own injuries, and then proceeded to completely drop the parenthood ball in such a spectacular manner we would have been better off if both of them had died.” I stood and leaned on the side of the gurney, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Yeah, but I can see how it happened, Dane. Can’t you?”

  “Sure I can. But I see people all the time who have it worse. Lost limbs, debilitating illnesses, people who do make the right choices and still get screwed with diseases that leave them forever changed. He gave up. Instead of making up for his mistakes, he quit. If he’d given a damn, if he’d apologized and tried to do better—I don’t even mean if he’d handled his recovery and single parenthood perfectly, because that’s not possible—if he’d just tried, maybe he’d be a part of my life and get to know my boyfriend. Maybe he’d be a part of your life for more than just being the reason you’re good at breaking and entering. But he didn’t try, so even if I understand what happened, I don’t forgive him for it.”

  “Okay,” Dylan said quickly, putting a placating hand on my shoulder.

  I swallowed, then went on. “A patient I’ve seen for months who’s been diagnosed with cancer has less than a ten percent chance of survival with the type and stage she has. She’s one of the nicest, most generous people I’ve ever met, has four kids, and absolutely doesn’t ‘deserve’ what’s happening to her. She’s going to have brain surgery next week, and last week she had part of her stomach removed. Do you think she’s giving up? Hell no.” I ran my hands through my hair. “My point is there are no guarantees in life, even for the people who do everything they’re supposed to. He fucked up, never owned up to it, and it ate him alive. He let it kill our whole family. So forgive me if I have very little sympathy. If that starts to hurt when the anesthetic wears off, you can take a couple ibuprofen.” I gestured to his arm. “Need anything else?” I couldn’t hide my obvious discomfort at the subject, and at the chance of being seen with him anymore.

  Dylan hopped off the gurney, giving me a knowing but non-judgmental look. “Nah. I did what I came to do, and you fixed me up. When can I take them out?” he asked, indicating the stitches.

  “Seven days, assuming no infection sets in. If it gets red or starts to hurt, or you get a fever, go to your local ER. Those subway stations are cesspools.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your boyfriend. What’s his name?” Dylan was clearly amused.

  “Oh. Craig.” I dropped my voice to a near whisper, hoping no one had walked by when Dylan had asked.

  “You happy?”

  The smile was totally involuntary, and the minute it broke out on my face, Dylan smiled in return. “Yeah. Remarkably so.”

  “Good. Don’t ever let Dad see you and Craig together. You being gay is probably enough to make him homicidal. You’ll be as dead as Mom.” He clearly wanted to say more but decided against it, changing the subject. “Talk to your publicity people, if for no other reason than to keep Dad far away from your boyfriend.”

  I nodded, then raked aside the curtain. Whew, no one close by to overhear. “I will. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “No problem.”

  “You still check on him, too?” I led him over to the nurse’s desk for paperwork on proper care of the bandage and instructions for showering and other care. JoAnna did a double take but held her tongue. Handing him the papers, I guided him away from the desk, noting his embarrassed reaction to my question.

  “He gave up on us. I won’t stoop to his level and give up on him back.”

  It was my turn to pat his shoulder. “You’re too good for him.”

  “Yeah, well, at least he doesn’t know I’m doing it. I’m just the grocery fairy.”

  “He probably figures he goes shopping during his blackouts.”

  “Whatever he needs to tell himself. Gimme a call if you need anything, okay?”

  “Same to you.” I walked him to the exit where he gave me a friendly clap on the back and slipped out into the sweltering July sun.

  I watched him go, turning his warning over in my mind. With a lull before the Fourth of July injuries would being to trickle in, I instructed JoAnna to page me if anything major came in, ignoring her significant eyebrow raise, and went in search of Dr. Kingsley to find out how to keep my name out of all but the most medically focused papers.

  Present Day

  “Hello?” I said sleepily into my phone, not even attempting to disguise that I’d been nearly unconscious. Peering at the clock, I saw it was just after six in the morning.

  “Aw, shit. I was hoping to catch you on shift.”

  “Craig?” His voice made me want to put in the effort to wake up. I swallowed, trying to peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “It’s okay. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  I fought the covers to free a hand so I could knuckle my eyes to get the sleep crust from the corners. “I’m awake, Craig. For you, I’ll wake up. What is it?”

  There was a spate of silence, then his voice crawled timidly from the phone speaker into my ear to curl up and snuggle in, like it belonged.

  “I haven’t seen you for a week.”

  Suppressing a yawn, I scratched my chest, my morning wood pitching a tent in the sheet. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I picked up a couple new patients and they had scheduling difficulties, so I’ve worked after hours to help them out. Plus, I had some extra sessions with my therapist. I didn’t intend for a whole week to go by.”

  It was the truth, though I’d known the extra work would put our schedules at odds. As much as I wanted to be around him, after the dinner with Holly and telling him about my dad killing my brother, I wanted him to have a few days for it all to sink in. I’d discussed it with Dr. Rodriguez, and she agreed, but not for the reasons I had. She said making myself vulnerable would compel me to latch onto the nearest thing that would comfort me, relieve my insecurities, and make me feel better. Vulnerability was the quickest way to end up in a hypervigilant state. Her opinion was that I needed practice controlling my reactions to my surroundings rather than using something or someone not always readily available to combat those moments when my PTSD flared. I needed to rely on my own coping mechanisms. She didn’t discourage outside help or the obvious benefits of a support system, but if I was alone, I’d need to help myself rather than count on a savior.

  She was, however, proud of me for having kept myself in check at the restaurant after becoming the focus of everyone’s attention. In retrospect, even though I’d fled prying eyes for the safety of the bathroom, I’d been too focused on how I felt about Craig and what he might have been thinking after my little speech to spiral the way I normally would have. The irrational fear of having made a spectacle of myself didn’t begin the cycle of paranoid thinking it usually did. Then, Craig’s appearance in the bathroom had further distracted me. After I’d gotten home, the full import of the scene struck me, and I’d spent the rest of the night and all of the next day in my bedroom, mulling over the ramifications.

  Dr. Rodriguez had called it progress and wanted me to take time to consider it myself before seeing Craig again, to avoid feeling awkward or insecure enough to have a setback. I’d made sure to keep in touch with Craig so any time I took didn’t feel like avoidance. I wanted to see him, but I had seen the wisdom of Dr. Rodriguez’s suggestion. That was what I paid her for, after all.

  “So, you know that question I asked you the other day?” Craig asked, bringing me back to the conversation at hand.

  “The meeting your kids one?” It was the only question I could remember in our epic texting marathon midweek, aside from the silly ones, like if I was the sole survivor of a plane crash
and stranded on a deserted island, what three things would I want with me? There I was, being all practical and picking things that might be in the downed plane’s cargo hold, and he kicked my ass by choosing one item: a magic wand. Bastard was brilliant.

  “Yeah,” he breathed into the phone, and my dick perked up more. I put a hand inside my underwear, pressing on the insistent flesh to force it to subside. It was seven kinds of inappropriate to be raging hot for him when he was talking about his students.

  “Okay.” I tried making my voice even.

  “Well, I talked to the parents of the kids and the staff at the autism center, and they’re okay with me bringing you in for the last few minutes of class. I have to introduce you slowly, because these kids need time to adapt to any changes, but we’ve got the green light.”

  “Okay, when is your next class?”

  “This afternoon,” he said hopefully. “Please tell me you’re free at three-thirty.”

  My day was wide open, and I figured I had followed Dr. Rodriguez’s advice well enough. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Great.” His voice was full of his smile. “I figure after that, we can go get an early dinner, wander around, or go out if you want.”

  “That sounds good, too.” That he was enthusiastic about spending time with me again warmed my insides to the consistency of melted chocolate.

  He gave me the address of the center where he taught autistic children to paint. It was several blocks from Elijah Hope. At least I’d be in familiar territory, so there was less chance I’d have trouble with the trains and crowds and getting myself there.

  Craig had suggested I come for the last ten or fifteen minutes to meet the children and see what they were working on, or just observe if the mood of the class was too unbalanced for the day.

  His wanting to share with me something clearly important to him meant I pretty much agreed to any and everything he suggested. While I was aware of the medical aspect of the conditions these kids dealt with, I hadn’t had any experience with their requirements. I was glad when Craig told me he only taught five students, and two of the center’s staff were present to help with any problematic situations that could arise. If there was a bad reaction to my presence, I would be glad he had experts helping him keep things under control.

  I arrived at a building with blue awnings and a theater on the first level at 3:40, checking the address again and going inside to the third floor, where the autism center conducted a program for parents to bring their children to get extra art time or music lessons. I’d spent the day reading up on some of the more common aspects of autism so I wouldn’t be totally out of my element, and I knew art and music very much helped focus children whose minds worked in many rapid fractals compared to kids who weren’t on the spectrum.

  Nothing, however, prepared me for the eclectic bunch I met after Craig stuck his head in the hall and grinned, beckoning me to enter his classroom. Each student stood behind an easel with a piece of paper affixed to Gatorfoam boards, the floor covered in a cloth painter’s tarp splattered with so much color it looked as though a rainbow had dissolved, splashing out of the sky to land on this particular floor. Four of the five kids between the ages of six and ten stared at me as I walked in. The one who didn’t look up was so absorbed in her painting, I wasn’t sure she was aware of anybody around her.

  “Can I have your attention, please?” Craig asked conversationally, moving to sit on a table that held his messenger bag and jacket. Beside him was a plastic chair, which he pulled out and turned around, gesturing for me to sit so I faced the room. I did so, wiping my palms on my jeans. Four sets of eyes followed my movements, not including the center workers and the absorbed little girl, and inside, I squirmed, though I tried to keep my face neutral. Don’t let ‘em see you sweat, right?

  “Yes, Mister Craig. You have my attention,” one of the students, a boy with a very earnest expression, answered.

  “Thank you, Sebastian. Class, I’d like to introduce my friend Dane Perry.”

  “It’s nice… nice to meet, meet you, Dane Perry,” Sebastian chimed in very quickly as he rocked back and forth on his feet, touching his chin, then his cheek, repeating the movement a few times as he studied me. Craig rested his hand on my shoulder, squeezed, and then let go, his subtle support clear, in case I was feeling uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. But for some reason, being the object of these kids’ focus didn’t panic me.

  “Dane, this is Julia,” he indicated the girl at the nearest easel, the one who hadn’t looked up at all, and moved around the semi-circle of them, pointing more at their stations than the children themselves. “Melissa, Grace, Duncan, and Sebastian.”

  “Hello,” I greeted warmly.

  Grace hummed in response and Melissa let out a howl. “Make her, make her, make her stop, Mister Craig!” she demanded, pointing at Grace, who hummed louder. “Make her stop!” Craig moved to Grace’s side and crouched between her and Melissa, speaking in a low murmur. Grace stopped humming, though she looked upset, continually pulling at her long brown braid, running it between each of her fingers. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the longer Craig spoke to her, the slower the tugging on her hair became, until she was able to pick up her paintbrush and concentrate on her easel once more. Once Craig appeased Grace, he promised Melissa she could stand at a different station during the next class.

  “But this is mine,” she argued. “She should move.”

  Ever patient, Craig explained that moving to another space wouldn’t change anything for Melissa, except that she wouldn’t be able to hear Grace’s humming as well, and her view of his lesson would have a different perspective.

  “Julia,” he spoke to the hyperfocused girl. “Is it okay if you sit between Melissa and Grace next class? It will help Melissa concentrate, and will help Grace feel comfortable if she needs to hum. It’s only moving to your right a couple feet. Might give you a new angle to work from.”

  Julia carried on with her brush, her only acknowledgment of Craig speaking to her a soft grunt and single nod of her head. Craig seemed satisfied that meant she had his permission to rearrange the seats, and he returned his attention to Melissa.

  “Remember what I said about changing your angle?” he asked.

  Melissa shuffled from foot to foot. “You said it can be better, that it can be better. Like the chalk thingies.”

  He nodded encouragingly. “Right. Like the 3D chalk drawings. A change of angle for your art can be a good thing. We’re still in the same room. We still have the same teachers, Miss Lisa and Miss Angela. You still have me to show you how to use the paint. You still have the same easel and paper and chair. Everything is the same. The only thing that would be different is who you sit next to and the angle you work from. And we decided that can be fun, right?”

  Melissa nodded, her expression still trepidatious, but not as wary as before. “Can you help me move?”

  “Of course. I’ll move your chair and easel, but you can move your paints to put them exactly how you want them. So you control your space. From a better angle.”

  “Okay, Mister Craig. But I can’t hear her now.”

  “Because she’s not humming now. But if she needs to, she will again. This way, it’s not right beside you. Does that make sense?”

  “That’s because you will be more inches away from her, Melissa, if you move your paints,” Sebastian said from his own station. “Because there will be more inches between you and Grace so the sound has to travel more.”

  “That’s right, Sebastian,” Craig confirmed. “I’ll tell your parents, Melissa. They can help you decide how you want your paints to be moved.”

  “Like this, like this, like this.” Melissa pointed to her workstation.

  “Then we’ll get you set up like that next class, okay?”

  “Okay, Mister Craig.”

  Crisis averted, Craig walked around the room, assessing the other children’s paintings, giving small murmurs of encouragement.

&
nbsp; Julia continued to avoid making eye contact, and Duncan stole peeks at me as he worked on his painting. Sebastian stepped from behind his easel and stood in front of me.

  “Dane Perry, nice to meet you,” he repeated, then reached out and pushed his fingers into my hair. I was startled, but did my best not to pull away. Sebastian’s hand had paint on it, and he wore several multi-colored fingerprints on his chin and cheek. If my reading had been thorough enough, I believed that form of self-touch was known as stimulating, or stimming, which helped keep in check the nerves an autistic child felt at new things. Though why he needed his hand in my hair, I had no idea.

  “Sebastian,” a woman in the back corner of the room admonished. “Did you ask Mister Dane if you could touch his hair?” She looked to be in her midthirties, with a short, dark bob and kind eyes. One of the center teachers, I guessed. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a t-shirt it was clear had seen the class before, smeared with paint as it was. If her apologetic look was anything to go by, this wouldn’t be the first time Sebastian inappropriately touched someone.

  “No, Miss Lisa,” Sebastian answered, though he didn’t remove his hand. He scraped his fingernails against my scalp and flexed his fingers out straight again. “It looked soft. His hair looked soft. I like soft things.”

  “Sebastian, you need to take your hand out of Mister Dane’s hair. He hasn’t said you could touch him.”

  I started to protest that I was fine, it would wash out, but Craig put his hand on my shoulder again and left it there, speaking before I could. “Remember what I said, Sebastian? You should save your paint-touches for your paper, not skin. Mister Dane may not want his hair purple.”

  “Purple hair.” Sebastian giggled, then took his hand off me. “Painted purple hair,” he said, and galloped back to his easel where he picked up a two-inch paintbrush and used his fingertips to fan the bristles out, flicking bright purple mist against his paper. He hooted a pleased sound and a wide grin split his face. To my surprise, he galloped back over to me and gave me a hug, leaving a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “Purple is better on paper,” he informed me, then hurried back to his art, where his concentration zeroed in on the next color he would choose, muttering “purple paper” over and over again.