Eye Contact (37 page)

Matt said he'd be happy to take Amelia's belongings to Olivia, which left just her questions. Really there was only one: “Do you remember where the sweater fibers were found on Amelia's body?”

“On her collar, I think. Around her shoulders and neck.”

She nodded again and thanked him. “That's what I thought.”

Outside the restaurant, he walked her to her car and stood with the paper bag filling his arms. In the sunlight, she saw traces of the boy she remembered: in his small crooked smile, the way his teeth overlapped. He was the first man she'd felt comfortable with in so long, and it made her want to reach across the space between them and say something to make her thoughts perfectly clear:
If you'd ever like to go out at night, I can get a babysitter.
She almost said it and then held back, even though she suspected it was hovering in his mind, too, behind the rest of their talk.

There's time,
she tells herself now, sitting in the diner. What's important, for the moment, is getting this right with Kevin and Adam. Over hamburgers that Adam eats bunless with his fingers, fiddling with the wheelchair joystick, Kevin tells them about his life and she gets the idea it hasn't been so different from hers, living at home, surrounded by the past. When Suzette's name comes up, he tells her, “Her brother is moving in with his girlfriend, did you hear that?”

She pictures Teddy and June, on the doorstep to retrieve Suzette that night at Kevin's house. It was such a startling surprise—like seeing two characters from different movies turn up together. Then after a minute, she could see easily: yes, they were a couple, the way they worked together, the way they talked to Suzette in similar ways, matter-of-fact and reassuring (“Mrs. Barrows will be okay… I'm going to drive you home… June is going to follow us there…”) She watched them and thought:
This is how people weather crises and survive. They focus on details, on rides and food. They move, by instinct, through pain, and stick together.

If she wants Adam to know his father, she needs to be fair and perfectly clear. She waits until he has floated away, back to the pinball machine. “There's something I have to say about getting together again,” Cara says. “There have to be some rules. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone with him. At least until we've really gotten to know you again.”

To her surprise, Kevin smiles and nods. “Fair enough,” he says.

“But I've thought about this a lot and I think it could be good for Adam to have you in his life. It would widen his world and eventually, I hope he can learn ways that he could help
you.
I know that would be good for him—to not always be the one being taken care of. To feel like he is strong and capable sometimes. I don't think he gets a lot of chances to feel that way.”

Though Kevin doesn't answer, he nods, looking down at his wheelchair. He seems to understand what she's trying to say.

When they get outside, she remembers the one question she's wanted to ask him because she'd once asked Matt and he couldn't answer. “Do you happen to remember, when you saw Adam in the woods, early on—was he wearing his sweater or holding it?”

“Holding it, I think. I remember thinking it was cold, that maybe he should put it on.”

They stand in the parking lot, beside Kevin's van with its mechanized wheelchair lift, and Adam bounces in happy anticipation of seeing the ramp lower, the same thrill he gets from his forklift videos. “Thank you for everything, Kevin,” she says.

As the ramp lowers slowly, Adam squeals and claps for this small mechanical wonder of a show. “Thank you for everything, thank you for everything,” he echoes, his face inches from the levered mechanical box that makes the ramp work. Kevin rolls next to Adam, points to one of the levers, shows him what he needs. “When I say go,” he says and rolls himself onto the ramp. He nods and Adam does it, throws the switch that raises Kevin up to his car and tilts him inside. Even Cara has to admit: as machines go, it's a pretty good one.

“Thank you, my small Pinball Wizard,” Kevin says once he's inside, leaning over his lap toward Adam, who giggles and doesn't look up.

In the car ride home, alone with her thoughts, she goes over it all in her mind. Kevin didn't ask why she wanted to know about the sweater, for which she is grateful. Maybe, when he knows Adam better, she'll explain what she believes it means, as she breaks down the time line of events in the woods, how it must have all transpired from Adam's point of view. For a period there were a few people, talking in ways that Adam didn't understand, and then for a while there was music, beautiful and ethereal, that took him away. She knows that Adam must have stayed as far away as possible, for most of the time, but eventually he must have done something else, too. After everyone was gone, he must have emerged from the bushes and gone to his friend, comforted her in the only way he could think of, by putting a sweater around her neck that would approximate his blanket, by tucking it in, holding it just so. She will never know what, if any, words passed between them, but she knows he did something most children his age could never manage. Maybe he sang a color song, or a hummable snippet from one of his operas. Maybe it was less romantic: “The Wheels on the Bus” crooned frantically in her ear as life slipped away. But she knows this much, is sure of it, even as it stuns her to imagine: he stayed with her the whole time, unafraid.

We are currently in the throes of an autism epidemic that is being fought in Washington, D.C., in laboratories, and in a million homes around the world. While parents, given the choice, might not have volunteered to join this battle, scores of unsung heroes have, and I thank every teacher, paraprofessional, therapist, school nurse, cafeteria worker, and principal's secretary who has taken the time to befriend my son, and in so doing, has widened his world and helped him to believe there is a place for him in it.

I also want to thank the many people who helped with various aspects of research for this book: Cathy Baechle, Doug Bolton, Jay Federman, Laura Lefebvre, Brent Nielsen, Steve Paterniti, and Derek Shea. And to dearest of readers: Mike Floquet, Bill Lychack, Bay Anapol, Beth Haas, Bill and Katie McGovern, Simon Curtis, and Elizabeth McGovern. I especially thank my brother, Monty McGovern, for reading a rewrite at the last minute and offering suggestions that made such a great deal of sense I took the extraordinary step of using all of them. Huge, huge thanks to Molly Stern, Mary Mount, Clare Ferraro, and everyone at Viking for their intelligent criticism and their enthusiastic and generous support of this book. And last, but not least, it has to be said that my life and times as a struggling writer changed a great deal for the better the day, four years ago, that Eric Simonoff called and kindly offered to represent me.

Finally, a portion of all proceeds from this book will go to support Whole Children in Hadley, Massachusetts, a resource center for families raising children with special needs, and I want to thank my intrepid cohorts there: Sue Higgins, Lisa Kirwan, Noreen Cmar-Mascis, Bob James, Sam McClellan, and especially Carrie McGee, whose bright and benevolent spirit has taught all of us a great deal about loving our children patiently and well, for who they are and for everything they
can
do.