Carry the Ocean: The Roosevelt, Book 1 (5 page)

Emmet leaned toward me, earnest. “You need people, Jeremey. Humans are social animals. We get sick without contact.”

Didn’t I know it. I loved this contact right now. It was weird—I kept forgetting he had autism, though it was obvious every time I looked at him or he spoke. Mostly, though, he felt like someone who wasn’t annoyed with me or awkward around me. Someone who made me feel like a real person.

A friend.

“I’m glad we became friends.” His gaze flicked to my chest.

I smiled at him. “I’m glad we’re friends too.”

Emmet rocked gently. “I want to eat my banana bread now. Would it be okay if we stopped talking long enough to eat?”

“Sure.” I kept smiling. It was so easy—he was easy. This felt good.

“We can keep talking after we finish. I enjoy talking with you.”

The nerves which had troubled me all day began, by inches, to fade away. “I enjoy talking with you too.”

Emmet and I didn’t meet every day, but we always texted. At first it was random, but by the third day he asked if we could schedule time to chat with each other at 9 p.m., and he got me to do it on Google Talk instead of phones.

I wish you had an iMac or an iPhone,
he texted me one night.
The iMessage interface is much better, and if you were on Apple products too, we could switch between phone and computer more easily.

I don’t even have a smartphone,
I replied.

We have an old iPhone you could use, if it worked with your plan.

I lied and told him I’d look into it. I didn’t want to tell him my mom and dad would never go for it.

Things had been tense with my parents since the picnic for a lot of reasons, but it didn’t take long for Emmet to be the focus of our recurrent arguments. They’d seen me talking to him at the block party and asked about him when we got home, but I mostly blew them off. I could tell Emmet would rather be at his place, so we hung out there, and honestly I felt better at the Washington house too. When I got home from visiting him a third day in a row, I was glad I hadn’t had him over to my place and vowed it would be a cold day in hell before I did.

“Where were you?” my mom asked me as I came in the door. “I searched the whole backyard, but you weren’t anywhere. Were you walking on the tracks again?”

I thought about lying, but it felt wrong to lie about Emmet. “I was visiting a friend.”

“Bart?” My mom’s whole demeanor changed. She smiled, and her shoulders went back, like the world was coming into the right orbit. “I hadn’t realized you two were hanging out again. How’s he doing?”

Now I wished I’d gone with my original impulse to deceive her. “It’s not Bart. A new friend.” I could see the question forming on her face, the judgment and censure about Emmet, and I decided to trap her. “He’s a sophomore at ISU. Double major in computers and advanced physics.” Or maybe it was applied physics. I didn’t care—
advanced
sounded better.

She paused, thrown off her game. “A university student, here? This far from campus? Is there a rental house in the neighborhood?”

“No. He lives with his parents. Might as well, to save money. And we’re actually close to ISU, if you cut through the park.” I decided to lay it on thick. “He’s wicked smart. Programs on his computer for fun.”

“Oh.” Mom relaxed, comforted by the idea I might be making a decent friend who could straighten me out. “What’s his name? I can’t believe I didn’t know about a boy your age in the neighborhood.”

Boy?
What was I, twelve? “Emmet Washington,” I said, and watched her tense up.

“
Jeremey Andrew Samson.
” She closed the distance between us and loomed over me. “That’s horrible of you, lying about a retarded boy. What are you
doing
with him? Babysitting?”

I blinked at her, blown away by her cruelty and insensitivity—except she wasn’t being mean. She was
that clueless
. “Mom, he got a perfect score on his ACT. He really is a double major in physics and computers. I’m not babysitting. I’m hanging out with him. He’s not retarded, and you’re not supposed to use that word anymore anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that PC nonsense. Retarded means
delayed
. You can’t tell me that boy is normal.”

No, I couldn’t—but sometimes I thought he was a lot more normal than me.

Emmet had his tics, yes, but he had a pragmatism I didn’t just admire—I found it
soothing
. If nothing else, I always knew where I stood with Emmet. If he didn’t want to do an activity, he said so. If something was important to him, he let you know. He was kind though too—he noticed things about me I wouldn’t have expected anyone to notice, and he regarded what I considered my most awkward oddities as simply part of who I was.

The greatest example of this was the day we walked to Wheatsfield, the organic grocery store at the end of my street. Emmet’s mother needed some things for dinner, and Emmet asked if we could run the errands for her.

“How kind of you to offer, Emmet. Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll get the list and the wheeled shopping bag.”

I don’t know why, but I was ridiculously excited to run the errand with him. We’d taken walks around the block before, usually in the evening when it was cooler, but shopping together was kind of domestic and grown-up. This wasn’t hanging-out shopping, either. We were helping make dinner, which I’d already been invited to stay for. The whole episode made me feel like part of the family. A real family. A good one.

No sooner did we start down the street, though, when Emmet stopped us. “No. You like the inside.” He pushed me to the far side of the sidewalk, the one closest to the houses. “You get nervous when you’re by the street.”

“I do?”

“Yes. You jump when a car goes by. You still do when you walk on the inside, but you relax more.”

I had no idea I did that. How many other people had noticed this? “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. But you need to be on the inside, so don’t take the outside.”

We didn’t talk the rest of the way, but we didn’t usually talk a lot when we walked. I used the time to think, to enjoy being with him. Also, it was fun to find out what he was counting. I’d learned he was always counting
something
when he was so quiet. I had asked him so often on our walks that now he simply told me when we arrived at our destination.

“Nine hundred thirty-one cracks in the sidewalk,” he announced when we made it to the store. He pushed a multicolored striped wheeled trolley ahead of him, which Marietta had explained would hold the grocery bag. “One hundred twenty-four irregular. Eight hundred and seven straight lines.”

“Sidewalk cracks? Surely you’ve counted those between here and your house before.”

“Yes. But there were four new ones today.”

I wondered what it would be like to have a brain that counted so many things. I would think it would be exhausting, but Emmet enjoyed it.

I was going to ask him more about the cracks, but then we went into the store—and hit a wall of noise.

I’d been in this store before, and I enjoyed it because it was so small, but I’d never come when a live band played in the corner. The store was full of people talking and laughing as they shopped. I wasn’t laughing. All I wanted to do was run. It felt like someone was slamming cymbals against my head over and over. It was hard to breathe.

I was so embarrassed—I was having a panic attack in front of Emmet.

And then, abruptly, I wasn’t. Or rather, the cymbals were gone and I was breathing rough, but we were outside and Emmet was sitting me down on a bench.

He touched my face awkwardly. “It’s too loud in the store.”

“I’m sorry,” I tried to say, but mostly I wheezed.

He pushed my head between my knees, his warm hand on my back. “Take deep breaths. Go to a happy place in your head.”

He was so calm and logical it frankly surprised me partially out of my attack. It took me a minute to regain full control, but I recovered more quickly than I had in a long time.

I was sad when he took his hand away.

“You’re better. You need something to drink. Will you be okay?” I nodded. “Good. I’m going to find Carol.”

I thought he would go inside, but he loitered by the door, rocking back and forth until someone came outside—a middle-aged woman with red hair and a bright smile and an apron marking her as a store employee.

“Hello, Emmet. Where’s your mother?”

Emmet didn’t look her in the eye, and he kept rocking. “She’s at home. I’m here with my friend Jeremey. But your music is too loud, and there are too many people. He had a panic attack and needs something to drink. It’s too loud for me too. I have good adaptations because I’ve practiced, but I don’t like the store either right now. It makes both of us uncomfortable.”

Carol turned to me, all empathy. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

She spoke to me as if I were a four-year-old. I shut my eyes and tried to wish her away.

Emmet gave her no quarter. “Your music is too loud, Carol. You upset people. It’s bad for your business. Althea would lecture you about ableism. I want to lecture you too. But I can’t right now. We need to take care of Jeremey. He’s upset. He needs something to drink.”

I tried to say I was fine, but I wasn’t. Carol and Emmet spoke for a minute—he asked for two mineral waters with raspberry, and he gave her the list of groceries and his mother’s debit card. Then he sat beside me. “I’m sorry for her music. I’m angry with her for upsetting you.”

He was the calmest angry person I’d ever met. I still felt embarrassed, though I was touched Emmet took my side. “It’s okay. I’m sure the normal people enjoy the party.”

“No one is normal. Normal is a lie. The store should be for all people, not only people who like loud music. It’s rude. I’m telling my mother. She’s a board member of the co-op. All people should be included. They make the aisles big enough for wheelchairs. They should make the stimuli low for people who need things calmer. If our sensitivity had a chair, they’d make room for it.”

He spoke in the same flat tones he always did, but he rocked a lot, and his hands opened and closed in a rhythm on his lap. This was angry Emmet. Angry, protective Emmet.

Angry for me. He’d stood up for me.

“Thank you,” I told him.

He glanced at me. Well, near me. “What did I do?”

“You took care of me. Thank you.”

He looked surprised. He stared at the pavement with one of his almost-smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Soon Carol appeared with more apologies, a full shopping bag, and chocolate gluten free vegan cupcakes for Emmet and me. We ate them before we started walking, washing them down with the last of our mineral waters. By the time we got to his house with the supplies for dinner, I’d forgotten all about my panic attack.

In fact, I felt great until I went to my house, where my mother pursed her lips at me and my dad failed to emerge from the den, too engrossed in his TV. I thought about the Washingtons, who as I left had been doing the dishes together and arguing good-naturedly about politics, all but Emmet who made it clear he planned to spend the rest of the evening programming in his room.

I’d always known my family wasn’t the most amazing in the world. It had been better when Jan still lived at home, but not much. I didn’t realize until that day, though, how lonely my house was. How it was technically my home…but I felt safer and happier and more accepted for who I was and who I wasn’t in the living room of the family I’d known for less than a month.

I tried to tell myself this would be the bright side of moving to Iowa City, getting away from my parents. Except I’d never find another Emmet there. With every day I hung out with him, anything less than that kind of happiness didn’t feel like a life worth pursuing.

Chapter Five

E
mmet

B
y the Fourth of July, Jeremey was my best friend.

I’d felt he could be my best friend for a long time, but the holiday was when it all came together. We went to the downtown parade—just us, not with either of our parents. We wandered around the carnival in Bandshell Park. We thought about swimming at the aquatic center, but there were too many people, so we biked out to Ada Hayden instead. It’s a park with a water reservoir you can boat on, with lots of paved trails. It was a hot, hot day, but I didn’t mind. I was with Jeremey.

He went with our family to watch fireworks on the Sixth Street hill—the tree line means we miss a few, but it’s not crowded, not loud, and all our neighbors are there. While we were sitting on the blanket, covered in vanilla bug spray, watching kids run with sparklers down the hill to the soccer field at the bottom, my feelings became intense. I was happy, so happy. I still wanted Jeremey to be my boyfriend, and sometimes maybe I thought he might be gay too, but even if we were only friends, it would be okay. He was my best friend, the kind of close friend it’s a challenge for a person with autism to have. We can be tricky to get to know. But already Jeremey knew more about me than anyone, even my parents and Althea.

As the fireworks exploded above us in the sky, the urge to tell him how I felt was huge inside me. I was scared to end my happy feelings if he didn’t feel like we were best friends too, and I worried my autism would wreck the moment. So though he sat right next to me, I texted him.

Jeremey, you’re my best friend.
My chest got tight with nervousness.
I hope that’s okay,
I added, then hit send.

His phone made a soft chime. I held my breath, for once hating my superpower of seeing out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t help watching him pull out his phone, read the text and answer back. When my phone made the heartbeat pulse against my hand, I almost didn’t read it. I was sorry I’d sent anything. If he said it wasn’t okay, all my happiness would crash.

But when I got brave enough to read the text, it said
me too.

I smiled as I rocked on the blanket. I had a best friend.

I wished he were my boyfriend. If he had been, I would have asked to hold his hand. But I didn’t. I only enjoyed the rest of the fireworks with my best friend.

We hung out together every day, usually in the afternoons. Usually we played games or took walks. Sometimes we sat on my deck and didn’t say anything. Jeremey enjoyed reading, and when my mom found out, she gave Jeremey her old Kindle full of all kinds of books. Jeremey wouldn’t take it to his house, but every afternoon if I suggested we sit on the deck, he brought the Kindle out and read the whole time unless I talked to him. I loved those afternoons.

I also showed Jeremey
The Blues Brothers
movie, which he said he hadn’t ever seen. I liked showing him the movie, but at first when we started watching together, I didn’t have much fun. I was working so hard to not be autistic.

The Blues Brothers
isn’t just my favorite movie. It was one of the first things I memorized. My dad loves the movie too, and he played it around me when I was little. My mom got mad at him for that, because I would walk around quoting the whole movie, or using the movie to speak. If I wanted something from my mom, I asked her, “Did you get my Cheez Whiz?” I didn’t want Cheez Whiz, but to my brain, it was the only way I could ask for something, using the line from the movie. When I played with my blocks, I would line them up in a row and count them by quoting the part where the guard (who is Frank Oz, the guy who gave the voice to Miss Piggy and other Muppets) lists the inventory of Jake Blues’ personal effects. “One Timex digital watch, broken. One unused prophylactic. One soiled. One black suit jacket.” And when I didn’t want to do something, I didn’t simply say no. I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “No. Fucking. Way.”

I don’t remember doing this, but Mom says I used the whole movie as speech from the time I was four until the first half of kindergarten. I don’t do that anymore, but sometimes my brain whispers the lines from the movie in places it thinks would be a good time to say them. Sometimes people on the mean quote movies, and other people on the mean laugh at the joke. But they laugh differently at me when I quote
The Blues Brothers
, so I don’t do it in public.

My dad likes it when I quote, though, because he says I do an amazing Elwood Blues. Sometimes when we’re in the car, he says, “What’s this?” and I know I’m supposed to do the part about trading the Cadillac for a microphone. I keep telling him that for it to be right he needs to let me drive, since Elwood always drives. He says no, I’d try to jump a bridge. Which isn’t true. Ames doesn’t have any moveable bridges.

It’s fun to quote the movie with my dad, but there’s one problem about watching the movie, especially with someone not a member of my family. Every time I watch the movie, I say the lines along with the actors. I’ve gotten better about not saying every line out loud, but I say every single one in my head. I read a script of it online when I was in high school, and now when I watch it, I say the stage directions too. My dad says the lines with me when they’re his favorites, and he never cares how much of the movie I recite.

When autistic people quote TV and movies the way I did when I was little, they call it echolalia. I don’t have echolalia now. When I speak, one hundred percent of what I say is my words. Some autistic people, though, can’t ever stop parroting either TV or movies or what the person in front of them just said. It’s because of their brain octopuses.

People shouldn’t laugh or make rude faces at autistic people when they parrot. Some can’t help it, and most who can have to work not to. It’s difficult for me not to quote
The Blues Brothers
all the time even now. When I watch the movie, it’s almost impossible to resist.

I was nervous to find out how Jeremey would feel about my autistic quoting. I didn’t want him to think I was weird and decide we shouldn’t be best friends. So all the way until Elwood and Jake left the nun they call The Penguin, I sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to rock, trying not to hum, and more than anything else, trying not to parrot. It was the first time I ever didn’t like watching
The Blues Brothers
.

Then my dad walked into the TV room, and said, “Boys, you gotta learn not to talk to nuns that way.”

I rocked back and forth. “Dad, they already did that line.”

“I know. But it’s one of my favorites.” Dad sat down all slouched in his favorite chair, the big fat one with an ottoman to the right of the TV. He grinned as he watched Curtis tell the boys they had to get to church.

This was another tricky part for me. Usually I sing along with James Brown. This time I didn’t sing, didn’t quote anything. Not when my dad did. Not even when he said, “Jesus H. goddamned bastard Christ, I have seen the light!” And I didn’t dance along with Elwood, which was the hardest part of all.

When they were talking about putting the band back together, Dad frowned at me. “Emmet, you feeling okay?”

I nodded and stared at the floor. I was watching the movie, but usually I watched the movie by looking at it. I couldn’t today, because I would start parroting for sure.

Dad didn’t say anything else at first. Eventually he smiled at Jeremey. “How are you liking the movie? I hear it’s your first time.”

“It’s good.” Jeremey smiled back. “It’s funny.”

“You’ve got to get Emmet to do his Elwood for you. He knows every line. Every incline of Dan Aykroyd’s head. Once on vacation he did the whole movie for me when we were stuck waiting for a tow truck. Best two hours of my life.”

I stopped rocking and glanced by my dad’s head. I remembered sitting by the car on the dark road, doing the movie for my dad. I hadn’t realized it was the best moment of his life. It certainly wasn’t mine. The rocks had been hard to sit on.

“Usually,” Dad went on, “when Emmet and I watch together, we do all the best quotes back and forth. Which, since the movie is so great, means we quote the whole movie. You’ll have to forgive me if I do some anyway. Emmet’s being kind and letting you watch it without our commentary, but he has more self-control than me.”

Jeremey’s smile got brighter. “Oh, please do the quotes! I wish I were good at memorizing so I could play along too.”

“Emmet memorizes enough for the whole world.” Dad winked at me. Then he raised an eyebrow and spoke along with John Belushi. “‘First you trade the Cadillac for a microphone, then you lie to me about the band, now you’re gonna put me right back in the joint.’”

I was still nervous to parrot in front of Jeremey, but my brain octopus was so angry at me for not being able to quote, my dad was looking right at me, and it was my second favorite line from the movie. “‘They’re not gonna catch us. We’re on a mission from God.’”

Jeremey laughed—and my chest went
flutter flutter flutter
. It was the kind of laugh people on the mean got when they quoted and made good jokes. “Oh my
God
—Emmet, you sounded just like him.”

“You wait,” my dad said. “If we can talk him into dancing during the Palace Ballroom scene, it’ll be your best day all year long.”

I started quoting a little more. I didn’t want to quote all the time, but Dad did, and pretty soon Jeremey watched me more than the movie, looking at me as if he hoped I’d say something, so I gave in and parroted.

“‘You want out of this parking lot? Okay.’”

I loved watching Elwood drive, and the scene in the mall makes me laugh. It looks so fun to drive a car. I’ve driven go-carts at amusement parks. It’s fun. I crash into the walls a lot, and sometimes other drivers, but nobody gets hurt. It’s the best.

We kept quoting, and Jeremey kept laughing, and pretty soon
this
became my favorite two hours of
my
life. When we got to the Palace Hotel Ballroom scene and the Blues Brothers theme started to play, Dad and I got up and did the dance. He pretended to unlock a handcuff from my wrist, and I handed the silver thing (I’ve watched it over one hundred times, but I don’t know what that thing is) to the pretend drummer behind me.

Dad passed me the broom handle with a cardboard microphone we keep beside the TV, and I did Elwood’s speech before the big number.

I love the song “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love”, but I love the speech Elwood does before it best of all the lines of the whole movie. He says everyone is somebody, and we’re all the same.

I think Elwood Blues is on the spectrum. He’s higher functioning, but he has the signs. Only eating white bread—that’s something an autistic person would do. Then there’s the bad driving, and some of his tics. Also, I can parrot a lot of characters in movies, but I don’t do anybody better than Elwood.

I don’t know if he’s gay too or not, but he never gets excited about girls, so maybe.

I sang along with Elwood into the pretend microphone, and my dad got up and sang into his. Dad likes to play Jake. He says John Belushi was a genius taken down before his time. We do a good Blues Brothers, and only Belushi and Aykroyd do the dance better, Dad says.

I don’t know if Jeremey agreed, but he laughed and clapped and whistled, and when the movie was over, he had a funny look on his face. I didn’t know what it meant, but Dad is good at faces.

He leaned forward in his chair and grinned at Jeremey. “You want to see the Palace Ballroom dance again, don’t you.”

Jeremey blushed, but he nodded.

We did the dance three more times. And now when we watch the movie together, I quote the whole thing. He’s not as bad at memorizing as he says, either, because he quotes it now too.

He does a great Curtis.

I saw Jeremey every day, but some afternoons I couldn’t sit very long on the deck with him, because I had to go to school.

I didn’t have to take summer courses, but Mom and Dad said it would be a good idea for consistency. The class I took was Calculus III, so it wasn’t hard for me and made a smart choice for a summer program. It was in Carver Hall, in a nice room with a lot of light. Most of the time I rode my bike and locked it up at the student union, but if it was raining or too hot, I rode the CyRide bus service. I can’t drive, but I’m an excellent bus rider. I enjoy being independent enough to bus to school, but I don’t spend extra time on campus.

I did take walks on campus with Jeremey, though. It was only a half mile from my house to the edge of campus, and cutting through it was the best way to West Street Deli, where we’d grab lunch if Althea was working. We didn’t talk much while we walked, since Jeremey knew I didn’t like to walk and talk at the same time. When he wanted to say something, he asked if I minded if we took a break, and we sat on a bench or curb and talked for a few minutes. This meant he wanted to talk, not rest, but he never said, “I want to talk to you, let’s stop.”

That’s pretty much how Jeremey is, though, so I don’t mind.

A few days after the Fourth of July, we were walking through campus, and Jeremey asked if we could take a break. We were outside of Beardshear Hall, which is administration offices, and we sat on the steps, looking across the grassy commons. I waited for Jeremey to talk, but this time it took a long time for him to start.

“My parents keep trying to make me apply to college. They finally stopped pushing Iowa City and said I could apply here. That would be okay, I guess, since you’d be here too.”

He fiddled with his fingers in the way non-autistic people do when they’re nervous. I always notice it because I can’t see how it’s different than flapping, and I liked when people did the fiddling thing. It meant they felt strong emotions. I was pretty sure Jeremey was having nervous emotions. “Yes, I’ll still be here. Will you take science or math or computer classes?”

“I don’t know what I’ll take. I don’t want to go to college at all.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Rest. I wish everything would calm down.”

Jeremey often said that he wanted to rest. Except he went to bed at the same time as me and often slept until noon. Some days he didn’t get out of bed at all and had to cancel our time together. But he didn’t have much on his schedule ever. I didn’t understand what needed to calm down, but before I could decide if it was an okay question to ask, he started talking again. This time his voice shook, he was so nervous.