Every Single Secret(77)

“You don’t warn me,” Cerny said. “I’m the adult. I set the rules. You choose to either follow them or break them. Following rules brings rewards. Breaking them results in a zero sum.”

“I told you,” Heath said. “And I told Mom.”

“Cecelia.”

“Mom.” Heath’s voice was edged with an ominous tone.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Cecelia interjected. “Give him the music, Matthew. He’s tired, and he’s making an effort.”

“I’m making an effort,” Heath parroted.

Cerny folded his arms. “I disagree. You’re not making an effort. You’re mocking me.”

“Matthew—” Cecelia said.

Cerny held up his hand. “Let him advocate for himself. This is good practice. The world is full of people, Sam, and you are going to have to absorb this lesson—if not in your heart, in your head. How to negotiate with them. How to give them what they want sometimes. How to let them win. Others deserve to get what they want just as much as you do. You said you believed that. Do you?”

Heath said nothing.

“I didn’t ask if you felt happy about it or if you liked it. It’s called a cognitive moral conscience. You don’t have to feel things to know they are true. Do you agree, Sam, on principle, that others deserve to win occasionally?”

Heath didn’t answer. Cecelia, agitated, fussed with the buttons on her blouse.

“From time to time, out there in the real world, you may be given food you don’t particularly enjoy—fish, perhaps. Maybe even, dear God, liver. But because you value the person who prepared it for you, because you need something from that person who took the time to buy and prepare the fish or liver or what-have-you, you eat it. And while you are eating it, you pretend to experience enjoyment. You pretend to relish it. You feign gratitude. And after you have eaten it, you thank the person.”

Heath dropped back on the pillows with a loud huff.

“You do not throw the plate against the wall and grind the fish into an expensive hand-knotted wool rug with your foot.”

“Am I allowed to say, at any time, politely—honestly—that I don’t fucking like fish?”

“You can say anything you like, Sam. We’ve gone over this again and again. But if you want more . . . if you wish to override your particular brain wiring and genetic markers . . . appear like other neurotypicals around you—”

“Sheep,” Heath muttered.

Cerny drew a slow breath. “If you desire lasting connections with neurotypicals . . .”

The two stared at each other—man versus nearly-man.

“You will not throw your dinner,” Cerny finished. After a beat he nodded curtly at Cecelia. “No music tonight,” he said and left.

There was a long period of silence, then Cecelia switched off the lamp on top of the dresser. She walked to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Go away,” Heath said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

She put out her pale, slender hand, letting it hover over Heath’s motionless form like she was casting some sort of spell. After a few seconds, she lowered it slowly, rested it on his back. It was possible I was imagining it, but I could swear I saw Heath’s body go rigid under her touch. She sat that way for a couple more moments, staring down at her hand on Heath’s back as if it was something disconnected from the rest of her body.

After a while she spoke. “Heath? My darling Heathcliff. It’s your Catherine. And if you’ll just thank me for the fish, I’ll give you a back rub.”

He lifted his head from the pillow, but it wasn’t tearstained. It was flat. Hard.

“Do you want to give me a back rub?” he said. His voice was a mocking singsong, and she didn’t answer. “Tell me, Catherine, does it make you feel like we’re connected?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It does. A little bit.”

“And you like that?”

“I do, Heath. I enjoy feeling connected to you.”

“Must be nice. The doctor doesn’t think I can ever experience an authentic, noncognitive connection with another human being.” One side of his mouth curled. “Do you?”

“I . . .” She faltered.

“Be honest.”

“I hope so, for your sake. So you can know how it feels. It’s wonderful to feel love for another person. For your child.” She touched his arm. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Heathcliff. Just thank me for the fish. Won’t you? Won’t you do that for me? So you can have a back rub?”

A long pause. And then his subdued voice—

“I enjoyed the fish. It was delicious. Thank you, Catherine.”

I couldn’t tell if he’d capitulated or if he was mocking her. If he’d won or lost the battle.

She looked up at the camera—the one recording everything I was seeing—and then slipped off the bed. Grabbing a blanket from a chair, she walked toward the camera and covered the lens. Everything went dark.

But after a few seconds, the picture reappeared—bobbling, filled with sounds of fumbling and from a different angle. The angle was shot from the far room, the camera aimed through the sitting room into the open door of the bedroom. The camera zoomed in and focused on Heath’s bed.