Mrs. Fletcher(45)

Before lunch we went for a walk. Zack stayed behind, claiming he had work to do, so it was just me, my dad, Bethany, and Jon-Jon. There were lots of official tours available throughout the weekend, but my dad and Bethany didn’t think Jon-Jon was ready for something like that. Better to go at our own pace and not bother anyone else, even if that meant they had to listen to my feeble attempts to impersonate a college student who actually knew what he was talking about.

Uh . . . I think that’s a science building. Maybe Chemistry. I’m really not sure. Could be Sociology.

Yeah, so this is the new gym. It’s a lot nicer than the old one. That’s what everybody says. I guess the old one smelled really bad.

So those are bike racks. Maybe I’ll bring my bike next year. I just need to inflate the tires.

I’m not sure who that statue is. Some dude from the nineteen hundreds. Guess I should read the plaque.

I felt like a dumbass, blathering on like that, but my dad and Bethany seemed happy enough. Whatever I said, one of them would repeat it to Jon-Jon in simplified language. Look at the bicycles . . . Look at the statue . . . That’s where people go to exercise. Sometimes Jon-Jon would look where they were pointing, but most of the time he would stare at whatever he felt like staring at. A tree. His own hand. Nothing at all.

I could see why they were in such a good mood. Given the way things usually went with Jon-Jon, it was a minor miracle to be outside on a beautiful day, walking around a public place like a relatively normal family. I met Bethany’s eyes a couple of times, and she gave me this shocked, excited look, like, Oh my God, can you believe this? I felt pretty good about it myself. It wasn’t the fun day that I’d planned, but it was still kinda nice in its own way.

*

We were walking toward the library, Bethany and Jon-Jon trailing behind my dad and me. I was telling him about my Econ class, leaving out the part about my D average, when he turned to check on his wife and son.

Oh shit, he said.

It didn’t seem like a big deal at first. Jon-Jon had stopped walking. He was just sort of frozen in place, staring up at the sky. Bethany stood right beside him, looking at my dad with a worried expression on her face.

What’s wrong? I asked.

My dad shook his head and starting walking toward Jon-Jon, moving slowly and carefully. He spoke his son’s name in a soft voice, but Jon-Jon didn’t seem to hear it. His attention was focused like a laser beam on the small plane that was flying overhead at a low altitude, trailing a banner that read, WELCOME PARENTS!

He hates airplanes, Bethany explained. It’s one of his things.

The plane was directly overhead, buzzing like a giant insect. Jon-Jon let out a yelp, quick and shrill, like someone had jabbed him with a pin. Then he did it again, this time even louder. I could see people turning in our direction, squinting in confusion. Jon-Jon slapped himself in the head.

I’m sorry, Bethany told me. He was being so good.

It was hard enough to deal with one of Jon-Jon’s meltdowns in the house, but it was way worse with all those strangers around. A gray-haired lady in a BSU sweatshirt wandered over, asking if the poor thing was okay. Bethany fished a business card from her purse and handed it to the woman. They’d gotten the cards printed up the year before, after an epic tantrum at Target.

Please don’t be alarmed, it said. Our son Jonathan has been diagnosed with autism and sometimes needs to be physically restrained to avoid injury to himself and others. We love Jonathan very much and only want to keep him safe. Thank you for your understanding.

The plane banked away from us, moving toward the football stadium, but I don’t think Jon-Jon even noticed. He was rocking from side to side, moaning and clutching his head. And then he punched himself. Hard, right above his ear. Like it was somebody else’s head he was punching, somebody he hated.

Please don’t do that, Bethany told him.

My father sat down on the grass and hugged him from behind, trying to pin his arms, but Jon-Jon fought like crazy to break free, thrashing and screaming like a trapped animal.

The struggle only lasted a few minutes, but it felt a lot longer. Every time it looked like my dad had Jon-Jon under control, one of his arms would slip free, and he’d start punching himself again. And then my dad would have to grab that arm without losing control of Jon-Jon’s other limbs. It almost looked like a game, except that Jon-Jon was drooling and my father’s nose was bleeding from a backwards head butt. Even so, he just kept speaking quietly the whole time, telling his son that he loved him and that everything would be okay. A pretty good crowd had gathered by then, and Bethany was handing a card to each new arrival, apologizing for the disturbance.

“They sound like great parents,” Amber said, when I’d finished with the story.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’re really patient with him.”

“What about you?” she asked. “How did you feel while that was happening?”

“I just felt sorry for them,” I told her.

That part was true. I really did feel bad for my dad and Bethany, and even for Jon-Jon, because I knew he couldn’t help himself. What I didn’t tell her was how sorry I felt for myself, and how jealous I was of my little brother, even though that was totally ridiculous. Jon-Jon had a hard life, and I would never want to trade places with him. But that whole time, while he was screaming and thrashing around, I kept thinking how unfair it was that my father loved him so much and held him so tight—way tighter than he’d ever held me—and wouldn’t let go no matter what.