A Trick of the Light Page 8

  Dylan had prepared himself since the moment the doctor had entered the house, putting on the layers like he had as a boy. Fully prepared to hear anything, the word ‘autistic’ bounced against the padding. What was it?

  He glanced down at Chloe. Something inside him wanted to reach out to her. She was right there, within touching distance. Something bigger wanted her to leave. Why hadn’t he asked her to go when the doctor arrived?

  He started shifting round, ceramic things — he didn’t even know what they were — in the large bowl on the coffee table. His voice sounded thick as he envisioned the worst when he asked, “What is it?”

  “Autism is a neurological disorder of the brain that causes lifelong developmental disabilities. I’m not a specialist, but I have an autistic nephew so I’m familiar with it. Teddy needs to be tested to determine how severely he’s affected.”

  Dylan’s mind stopped on the words ‘disorder of the brain.’ He had done this to his son through his mother’s mad genes. He had inadvertently destroyed Teddy’s life by causing Wanda’s death, and now this.

  “Is he … crazy?” Dylan asked.

  “It’s not that kind of disorder. It’s caused by a neurological dysfunction, though no one knows for sure what causes the dysfunction. It largely manifests itself in social impairment. You had him tested for deafness when he was a baby because he didn’t always respond to your voices or loud, sudden noises.”

  “That’s right. But he was fine. Other than that, his development was normal. He started walking on schedule, saying words. After he turned two, he stopped talking as much. We took him to a speech therapist who said every child has to learn to talk at their own pace. We took him to his regular doctor and had some tests run. He said the same thing, that every child develops at a different rate and not to worry. He started talking again a few months later, though he was mostly repeating words.”

  Dr. Jacobs was nodding. “All of that’s typical with autism.”

  “Did Wanda know? Is that why she brought Teddy to see you?”

  “No, he was only in for a routine check-up. Perhaps I would have overlooked the symptoms if autism wasn’t a personal issue in my life. It’s easy to overlook or misdiagnose; only four or five out of every ten thousand births will result in full-blown autism. As I worked with Teddy during the exam, I saw several symptoms. He didn’t greet me, didn’t seem to know where he was or why he was there. He immersed himself in the knob that lowers my chair. Children are curious about a doctor’s examination room, but they don’t usually focus on one item for long periods of time, particularly an uninteresting item. But it was the look in his eyes that struck me. Have you noticed that your son is often in his own little world?”

  “Yes, I have. Wanda kept telling me it was normal, that he was just imaginative.” That he was too focused and unemotional, like his father. “He did seem to be creative. He painted pictures of houses like any kid. Sometimes I painted with him.”

  “Autistic children turn their focus inward. They might very well be creative, but they remain withdrawn, using their imaginations to entertain themselves. Did he notice your paintings?”

  Dylan had to think. “No, he was pretty immersed in his own. I figured that was normal. When Teddy began talking again, we thought the doctor had been right, that he was just developing at his own pace. At about that time, things got hectic at work, and I put in a lot of long hours. Wanda told me Teddy talked, laughed and played games. She said the reason he never did any of that around me was because …” He shook his head. “She made up all kinds of reasons, that Teddy wasn’t feeling well or that he was tired.” That his father was never around.

  Dylan looked at the pictures on the mantel. Teddy rarely looked at the camera. His gaze was always to the right or left. And his eyes weren’t focused on anything. “But he smiles.” He felt an ache inside. What he wouldn’t do to see that smile again.

  “Autistic people can and do enjoy life. They’re often very intelligent. They’re able to lead independent, successful lives. The good news is I suspect Teddy may have Asperger’s Disorder. That’s a collection of symptoms or characteristics at what they call the ‘higher-functioning’ end of the autism spectrum. I brought some books on the subject so you’d understand.” He handed Dylan three books. “To communicate with your son, you must learn to see his world. Then, perhaps, you can help him see ours.”

  “I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

  For another half hour, the doctor patiently answered Dylan’s questions. When his pager went off, he read the small panel and got to his feet. “I must be off. It’s our thirtieth anniversary, and if I miss another one, I believe I’ll be shot.” The smile on his face waned. “You need to alert the media and educate everyone who’s looking for Teddy. I’d be glad to assist you if you’d like. He may not realize he’s in trouble. Most likely he’s reverted to his own world because he isn’t comfortable where he is. Autistic children don’t handle change well. He probably won’t call for help and won’t respond when someone calls his name. It makes the search harder. You could walk right by him and never know it. When Teddy comes back — and he will come back, we’ve got to believe that — we’ll schedule the tests. Then we can work with a specialist and get Teddy pointed in the right direction.”

  Dylan shook his hand. “Thank you for coming here. For helping me understand.” He walked Dr. Jacobs to the door. “One more question,” he said quietly. “Could autism be caused by … mental illness in a parent’s background?”

  “It’s possible. As I said, no one really knows what causes it.” He started to leave, but stopped. “Oh, and one other thing. You might want to donate some blood … in case your son has injuries when he’s found.”

  Dylan didn’t want to think about injuries. “I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

  “Just stop by my office, and we’ll take care of it. Good night, Mr. McKain.”

  Guilt weighed down hard on him. He’d been so focused on the firm that he hadn’t noticed that his wife was crazy. He’d chased her to her death. And he might, through his genes, be responsible for Teddy’s affliction.

  Dylan returned to find Chloe looking at one of Teddy’s pictures. She looked like an angel in a yellow jumpsuit and matching sneakers, golden curls catching the last of the day’s light streaming through the windows. He half-expected to find disgust on her face, but he saw nothing but tenderness.

  And then he remembered something. “You knew.”

  She started, obviously lost in her thoughts. “What?”

  “You knew he was different.”

  She put the picture back on the mantel. “Wanda told me.”

  “Yeah, right. You knew Wanda before the accident.”

  “I didn’t know her.” She shifted her feet. “I don’t exactly hang out in your circles.”

  She said those words without bitterness or envy. Whatever this woman was, she wasn’t deceitful. Not on purpose, anyway. Most likely she was off-balance, like Wanda. For that reason alone, he should have nothing more to do with her. He certainly shouldn’t want to pull her close and rest his cheek on top of her head. Or wonder why she smelled so sweet and flowery.

  She backed away as though she could read his thoughts. “For a few moments Wanda and I were both dead. Our souls were in the same place. She knew she’d hidden her son and mother away and probably knew they couldn’t survive long on their own. Think logically. Who else could she tell?”

  He laughed. “Logically. Right.”

  She tilted her head. “Don’t you believe in Heaven?”

  He didn’t like the thickness of his voice when he said, “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” He could remember his mother dragging him to church every Sunday when he was a boy. Every Sunday he prayed for a different mother. A mother who didn’t take circuitous routes everywhere because she thought she was being followed by the bad guys, whoever they were.

  “Why?” she asked, studying him so intently that for a moment he was sure she co
uld see into his soul. The compassion and tenderness in her voice touched him in a place no one had touched in a long time. Maybe ever. It made him feel small and young and vulnerable, and he shut himself away like he’d been doing since he was young. It kept people out, people who asked too many questions, kids who teased him.

  “Maybe I’m just too focused on everything else in my life. I’ve got enough to deal with here on Earth to think about Heaven.”

  “I can tell you, it exists,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but I can remember how it was. I never wanted to come back.”

  She sighed, and a palpable peace settled over her expression. Her brief smile stirred him the way a shot of tequila did: a momentary jolt, then a warm, burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had a feeling that if she stayed any longer, he’d soon feel that intoxicating buzz … and, invariably, the resulting hangover.

  She wasn’t looking at him, but at some distant place. Her fingers caressed her owl pendant as she spoke.

  “And the light was incredible. It wasn’t like any light I’ve ever seen. It was everywhere, even flowing through me —”

  He gave in and kissed her. Truth was, he couldn’t stop himself. Her lips were warm and soft beneath his. Slowly they started moving, responding. She shifted to the left and tilted her head. A soft, breathy sigh escaped her throat, and he deepened the kiss. Her mouth opened, and their tongues connected, hers tentatively to his. Forget tentative, he wanted to taste her, to feel her warm, wet tongue slide against his. She was sweet, drugging his senses. He’d forgotten what it was like to kiss a woman, to really kiss a woman, but Chloe didn’t feel like just any woman. She was sweeter, softer, her mint taste overcoming his Scotch. He wanted to devour her, to inhale that second sigh that came from deep within her.

  Her silky curls twined around his fingers. Her skin felt soft beneath his thumbs as they grazed her jawline. He wasn’t sure he could stop, he was like an alcoholic who’d found the ultimate drink, just one more, then another, he was drowning, sinking fast and not caring.

  He could feel that light she described flowing through his veins like an electric drug. It lit up the dark corners of his soul and made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt. This was where she belonged, right here, nowhere else.

  He had to stop, to reach for the surface before he was a goner. He wrenched himself away. The light faded, but he didn’t care. He could breathe again, could think … logically.

  “You’d better leave.”

  Her eyes were liquid blue, her mouth slack and pink. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Why did you do that?”

  She sounded breathless; he’d taken her breath away, it was an intoxicating idea, breathless Chloe, and he wanted to keep her that way. Stop it, she’s making you crazy. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Maybe I’m crazier than you are.”

  “Don’t disparage me. I’m not crazy.”

  “Why do you use that word, disparage? Why are you here, why am I here?” He was crazy. Had to be. Because he wanted to kiss her again, he was hooked on her. It wasn’t logical, and everything in his life was logical. Everything had to add up to something, and he and Chloe weren’t going to add up to anything.

  Her movements became more hurried as she searched for that monstrosity of a purse. “I’m going.”

  When she passed him, he took hold of her arm. He stared at his hand, willing it not to pull her close. “I know,” she said before he could speak, “That kiss didn’t mean anything. It was a mistake. There’s no way a man like you could get involved with a woman like me because you’ve got your reputation to think about. You can let go of me now.”

  His fingers were locked around her arm, and for a moment they wouldn’t obey his command to let go. What part of him didn’t want to let her leave? He had inherited his mother’s insanity, at least a speck of it. And Chloe brought it out. Finally his fingers sprung open, and she walked away. She didn’t look at him as she slung her purse over her shoulder and walked to the door. He couldn’t stop looking at her, an angel in yellow, an angel he’d brought back to life. Had she been talking to his wife about Teddy when he’d put his mouth over hers and breathed life into her? He touched his lips, remembering the illusory feel of the moment.

  She’d heard that speech before, that one she’d made for him. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Somebody had kissed her and told her it meant nothing. Dylan was pretty sure they’d lied.

  He walked to the front door and watched the green Thunderbird back out of the driveway. The press had tried to talk to her again, but she ignored them. He felt a strange tug inside as he watched her fade into the distance. He’d probably gotten rid of her for good this time. Relief surged through him. That was relief, wasn’t it, that bittersweet ache?

  He walked to Teddy’s room. The boy had always put his things away in perfect order. Most of the toys he’d bought for his son sat neatly on the shelves of the massive built-in bookcase. The toys in the oak chest sat waiting for a boy who wasn’t there to play with them. Dylan picked up a See ’n Say, a large stuffed rabbit, typical kids’ toys. Not typical were the collection of buttons arranged just so on the chest. Wasn’t Wanda forever sewing on buttons, making excuses that they came off in the dryer? Had she been covering for Teddy?

  And what about the alphabet blocks? Dylan had been proud at how fast Teddy learned the alphabet, lining up the blocks over and over … and over again. Now Dylan could see the obsessive way Teddy played with those blocks, to the exclusion of everyone around him.

  How could he have missed that his son was different? Because he’d seen what he wanted to see.

  The problem was Dylan didn’t know what a normal child was like. It had all looked so normal on the outside. He’d been so busy putting the exterior together, he hadn’t noticed the cracks in the foundation.

  It used to be that when the morning sun came up, his mom would pull him out of bed and make him get dressed. Teddy used to hate that, because that meant he had to leave his room. That was the best place in the world.

  Now he wished Mom would come wake him up. Anything to be regular again. He wanted his room back. His life. His things. It was starting to scare him, being here, no Mom or Dad or room. Something was wrong. He was afraid to think about it.

  The woman talked to him. He’d learned to try to listen to what people said; it was always an effort, but he really, really tried. He didn’t try with the old woman. For one thing, she always called him Wanda. He didn’t know any Wandas, and he was sure he wasn’t one. It was a girl’s name, and he didn’t know hardly any girls.

  Teddy walked to the little kitchen and ate some Cocoa Puffs. The woman always left her bowl, the milk, and the cereal box out, so he just helped himself. She had cereal all the time, even for dinner. Teddy didn’t mind. He liked Cocoa Puffs.

  A while later, the woman started moving very fast. He sensed something was wrong, so he tried to understand what she was saying.

  “Where are we? Why is there water all around us? I have to get into town. The sale on strawberries is over on Saturday. How am I going to make strawberry shortcake without strawberries? Tell me that. Tell me…” She looked at him, and he looked away. “Have you seen my purse? My gosh, look at the time! I’ve got to get my afternoon nap. The nurses will be after me if I don’t get my nap.”

  When the woman was asleep, he crept up to her like a kitty cat and pulled the buttons off her sweater. These were familiar at least. He also pulled the buttons off his own shirt. They weren’t pretty like the woman’s. Hers were pink and swirly.

  He set the buttons in the beam of sunshine that poured in through the glass door. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He arranged them in lines, counting up, down, and from side to side. He counted them in twos and fives. He liked numbers, liked the way they added up every time.

  But there weren’t enough buttons, not enough variety. He went into the room he and the woman slept in. It wasn’t quite like his room, but he recogn
ized drawers. He went to work setting out his clothes in stacks by color. Blue here, red here. Stripes got tricky, because there were two colors. Sometimes more.

  He went to work removing each button, sometimes biting the strings. He lined them up along the edge of the dresser. Now he had more colors to add to the rest.

  Movement caught his eye, and he looked up. A little boy stared back at him. Who was in his room? His heart started pounding at the thought of a stranger. He scooped up his buttons so the other boy wouldn’t take them.

  Then he remembered: that boy was himself. Teddy reached up, and so did the boy. He blinked; so did the boy. He looked at the boy’s eyes. His mom was always saying, “Look at me.” He repeated it, because that’s what he thought she wanted. It wasn’t. She got that ugly look on her face and grabbed his chin. “Look at me!”

  It seemed important to everyone that he look at their eyes. He didn’t like to look in people’s eyes. It made him feel funny inside. But he wanted to make his mom happy, so he practiced with the boy who was him. He stared at the boy’s eyes. They looked like buttons. Blue buttons. If he imagined them as buttons, it didn’t bother him to look into his eyes.

  But something was different. He frowned. He didn’t like change, but everything had changed lately. His mom wasn’t here. Or his dad. Or Camel. Nobody familiar but the boy, and even he looked different.

  Teddy reached up to his hair — and screamed. A squeak emerged from his mouth, but in his head he could hear a big roar. His hair was gone. The curls he liked coiling around his fingers had been killed.

  That woman was bad. She’d taken his curls. She called him Wanda when he knew his name was Teddy. He had to get away from her.

  He scooped up his buttons and tucked them in his pockets. He walked back to the place where the woman slept. At least she hadn’t taken his buttons. But they had moved, because they weren’t in the sunlight anymore.

  He put those buttons in his pocket too. Then he looked at the door. He would have to go out there to get away from the bad woman. He started to reach for the door lever.