I remember well the day my mom brought Kenny home, even though I was only six years old. Kenny was a good baby, meaning he slept most of the night and wasn’t fussy like they said I was. It probably wasn’t until Kenny was three years old that we started to notice he was kind of zoning us out, refusing to make eye contact and no longer paying attention to anything we did. When the doctor suggested he might be on the “autistic spectrum,” I don’t think any of us were really too surprised, although Mom still cried off and on for a few weeks and spent hours on the internet nearly every day looking for a treatment. Dad said that she had to be careful because there was a lot of snake oil out there, and I could see for myself that was true. They had magnets you wore on your head, herbal pills, weird potions, and dubious injections, even though there was no real scientific evidence that any of them actually worked.
It seemed incredibly cruel to sell false hope like that to people who were desperate. I guess some people are willing to try anything, even though they probably know deep down that they’re just throwing their money away. Maybe they figure that’s better than doing nothing at all.
Mom didn’t fall for any of the online bag of tricks, but she did realize we couldn’t afford the kind of intensive tutoring that really could help Kenny to some degree. Mom and Dad talked about moving to another state where Kenny might qualify for some assistance, but Dad didn’t think at his age that he could give up all his clients and start all over at some new insurance agency in some unfamiliar town. Instead, she taught herself some of the things that the tutors did, but then she died, so Kenny didn’t have a chance to get much better. He seemed to come out of his shell for a little while after she was gone, probably because the daily routines we all had changed drastically. Kenny kept asking where Mom was, and we kept telling him she wasn’t coming back, but it took months for him to understand that our new routines were permanent and that none of us would ever see her again. Once he seemed to finally understand that, he withdrew again, although at times he was incredibly perceptive about how Dad and I were feeling, telling us every now and then to “be happy like Kenny.”
I think Mom would have been proud of Kenny for reminding us to keep our spirits up. At times, we needed Kenny’s reminder—especially on holidays—and he seemed to know it even before we did.
Kenny was skinny, even skinnier than I was when I was his age, and he has this stubborn swirl of red hair that never looked combed no matter how much we tried. He wasn’t much for personal grooming except for showers. Kenny would’ve stayed in the shower all day if we had let him, although he would’ve run out of hot water long before then. Many a time I took a cool or lukewarm shower after Kenny was done because he had drained the hot water tank and I couldn’t wait for the tank to do its thing. Still, it was hard to get mad at Kenny given how he was. The one time I got upset over something he did and snapped at him, he just stared at me with his distant, soulful eyes, and I realized that Kenny would never deliberately do anything wrong as far as he was aware.
One day my dad said something that seemed unbelievable and made me glad I wasn’t around back when he was young. He was reading the paper at the kitchen table on a Saturday morning when Kenny let out a laugh for some reason known only to him.
Dad put the paper down, shook his head, and said, “You know, when I was young, kids like Kenny were either bullied or beat up. Usually both.”
I was shocked. “For being autistic?”
Dad shrugged. “We didn’t know anything about autism back then. If you were different somehow, eventually someone would hit you, and that was it. People like Kenny were institutionalized or kept hidden away so nothing bad would happen to them.” He went back to reading his paper. “But that was some time ago.”
I was glad to hear that last part. It would be terrible if Kenny were punished just for being Kenny.
One thing I made it a point to do was not tell anyone that Kenny was autistic. I just told them that I had a brother since that’s all that really mattered. When they finally met him, I watched them closely for their reaction. If they were warm and friendly toward him right away, then I knew we could be friends. If they avoided him or—worse yet—seemed disappointed, then I knew we couldn’t. Needless to say, both Onion and Dave passed the test with flying colors.
One girl I dated junior year didn’t fare so well.
She was cute and witty and came from a nice family and all that, but everything fell apart when I finally invited her to my house. She took one look at Kenny, recoiled, and spun around to confront me.
“You didn’t tell me there was a problem with your brother,” she whispered confidentially, as if offended.
Engrossed in his Game Boy he had owned for years and played constantly, Kenny ignored us. I was grateful for that.
“Problem?” I asked, my anger rising. She didn’t look so cute anymore. In fact, she suddenly looked downright ugly. “What problem is that, exactly?”
“Well, look at him,” she whispered. “He’s obviously retarded or something.” She wrinkled her nose as if Kenny smelled bad, too.
“No, he’s autistic,” I said calmly. “The problem is I’ve been wasting my time with you. I had no idea you were that heartless. Come on, I’m taking you home. We’re through.”
The only word that really rankled me was “retard.” Both Onion and Dave learned real fast that I despised that word. They both stopped saying it when I told them I couldn’t be friends with anyone that insensitive.
I always worried about what was going to happen to Kenny when he was an adult. Dad was putting aside some money for him and had a nice life insurance policy, so I figured Kenny would be okay financially, but unless he lived with me, Kenny would end up someplace with strangers. I didn’t think Kenny would like that at all, even if they were nice strangers. I had my own life to live, of course, but I knew that I could never leave Kenny on his own, even if we found the best caregivers ever. Whatever my future plans might be, Kenny would always be included. I knew it was going to be hard to find a girl willing to accept both Kenny and me as kind of a “package deal,” but that was all right. I could wait to find someone who would accept Kenny for who he was rather than wish he was something he wasn’t. Like Filby, that girl had to be out there somewhere; I just hadn’t found her yet.
The bottom line was that Kenny was my brother, and as far as I was concerned, brothers stuck together no matter what came our way.
On what would have been my mother’s birthday, we always had a little celebration for her. I don’t remember it, but my dad said that tradition started at my shrill insistence the day before her birthday just a few months after she died. That first year I made a birthday wish for her—out loud—wishing she hadn’t died. My dad said he understood then why I wanted a party, and we’ve been celebrating her birthday ever since. My dad would either buy or bake a small birthday cake, and the three of us would sit at the kitchen table with the fourth chair “reserved” for my mom, as if she were with us in spirit or something. We’d sing “Happy Birthday,” I’d make a silent wish, and then both Kenny and I would blow out the candles.
At the most recent party, I decided to let Kenny make the birthday wish.
“Go ahead, Kenny,” I egged him on. “Make a wish for Mom. It’s your turn this year.”
Kenny looked confused a moment. “Why, George? Mom is dead.”
Dad and I were silent. I glanced at the empty chair.
“That’s right, Kenny. She’s not coming back. But that doesn’t mean we should forget her. We’ll never forget her, will we, Kenny?”
Kenny ignored me and stared at the cake instead.
“Cake for Kenny now, please,” he said.
After I made a hasty wish and blew out the candles, we ate the cake in near silence. I decided I would make all her birthday wishes from then on.
As we cleared the table, I went to push the empty fourth chair back in place, then stopped with the eerie thought that maybe Mom really was sitting there in spirit or something, watching and listening to us.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” I said quietly, and just in case, left the chair right where it was.
Mom died at home in her sleep. I remember waking up late for school, wondering why I heard strange voices in the house. I went into the kitchen and saw the flashing blue and red lights of a silent ambulance in the driveway through the kitchen window. The lights looked festive, even kind of pretty. There was an unfamiliar clatter behind me, and when I turned around, two paramedics were wheeling a gurney out of my parents’ bedroom. Whatever was on the gurney was covered with a sheet.
“What is it?” I asked them, more out of curiosity than fear. I was still sleepy, and so far this just seemed like another dream. They stopped where they were when they saw me, not answering.
“George? George?”
My dad came quickly out of the bedroom and stood between me and the gurney, too late to block my view. I wondered why he was still in his pajamas when he should have been dressed for work.
“Turn away, George,” he said. There was something in his voice and eyes that told me I should do just that . . . and be afraid.
Just as I was about to comply, the paramedics jostled the gurney to get out of the house. As the gurney started to roll, my mother’s right arm slipped out from under the sheet, her hand bouncing as if waving at me to come to her.
I knew right then the awful truth and let out a little cry, then threw my arms around my dad. He held me tight.
One of the paramedics quickly tucked my mom’s arm back under the sheet while the other looked at me with mournful eyes.
“It’s all right. She can’t hurt you.”
Why he thought I was afraid of being hurt I’ll never know. My mom had never hurt me, but that wasn’t what upset me then. What upset me was that it seemed like with those waves of her hand she had wanted one last hug from me before they took her away, but I rejected her by cowering in fear instead. I was bothered for the longest time by that memory of her beckoning me and how I let her down, although I told no one.
And that was my last memory of Mom at home.