Cruise Control (6 page)

Over the years I've introduced Shawn to the joys of Wheat Thins, smoked oysters, strawberry cheesecake, the full range of Frito-Lay products, and an occasional frosty sip of a tall Bud and a wide variety of other fine malt beverages, both domestic and imported (I think he's partial to Coors Light). Hey, the guy's gotta have some fun!

Right now, he's sucking away on the hunk of Mesquite Barbecue potato chip that I just slipped him. As I cruise back to the couch for more Alice Ponds torture, I wink at Shawn, as if he knew what was going on.

I try to watch and listen: Blah, blah, blah … blah, blah, blah … and then a little more, blah, blah, blah.

Just as Dad and Cindy come on, Shawn goes into a seizure. Mom looks at him and jumps up, hurrying over to make sure he's okay, that his strap is snug around his chest. As she stands next to him, she runs her hand through his hair, real gentle, trying to reassure him. My mom is the best. I can't help but wonder whether the bite of chip I gave Shawn is going to cause a problem, but luckily he's not choking.

After a couple seconds Shawn falls asleep or whatever it is that happens to him once the electric currents in his brain stop misfiring. I wonder if he's dreaming. Can a guy with a totally useless brain, a brain that can't even think, dream? I've seen dogs and cats having dreams; you'd think that if even animals do it, a human brain, even a bad one, would have
something
going on. I try to shake off these thoughts; they don't help anything.

With Shawn sleeping, Mom sits back down and we watch as Dad's interview comes on. In the videotape Detraux is in prison and Dad's sitting there with him and they talk about how Earl killed his little two-year-old retarded kid. It's kind of interesting: the gray prison bars, the guards standing around in the background, the big cuffs on Detraux's hands. Earl looks sad, and Dad has this phony-looking sympathetic expression. What I like best is seeing my old man in “the big house”—if the world was fair at all, guys who run out on their retarded kids would get life plus twenty years.

After they play the interview, a woman in the audience asks Cindy, “Do you wanna kill your bruvver?”

Cindy, without missing a beat, asks back, “Which brother?”

I burst out laughing, and the real Cindy, sitting next to me on the couch, blushes and smiles. We give each other high fives.

On TV Cindy answers the woman's question. “No, I've never thought about doing anything like that. But I have thought about Shawn's life, about how his condition affects all of us. I mean, I've heard some people talk about what a ‘precious gift' a retarded child is to a family—but I think that's totally a lie, an excuse to deal with how heartbreaking and hard it can be sometimes.”

Alice Ponds, real condescending and like she's speaking to a five-year-old, asks Cindy, “Surely you're not for mercy killing of innocent children who have hurt brains?”

Cindy answers, “Surely you don't speak from any experience of living with a severely handicapped brother or sister?”

Alice sputters. “Well no, I don't have any firsthand experience of a sibling with—”

Cindy interrupts, “No, I didn't think so, because if you had, you wouldn't ask that question. Mercy killing? No, I've never thought about killing Shawn; none of us know what his life is really like. But I have thought, lots of times, about him dying. And I've wondered, a million times, what the purpose of his life is. There's no way I'll ever believe that the problems a brother like Shawn brings to a family are ‘gifts from God.' That's the stupidest thing in the world and the worst kind of denial. Having Shawn as a brother is hard. You even feel guilty for feeling bad about it.”

I'm sitting here amazed. Cindy sounds so smart. She's putting into words all kinds of stuff I've thought but could never say. I'm afraid to look over at Mom, but when I peek, she looks quiet, sad, but not mad at all.

We
never
talk about Shawn this way. We
never
tell the truth: that Mom has sacrificed her whole life to take care of him; that Cindy does the same thing. Cindy's got friends and is into music a little, but her life is pretty much committed to Shawn too. And then there's me. I'm trapped here taking care of everyone, trying to protect everyone, especially my brother. All of us give our lives away, every day, for Shawn. All of us except my dad.

As the show ends, Mom leaves the room, turning her face away so that Cindy and I won't see the tears in her eyes.

I say to Cindy, softly so that Mom won't hear us, “You were great on the show. The things you said about how Shawn's condition affected us all, how it changed us forever, that was such a great way to put it.”

Cindy and I talk back and forth, being sure to speak softly so that Mom won't hear.

Suddenly Cindy asks whether I think Dad might be planning on hurting Shawn. At first I don't even know what she's talking about, but then she explains: What about all the stuff about Detraux? What about Dad talking about killing your kid to end his pain? Cindy's worried about it.

“Nah, Shawn's safe,” I say.

I think about it and add, kind of lamely, hoping I sound more sure of myself than I actually feel, “Yeah, Shawn's safe. Even if Dad's gone nuts and wants to do something, he'd have to come through me.”

Cindy nods and looks away.

But now something shifts inside me. It hits me hard. I feel my face go red and my hands start to shake. I'm totally ashamed. I flash back to that day I beat up the bullies who were hurting Shawn with the Bic lighter. I know Cindy is probably thinking about that day too. But she doesn't know the
whole
story. She doesn't know what really happened—nobody does. Cindy thinks I saved Shawn, and I guess maybe I did save him, but …

I take a couple deep breaths to try and get control of myself.

Could
Dad be thinking of killing Shawn? I know what Cindy's asking. We all have moments when we wonder what Shawn's life means. We all have moments when we wonder what life would be like if Shawn weren't around. I feel kind of sick thinking about this, especially thinking about my dad. Could Dad be thinking about mercy-killing Shawn? I guess he
could
be.

But why would he? After all, Dad's Shawn lives only in the books Dad writes. Dad's Shawn never needs his diaper changed. Dad's Shawn never needs to be fed, or has a seizure, or needs protection from bullies. Only Dad has escaped the
real
Shawn. The rest of us, Shawn especially, are like Earl Detraux, stuck right here in our own jails forever and never going anywhere.

I
'm sure that the main reason I decided to come along with Dad and Cindy and Shawn today is the chance to watch my dad suffer. It really is obvious that it's hard on him to be around Shawn, and today that's exactly where he is! I'm gonna love this; welcome to my world, Dad!

Dad's taking the three of us, Shawn, Cindy, and me, to the Seattle Center, a repeat of a trip we took years ago, back when I was in sixth grade. What's funny about this, a sick, disturbed, totally messed-up “funny,” is that Mom isn't here this time to play the buffer between Shawn and Dad. Of course, he's got Cindy, who is a Mom clone when it comes to caring for Shawn, but at least Dad will have to take
some
responsibility. I can't stop wondering, Why is Dad doing this? What does Dad want? It's like he's trying to be a parent again, but I know that can't be true.

As we drive toward the Seattle Center, Dad's trying to be all cheerful, which is ridiculous. He's singing along to songs on the radio's oldies station, like “Lola” by the Kinks. When we were little, we used to go for rides in the car and sing “Lola,” so Dad is cheerleading us to sing along now.

It's totally ridiculous.

Cindy actually seems to be
enjoying
it! I swear, sometimes she acts more retarded than Shawn. She's singing away, happy as can be. Shawn is moaning his loud “ahhhhhhhh,” which is not exactly in whatever key Cindy and Dad are singing in.

Dad says, “Come on, Pauly—jump in anywhere,” then starts to sing again.

He has a really rat-sphincter voice, too.

We get to the Seattle Center and Dad unloads Shawn's wheelchair, lifts him out of the van, and straps him onto the leather wheelchair seat. We head toward the amusement park rides. I hear people screaming and laughing as we get closer, the roar of the roller coaster and the tinkling sound of the merry-go-round. The smells of popcorn and junk food are doing combat with the stink of diesel fumes wafting through the air. There's a pretty decent size crowd.

As we're walking, getting closer to the ticket stand, a guy about my age walks by in the opposite direction. The guy looks at Cindy and she glances back at him. He's an okay-looking guy, a little on the preppy side, but even I notice him checking out Cindy.

Dad sees this too and smiles. He says to Cindy, “You think he was checking you out or just gaping at Shawn?”

Cindy's face drops, and I can tell that her feelings are hurt. She gives Dad a killer look.

Dad tries to cover. “I was just kidding, sweetheart. Of course he was …”

But before Dad can finish, Cindy spins and walks away. Dad awkwardly turns Shawn's wheelchair around so he can take off after her.

“Idiot,” I say under my breath—and I'm not talking about my brother!

I wait, staying out of it. Dad catches up to Cindy and talks to her, no doubt trying to talk his way out of trouble, trying to charm her like he does everybody else, all the time. In a couple minutes they come back, and Dad, looking at our faces, laughs and says, “Lighten up. This is going to be great!”

Shawn starts to rock back and forth in his chair, going “ahhhhhh” even louder than normal. There's so much noise and confusion and chaos here that it must be kind of weird for him.

I say, “You know, maybe this was a mistake—to bring Shawn.”

Dad says, “Nonsense. There are plenty of things for Shawn and me to do.”

Shawn and him? I can't believe what I'm hearing, but Dad fishes into his wallet and digs out two fifty-dollar bills, handing one to me and one to Cindy.

Dad glances at his watch and says, “We'll meet you guys back here in, say, a couple hours. Two o'clock all right?”

I don't believe this! Dad alone with Shawn for two whole hours? Perfect! Before he can change his mind or say another word, I say, “Yeah, great, all right.” I grab Cindy's arm, and before she can protest, we're gone.

The two hours go by pretty fast, a few rides, a few arcade games—but all the time, in the back of my mind, I keep wondering how Shawn and Dad are doing.

Cindy and I are back at the meeting spot only a few minutes late. Of course, there's no sign of Shawn or Dad. We stand around not saying anything for a while. Finally she asks, “He said two hours, right?”

I answer, “Yeah,” even though I know she already knows the answer.

Cindy decides to go spend the last two bucks of her fifty on something to eat (my cash was gone in about ten minutes).

While Cindy searches for fat enhancers, there's this big fountain near where I'm standing, close to where we're supposed to meet Shawn and Dad. I sit on the edge of it and wait, keeping cool, or at least trying to. I can't help but be a little mad at Dad for being late. Of course, I don't know what's up with him and Shawn; still, it's typical that he'd be thoughtless about the time.

Finally, after another five minutes or so, I see Dad and Shawn working their way through the crowd toward me. A few seconds later Cindy shows up too, carrying a huge wad of blue cotton candy.

“Nice sugar,” I say to her, ignoring Dad.

“You're just jealous,” she says.

Actually, even though her blue lips are gross, she's right—I'd love a hit off her tooth decay on a stick.

I finally glance over at Dad. I can only imagine how it must have been to push old Shawn around in his wheelchair through the crowds and over the rutted, crumbling surface of these grounds for two hours plus. Dad's face is red and his hair, what's left of it, is all messed up. He really looks hacked out. Good—serves him right.

I can't resist. “So Dad, did you guys have a good time?”

Dad glances back at me like he doesn't even understand my question.

Back in the parking lot at the van, Dad puts Shawn into the passenger side in back, belting him in. Cindy and I get in too. I'm up front riding shotgun, and Cindy's next to Shawn, sitting right behind Dad.

We start to head out, and right away Shawn starts to moan “ahhhhhhh” even louder than he usually does.

After a few minutes, Dad slams his hand on the dashboard and yells, “Damnit!”

Cindy says, “I know. He gets a little intense, doesn't he?”

Dad says, “Yeah, ‘intense' is one word for it!”

I look at Dad, and his face is even redder than before—he looks totally burned out and totally stressed. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But if anybody in the world deserves to have to put in some time with Shawn's noise, it's dear old Dickhead Dad.