The Shortest Way Home (33 page)

“Sean,” said a gravelly voice. “It’s your da.”

Oh, for the love of God,
thought Sean.
Could I please get a break?

“I’ve been thinking so much about all that you told me yesterday. I can’t make my mind stop turning it over and over.”

Like father, like son,
thought Sean. “I can’t really talk now,” he said. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“No, it’s just I’m unbelievably tired.” And a little drunk. And
so
not in the mood for another heart-to-heart.

“I’m a bit of a night owl, so I guess I assumed you were, too. But listen,” he said. “Can I just plant a little idea with you and you can see how it sprouts overnight?”

“Sure.”

“I keep thinking about Hugh being gone, and Kevin with no da, and you going off to parts unknown. And I was thinking . . . I would really . . . I think it would be good for all of us—”

“What, Da.”

“I want you and Kevin to come to Ireland with me. I know Deirdre’s busy with her acting career, and she’s not ready to see me, but the two of you could go.”

“Oh, I don’t think so—”

“A short trip. I just want you to
see
it, Sean! I want to get to know you again, and spend time with my grandson. I’ve never even met
him.”

With more sleep and less beer under his belt, Sean might have chosen his words more carefully. Or better yet, not said them at all. But that was not the case.

“And whose fault is that?” he said. “Look, you wanted to see me. You saw me. You wanted to open up the whole can of worms to make amends, as you call it. You opened it. Now you have to back off.”

Sean could hear a little gasp on the other end, as if he’d punched his father in the stomach. He felt bad for that, until his father said, “Jesussuffering
christ
, but you’re bitter! I would have thought that you of all people would understand.”

“
Me
of all people? What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been off on your own journey, too,” Da said. “You’re a prodigal, like me.”

“Pardon me, Da, but ‘prodigal’ doesn’t mean someone who returns after being gone a long time. It means wasteful. I’ve never wasted anything in my life. I’ve never had anything to waste.”

“I know what ‘prodigal’ means, son.”

You brass-balled bastard!
The words were about to come out, so Sean hung up.

He went up to bed but he couldn’t sleep. Jesus, the nerve of the man. Go to Ireland with him? No way in hell. Fury slammed around in his beer-addled brain until exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

W
hen Sean woke the next morning, he rubbed his eyes. They felt puffy and his tongue felt furry. He thought of Rebecca and experienced that vaguely bereft response to her absence again. He wished he were scheduled for a shift at the Confectionary. It would make the time pass more quickly until he saw her that night.

He went down to the kitchen. Aunt Vivvy was fixing herself a soft-boiled egg. It occurred to him that cooking might not be the wisest activity for her. Even boiling water could have disastrous consequences for someone without a consistent hold on her senses.

“Who is your late-night caller?” she asked him, as he rooted around in the cabinets for something that would settle his stomach.

“Hmm?”

“Who keeps calling here so late at night? It’s a bit presumptuous to think calling at that hour is acceptable.”

“Da.”

She was silent, lifting the egg from the pot with a slotted spoon and depositing it into an eggcup. As a boy, Sean had always thought they looked like miniature thrones for the soon-to-be-decapitated eggs. Humpty Dumpty meets Louis XVI. Aunt Vivvy took the enthroned egg to the kitchen table. “He calls then because he knows I won’t answer.”

“Yup.”

She murmured something under her breath as she elegantly hacked off the top of the egg with a spoon. It was the word
coward
, he realized, and a little part of him rose up to defend his father. But he allowed himself only the satisfaction of slamming down the knob on the toaster a little harder than necessary.

Later, when he took George for a walk to his meeting with Ms. Lindquist, he left Aunt Vivvy sitting at her desk writing a letter. She seemed calm and lucid, and Sean hoped she would remain so in his absence.

Claire Lindquist was on a step stool in her classroom, tacking bright orange letters to the top of a bulletin board.
IF YOU HAVE A BOOK, YOU ALWAYS HAVE A FRIEND,
they spelled out.

“Hi,” he said.

She turned and nearly toppled off the step stool, her glasses going slightly askew on her face. She caught herself and quickly adjusted the glasses, embarrassment coloring her cheeks in splotches.

“I’m sorry,” said Sean. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” She adjusted her glasses again, though they seemed perfectly straight. After commenting on the heat and the waning days of summer, they sat down in small chairs at a low table to discuss Kevin.

“First, I just want to say that, despite his challenges, he’s one of my all-time favorite students,” said Claire. Sean wondered how long “all-time” was—maybe five years, tops. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but he’s such a special kid.”

An unexpected wave of pride rippled through Sean, though of course he knew he’d had absolutely nothing to do with Kevin’s specialness. “Yeah.” He nodded. “He really is.”

“And he’s doing
so
much better.”

Better? Things had been
worse
than avoiding all situations that are loud and smell bad and make him the least bit anxious? Worse than having no friends?

“Can you tell me about that? From what I’m seeing now, it seems like he has some sensory issues,” said Sean. “The last time I saw him was only briefly when he was five, right after my brother died.”

“Certainly. I reviewed Kevin’s file and talked to his prior teachers. Your brother did a wonderful job of preparing him for kindergarten. They made visits to the school over the summer and met with Kevin’s teacher several times to get him used to the new environment.”

Another example of how party animal Hugh had found his calling in being a dad. The thought of it made Sean’s chest tighten.

Claire went on. “Of course, it was terribly hard for Kevin, losing his father, and the whole school community rallied around him. But you’ve probably picked up on the fact that being rallied around is not Kevin’s favorite thing.”

“No, not so much.” Sean smiled at the thought.

“Each of his teachers had to find ways to facilitate his learning without crowding him.” She looked away for a moment. “Some of us were a little more patient about it than others.”

Sean’s heart sank. He didn’t even want to think about what that meant. “But you say he’s gotten better?”

“Absolutely. Usually, as a child’s nervous system matures, they get better at managing sensory input. Think about it—little kids get overstimulated much more easily than teenagers. Kevin’s gradually learned to hold it together most of the time even without any intervention.”

“My aunt isn’t much of an intervener. I think she’s taken good care of him, but she was never one to get overly involved, even when I was a kid.”

“She raised you, too?”

“Yeah. Long story.”

“Okay, well . . . Your aunt did come to the school and meet with the guidance people when Kevin was in first grade.”

“How did that go?” Sean had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“Well, the file says she agreed that Kevin had some challenges . . .” Claire hesitated a moment and tucked a strand of her thin hair behind her ear. “But she pointed out that Kevin was fine at home. The house was quiet. No one touched him unnecessarily. She seemed to feel that if Kevin struggled at school, it was the school’s problem. There were several requests from guidance to have him evaluated, but she wouldn’t sign off, saying she wasn’t going to waste money to have someone tell her he was sensitive. She already knew that. Everyone knew it, and everyone knew the only remedy was for Kevin to toughen up.”

Sean looked out the window. He had tied George’s leash to a handicapped parking signpost, and he could see her lying in the shade of a nearby tree with her head on her paws. When Sean turned toward her, the dog’s head came up to look at him through the glass.

“Yeah,” he told Claire, still gazing at the dog. “That’s my aunt in a nutshell.”

They sat there in silence for a moment, and then he said, “So we’ll get him evaluated.”

“It might be good to see if there are any other learning issues he’s handling, aside from the sensory stuff. But I’m guessing that’s the main thing.”

Sean was surprised she wasn’t pushing it more, and asked her why.

“No, I definitely think he should get tested, but you have to understand, it’s possible that confirming the diagnosis won’t really matter at this point. Despite everything, Kevin’s pretty smart, and his grades haven’t suffered. He’s very conscientious about homework and reviewing for tests—which is terrific since he has a hard time concentrating in school. See, he’s developed a successful coping strategy on his own. The public schools only provide services for kids whose learning is affected by their disability. There isn’t much evidence of that with Kevin.

“However, they could put him on what’s called a 504 plan, which means he doesn’t qualify as special needs, but we get it that he needs a little extra help. For instance, they might let him off the hook for gym class, which is loud and smelly and involves a lot of bumping. They might let him eat his lunch somewhere other than the cafeteria. They would keep an eye on him a little more.”

“That would be great,” said Sean, thinking how much easier it would be to leave knowing the school was giving him the attention he needed. He shook his head. “I can’t believe my aunt wouldn’t get him tested.”

“You know, she’s not completely wrong. Obviously, I believe every child with special challenges should be given as much help as possible. But ultimately, Kevin does need to learn to live with a little more noise and physical contact. The world doesn’t conform to meet unusual needs very much. And if he builds a life that allows him to avoid everything that’s hard for him, he’ll be a pretty lonely guy.”

She smiled and reached over to the top drawer of her desk. She took out a piece of paper, crisscrossed with fold lines, and handed it to Sean. “This is what makes me know he can do it.”

Dear Ms. Lindquist.
The writer had clearly taken great care with his penmanship, pressing down hard and purposefully with a sharp pencil.

This was a good year. It was the best year I had at Juniper Hill. I am sorry I got mad or cried sometimes when everything got too much. But even when I was mad or sad, I still liked you, and I still knew you were mostly right when you said keep trying.

I wish you would be a teacher at the middle school next year. Even if I didn’t get to be in your classroom all the time, I would still know you were there. I will miss you. Maybe I will come back and visit but I will be quiet and not distract your class. I’ll just stand in the back and listen.

Have a nice summer. Thanks.

Sincerely,

Your student for one more minute,

Kevin Doran

“See?” said Claire, and her eyes were just the slightest bit glossy with emotion. “That’s what’s special about him, too. Not just the sensitivity to noise and smell and touch. The sensitivity to other people. Nothing has ever made me feel better about being a teacher than that note. How many kids would have even thought to write it?”

CHAPTER 41

C
laire Lindquist loaned him several books on sensory integration that she’d pulled from the guidance department shelves. They were titles he’d seen referenced online. One was specifically for parents, and after their talk he was anxious to flip through it.

As he walked home with George, he found himself wishing Kevin were there so he could ask him questions—mainly, what does it feel like? What makes it feel better? How can I help?

And he thought about the letter. So earnest and appreciative. Claire had it right—what eleven-year-old would think to write a thank-you note to his teacher? God knew no one had coached him to do it. No one coached him to do anything. And Sean got a little chuckle out of that “Your student for one more minute” line. Kevin had clearly written it ahead of time and carefully considered when he would present it to her. Sean had actually watched him do it just moments before the Clap Out. And then Kevin had let her hug him.

Two priceless gifts. Quite a kid.

Aunt Vivvy had told the guidance people that her house was quiet and no one touched Kevin. No one tossed him or hung him by his ankles, either, which he needed. And yet Kevin had progressed, developing his own set of coping skills—studying at home, spending time in the pleasant-smelling woods, piling his bed with blankets to create the pressure that soothed him. The enormity of these accomplishments began to dawn on Sean as he walked home.

* * *

“D
id anyone call?” Sean asked his aunt when he got to the house.

“I don’t believe so.”

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t hear it ring, but I was outside in the yard for a bit.”

“How long were you out there?”

She gave him her standard this-has-grown-tiresome look. “My sense of time isn’t what it once was,” she said wryly.

Had Rebecca called? They’d talked about getting together tonight, but there was no actual game plan. He figured since she had suggested it, she would initiate. Then again, he was the guy—was he supposed to call? Maybe she was annoyed that he hadn’t contacted her yet; on the other hand it was entirely possible that his calling would make her feel hounded.

He needed some sort of manual, like
Relationship 101 . . .
assuming that’s what they were doing now. Having a relationship. Or was this more of a friends-with-benefits thing?