Carry the Ocean: The Roosevelt, Book 1 (8 page)

Chapter Eight

J
eremey

I
t was all my fault.

I should have put something in front of the door to keep Mom out, should have listened for the creaking board in the hall so I could break apart from Emmet before she came in. I should have done something to stop it. But I was so caught up in being happy, sinking into Emmet’s touch—he hates soft touches, but he was touching me so sweetly I thought I would melt—that I forgot to watch out.

I was so lost in the moment of finally getting my first kiss, of having a boyfriend, that I didn’t know Mom had come into the room until she screamed.

I guess it wasn’t so much of a scream as a yelp and a series of surprised noises. To be fair, I hadn’t told her I was gay. In fact I’d worked not to let her know. It was bad enough with me being a depressed loser. I didn’t want to know what she’d say to finding out I was a
gay
depressed loser. So not only was she catching me making out with a friend, she was finding out what gender I wanted to make out with.

Also, I was making out with Emmet. I’d underestimated how much she still disliked him, how much she mostly tolerated him.

She stood in the doorway, eyes wide. At first she stared and sputtered. “You—what? Jeremey! Why—? What—?
Oh my God.
” She put her hands over her mouth and backed away. You would have thought she’d caught me stabbing a kitten, not kissing my friend.

Except she hadn’t seen that. She’d only seen us cuddling.

My face grew hot, my embarrassment and discomfort spreading down my body like a heat rash. Beside me Emmet had grown stiff, and he rocked back and forth, tapping S.O.S. against his leg in triple staccato. This was one of his signs, and it meant he was upset and didn’t know how to react, what he should do.

Me either.

Mom aimed an angry finger at Emmet. “Get out. Get
out
of my house, right now.”

Emmet shut his eyes and started to hum loudly, rocking back and forth as he tapped out S.O.S. over and over and over.

I wanted to take his hand, but his left fist was clenched tight against his leg, his right hand absolutely absorbed in his desperate tapping. I ached for him, and it was only the need to protect him that allowed me courage enough to speak. “Mom, stop. You’re upsetting him.”
Me too.

Shaking her head, she ignored me and swung her finger from Emmet to the stairs. “Go.
Get out. Get out right now.
” Her face became ugly as it twisted up, her lip curling and her chin trembling in her rage. “How
dare
you come here and take advantage of my son. You
perverted
little creep.”

Emmet’s rocking made the bed creak, and his hum became a guttural moan as he put his hands over his ears. His whole body posture had changed—everything about the Emmet I knew and cared for had fallen away, leaving a strange, terrifying shell.
This
was what I’d thought autistic people were like before I met Emmet. This wasn’t the boy who had kissed and held me.

I hated that he’d been reduced to this. I hated that it was my mother who had done it to him.

I wish I could say I’d stood up and shouted at her. That I’d angrily defended Emmet, protected him. I’m ashamed to admit all I did was cower on the bed. I felt hot and cold, dizzy and nauseous. The panic attack swept me up so quickly I didn’t see it coming—one moment I sat there huddled and awkward, and the next I was crumpled to the floor in a fetal ball, sweating and weeping silently as white-hot terror filled my brain and my teeth clacked together.

I don’t know how long it took Marietta to arrive, only that suddenly she was there, kneeling in front of Emmet and speaking soothingly to him. He’d retreated into some terrifying internal space, his gaze fixed unseeing at some spot on my carpet, still rocking and making horrifying noises, but she sat in front of him and whispered, her tone so calming it gentled me, though she had yet to so much as glance my way. Her entire being was for Emmet. She didn’t so much as lay a finger on him, yet she enveloped him more thoroughly than any physical embrace. Through my panic-pinked gaze, I watched her bring him down, draw my Emmet to the surface.

My mom was in the hall—I heard her talking to Emmet’s aunt, heard their sharp whispers rising as they argued. I couldn’t make out any words, but I didn’t want to hear them anyway. Mostly I watched Marietta and Emmet and wished someone would talk to me that way. I could see how much Marietta wanted to hold Emmet, and part of me wailed and moaned inside the same way Emmet did outside.
Hold
me
, Marietta. Somebody hold me. Somebody speak patiently and kindly to me. Somebody come running to save me
too.

No one did. No one ever had.

She didn’t say anything to me until Emmet left. No one asked if I wanted to say goodbye before Althea and Douglas formed a pair of walls around him and escorted him into their car, which was waiting in front of our house. I watched him go, aching, still dizzy and overwhelmed as I stood at the picture window in the living room and tracked the car until it was gone from sight.

All I’d done was kiss him. Let
him
kiss
me
. I imagine terrible outcomes for everything as simple as opening a box of cereal, but I hadn’t seen this coming. It made me want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head.

It made me want to stay there until I died.

They turned on me, Marietta’s normally kind face guarded and carefully blank, my mother’s quietly furious. My father glared at me as if he’d caught me doing something unspeakable.

“How could you do this?”

I hunched my shoulders and backed against the window, fixing my gaze to the floor as my mother waited for an answer. I had none. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted out. If they hadn’t blocked the front door, I’d have run out of it.

Marietta took a step closer, and out of fear, I glanced up. Her blank expression gentled. “Jeremey, you don’t need to be afraid. We only want to understand what happened.” She became guarded again as she went on. “Did Emmet…take advantage of you?”

I blinked, not understanding at first. When I realized what she meant, I hunched further into myself and shut my eyes.

Take advantage.
She meant did Emmet force himself on me. I didn’t have another panic attack, but shame deeper than anything I’ve ever known filled me up, making me feel ugly and wrong to my core.

Take advantage.
Marietta
asked me that.

One kiss.
One kiss and a hug. The only time anyone had touched me in years outside of stiff hugs from visiting relatives or strangers bumping into me in public. Even Emmet’s mom acted like it was the most shameful thing she’d ever seen.

“Answer her,” my father demanded.

I started to cry.

I thought things couldn’t get worse, but they did. Marietta started apologizing, to me, to my parents. “I’m so sorry. I should have seen this coming, I suppose. He’s strong-willed, and I knew he had a crush on Jeremey, but I thought it was harmless. I never dreamed he’d act on it.”

My mother twitched. “Why did you let him do that to you? What’s
wrong
with you?”

Marietta straightened, stiffening. “I think that’s a little harsh—”

“He’s not gay,” my mom snapped. “I didn’t realize your son was or that he was so poorly controlled—”

“Stop.”

They turned to me all at once, and the looks on their faces—rage, surprise, wariness, disgust—made me want to run and hide, but I couldn’t let them talk that way about Emmet, couldn’t let them believe that about him.

Drawing a ragged breath, I forced the words out. “I
am
gay. I never told anyone because I thought I’d never find a boyfriend. Except—”

I stopped. I wanted to say
then I met Emmet
, but shame cut off the words.

My mother filled them in for me, her disgust dripping from each syllable. “Except then there was the poor retarded boy who wasn’t smart enough to say no to you?”

“Emmet is not retarded,” Marietta snapped, all her gentleness gone. “Nor is he stupid.”

My mom waved this away. “Yes, he’s an idiot savant or whatever. He’s certainly not
normal
. I should never have let him associate with Jeremey in the first place. Certainly he won’t any longer.”

I recoiled, her casual remarks harsher than a slap across my face or a punch to my gut. They weren’t going to let me
see
Emmet? Marietta began to argue more pointedly, but I saw the expression on my parents’ faces, and nothing Emmet’s mother could say would change their minds. As far as my mom and dad were concerned, Emmet and I were through.

I pushed off the wall and stumbled out of the room, ignoring them as they shouted after me. I took the stairs two at a time, slammed the door shut and dragged the edge of my bed over to block the door from opening. Climbing into bed, I pulled the covers over my head and stared into the darkness.

Emmet was gone. From my house and from my life. No more walks to the store or around the block. No more meeting him at the train tracks. No more texts, no more Google hangouts. No more kisses. No more touches.

No more Emmet.

I played the argument from downstairs over in my head. I should have fought for him. I should have shouted back. But I was weak and worthless. I couldn’t fight. I could barely get out of bed on a good day.

Emmet deserved so much better than me. And I didn’t deserve anyone or anything at all.

I sobbed quietly under the blankets, mourning my ineptitude, my impotence, my failure. But more than anything, I mourned the loss of Emmet.

Chapter Nine

Em
met

A
lot of things about autism are unfair, but the worst is people on the mean have a double standard about autistic people’s behavior. I have to practice facial recognition charts and controlling my anger, and when I make a mistake, I get scolded and punished. But when Gabrielle acted bitchy because she didn’t like that Jeremey was gay, did anyone yell at her? Did they say,
Hey, maybe you shouldn’t be such an asshole to your own son?
No, they didn’t. They apologized, they sent me home, and then they acted as if I’d done something wrong. They told
me
I had to calm down, got upset with
me
when
I
couldn’t control my anger.

Worse, I couldn’t simply be angry. I couldn’t wallow in my feelings. I couldn’t put on my Dalek shirt and bang my foam hammer until it broke. I couldn’t pout or sulk. I had to get myself together as soon as possible. I’d seen Jeremey before I left. He was so upset that for the first time, I couldn’t see the light in his face. I couldn’t always read his face, but I could read his light, and his light had gone almost completely out. I remembered what he said about the voices, about how they were always loud and negative in his head, and I worried what would happen when he had his mother’s angry voice
and
his bad voices. I worried so much it made my stomach hurt. It’s not logical for Jeremey’s voices to make my stomach hurt, but it still happened.

I tried to go to him, to put the light back, but Althea said I had to wait for Mom. I wanted to use the sign to say I was going to stop talking, but if I did that, I couldn’t explain about Jeremey.

“Althea, you have to listen to me.”

“
You
have to listen to me. You’re in big trouble. Mrs. Samson is really upset.”

I stared at her shoulder. “Jeremey is upset. He’s
very
upset, and I have to go to him. He’s my boyfriend. I’m supposed to comfort him.”

Althea made a funny noise, so I looked at her face to see if I could read it. Surprised face. Very surprised face. “Your—” Her mouth opened and closed several times. Then her face got complicated. “Oh, Emmet. Oh, sweetie, that’s totally not okay. You can’t just decide you’re someone’s boyfriend.”

Why was everyone so dumb? “I didn’t just decide. We discussed it together. We decided to be boyfriends, and then she came in and started screaming because we were cuddling. Good thing she didn’t see us kissing.”

Her face kept changing so fast it was hard to keep up. “Peanut, did…did Jeremey make you do something you didn’t want to do?”

It took so much work not to be angry. “Jeremey wouldn’t ever make me do something I didn’t want to do. He couldn’t. He’s way too shy. He has depression, and it makes him overwhelmed. He doesn’t have any modifications, either, and no medicine. He’s sensitive. Much more sensitive than me. His mother makes him feel bad, and I think she’s doing it now. We have to help him.
I
have to help him.”

I spoke calmly and slowly, but she didn’t understand. My dad didn’t say anything, but he frowned at Althea a lot. I didn’t know what that meant. When my mom came back, she made me almost as angry as Althea did.

“Sweetheart.” She stood in front of me, looking worriedly at my face. “What’s going on?”

Why was she asking me? How would I know what was going on at the Samsons’? “I need to see Jeremey. Right now. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s upset. I need to make him happy again.”

“
Boyfriend?
Emmet—”

I didn’t have time for this. “Mom, stop. I have a boyfriend. Jeremey. Why do you think I’ve been hanging out with him so much? But I can’t talk about that right now. He’s upset. I have to fix it.”

I started toward the front door, but she grabbed my arm. I hate it when people grab me, and I started to swing my arm to hit, then made myself stop. I pulled away from her and made an angry face instead. “Mom, get off me.”

She blocked the door with her body. “Honey, you can’t go over there right now. You can be angry with me, but you cannot go to the Samsons’ house. It’s not safe for you. Mrs. Samson is very angry.”

“Mrs. Samson is a
bitch
, Mom.”

She made her lips flat, which means she didn’t like what I said, but she didn’t tell me it was rude not to say it. Because she knew I was right.

She shut her eyes and let out a slow breath. “You can’t go over. We’ll talk about this later, but right now I need to speak with your father.”

“
I
need to speak with my boyfriend. I’m an adult, Mom. Stop treating me like a baby.”

We argued for fifteen minutes, but I’m sorry to say I didn’t win. I didn’t hit, or hum, or have an episode, but in the end I still went to my room. I whaled on my bed with the foam hammer and said bad words about Mrs. Samson, loud enough they had to hear me downstairs, but nobody came up to tell me I had to stop. I called my mom a few bad names too, but it made me feel uncomfortable, so I quit.

My mom might be bossy, but she’s not a bitch like Gabrielle Samson.

When I calmed down, I tried to decide what to do. All I could think about was that I needed to check on Jeremey, but they’d catch me going out the front or the back door in the house. Also, probably they were right. If I went to Jeremey’s house, his parents would stop me from seeing him.

If he still had his phone, though, I could call him, or text.

I texted. His parents wouldn’t hear if he had the sound muted, which he usually does.

Jeremey, this is Emmet. I am worried about you. I’m worried you’re upset. I want to help you, but my aunt and parents are being strange. Please tell me if you are okay and how I can help you. If I can help you.

After only a few minutes he replied. Except I could tell by the way he answered something was wrong.

am v ovrwhlmed

Sometimes Jeremey is sloppy about spelling and punctuation, but never that bad. Usually he lies and says he’s okay too, but today he admitted he felt bad. I didn’t know what to do.

I want to help you. Can I come over?

His reply was quick, and it made me sad.

no bcuse mom

I felt sad.
No, because Mom.

If I shut my eyes, I could see him on his bed, lying under the covers using all his energy just to push the buttons. Even if we used the phone, speaking would be hard. Plus, his mom would hear.

I was angry with Jeremey’s mom. My brain octopus was furious, and I wanted to give in and be angry, but I pushed it aside. Anger wasn’t important right now. Jeremey was.

Do you want me to keep talking to you? I know it’s hard for you to type back, but do you want to keep texting? You can type Y or N.

It took a few seconds, but he typed
y
.

I relaxed and sat cross-legged on the floor on my thinking cushion. I wished I could use a keyboard—then it occurred to me that if I hooked my wireless keyboard up to my phone with Bluetooth, I could. Excited, I typed
brb
—that’s shorthand for
be right back
—and I set myself up, with my keyboard on a board on my lap and my phone propped up on a bookshelf. Then I started to type.

Sorry, it took longer to get ready than I meant it to. I set my keyboard up with my phone, so I can type fast. But I have a question. I want to ask you some things, but are you too overwhelmed to answer? I can maybe make them yes/no questions, but I don’t want to make you talk if your depression is feeling loud right now. So here is my first question: can I ask you some questions?

y

I smiled and started typing again.
I’m glad. But let’s make a code. Y is yes and N is no. D is done, meaning you want to be done talking. If you do that, I will say goodbye and text you later. If I ask something you don’t want to answer, say X. If I make you angry, type A, and I will apologize. Does that sound okay?

It took him a few minutes to answer, and when I saw his big reply, I understood why the big pause.

y. but add S for me saying sorry, and H for I hear you but don’t have anything to say. so sometimes it doesn’t have to be questions.

These are good. You’re good at modifications, Jeremey.

One more. T for thank you.
That text came through, and then he added,
t
.

This was what Jeremey did. I was nervous for him and angry at our parents and my aunt, but he could still make me feel good.

You said I can’t come over because of your mom. Is she angry at me?

y

This made me angry right back, but I made it wait.
Is she angry with you?

y. also sad.

I wanted to ask why she was sad, but that would be too hard for him to answer. I couldn’t think of another question, so I told him about Althea.
My aunt acted strange when I said we were boyfriends, and she got weirder when I said we kissed.
A thought in the back of my head came to the front, and I decided I would share it with Jeremey, though it made me sad.
I think they believe I’m too stupid to be your boyfriend. That it’s not okay for me to have you for a boyfriend because I’m autistic.

Jeremey interrupted me, he texted so fast.
n i am broken one

I was so angry I wanted to type an A for angry instead of an answer.
You aren’t broken. You have a mental illness. Mental illness doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means your brain is sick. Don’t say you’re broken. It’s mean. Don’t say mean things about yourself.

There was a long pause, then he typed
h
. And then
s.

I had a question now, but I had too many emotions about it. It took me a long time to put my words together.
Are you still okay to be boyfriends?

I had the words typed for a long time before I could hit send. But Jeremey’s answer was fast.

Y

Then, after a short pause,
RU?

My chest had hurt while I tried to be brave enough to send, but now it was warm and happy.
Yes, I want to be your boyfriend. More than ever.

T

I hummed for a minute, feeling happy and needing a minute to let myself feel happy because Jeremey still wanted to be with me. But I made it quick.
He
still needed to feel better.
I worry they won’t let me see you now, but don’t worry. I will be persistent until they let me. I’m good at being persistent.

h

t

I rocked and hummed as I tried to get brave enough for the next question.
Can I be persistent with your mom?

He paused, then typed
IDK
. That’s shorthand for
I don’t know
.

I sighed.
I don’t think your mom likes me. It makes me sad. I practice my social skills every time before I come to your house, but she makes unpleasant faces at me. Do you know what I’m doing wrong?

It took him a long time to answer.
mom wants everyone to be normal esp me

I wished he could use full punctuation so I could understand him.
Did you mean to say your mom wants everyone to be normal, especially you?
When he typed another
Y
, I shook my head and rocked before I typed.

Jeremey, there is no such thing as normal. It’s wrong of your mother to say you have to be normal. I can’t be normal either. I have autism. My aunt has autism too. My dad has lactose intolerance. My mom’s feet are a whole size different from each other, and her sleeves are always too short. Everyone is different. Nothing in the world is the same as anything else, so how can anyone be normal?

I worried he would type X or D, but after a long time, he said,
my mom believes in normal but I can’t be normal. it makes me sad.

I was trying to think of what to say back when he typed again.

sometimes I want to kill myself. a lot of times I do.

I hummed loud, and I had to flap my hands before I could type.
Jeremey, it makes me upset when you say that. Please don’t kill yourself. I would be so sad. If you killed yourself, you wouldn’t be alive.

sometimes being alive is v hard

This was a strange thing to say. I tried to make sense of his words, but they didn’t make any sense. How was being alive a hard thing? All he had to do was keep breathing, eat food and not get too hot or cold. Did he have a disability about those things too?

I’m sorry, Jeremey. I don’t think I understand what you mean. How is being alive hard?

It would take him a long time to reply, so I hummed and rocked while he did. When his text came through, I held myself still and read slowly and carefully, so I could understand.

my emotions feel loud and big. its hard for me to keep hold of them. they weigh me down. make me heavy and tired and overwhelmed. sometimes I feel like everyone else is carrying a bucket of water but I’m trying to carry an ocean. its very hard. sometimes I would rather not carry my ocean, even if it meant I couldn’t be alive.

I hummed loudly and rocked. I made hand signs and flapped too before I could type a reply. This is another good thing about Jeremey. He uses metaphors I can understand.

I replied.

Autism is like an ocean for me. Little things are overwhelming. Senses, touches. Everyone else can read faces, but I can’t. Everyone else knows how to look people in the eye, but I can’t. Only autistic people have to have special classes and facial recognition charts to understand what people mean and say. When you’re autistic, everyone acts as if you’re not a real human. I’m angry at my family because they said I was a real human, but when I say I’m your boyfriend, they say I can’t be. So they lied. I’m not a real human.

The anger filled me up, but I told it no, I wanted to keep talking to Jeremey, not be angry.

That’s my ocean. I have to pretend as best I can to be like people on the mean so people don’t call me a robot. I’m not a robot. I’m real and I have feelings the same as everyone else. And I want a boyfriend. Except my ocean doesn’t make me want to be dead. It makes me want to fight. I want you to fight too, Jeremey. I want us to carry our oceans together.