House Rules: A Novel
By Jodi Picoult
Hardcover, 544 pages
List price: $28
In my mind, Asperger's isn't a label to describe the traits Jacob has, but rather the ones he lost. It was sometime around two years old when he began to drop words, to stop making eye contact, to avoid connections with people. He couldn't hear us, or he didn't want to. One day I looked at him, lying on the floor beside a Tonka truck. He was spinning its wheels, his face only inches away; and I thought, Where have you gone?
I made excuses for his behavior: the reason he huddled in the bottom of the grocery cart every time we went shopping was because it was cold in the supermarket. The tags I had to cut out of his clothing were unusually scratchy. When he could not seem to connect with any children at his preschool, I organized a no-holds-barred birthday party for him, complete with water balloons and pin the tail on the donkey. About a half hour into the celebration, I suddenly realized that Jacob was missing. I was six months pregnant, and hysterical — other parents began to search the yard, the street, the house. I was the one who found him, sitting in the basement, repeatedly inserting and ejecting a VCR tape.
When he was diagnosed, I burst into tears. Remember, this was back in 1995; the only experience I'd had with autism was Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. According to the psychiatrist we first met, Jacob suffered from an impairment in social communication and behavior, without the language deficit that was a hallmark of other forms of autism. It wasn't until years later that we even heard the word Asperger's — it just wasn't on anyone's diagnostic radar yet. But by then, I'd had Theo, and Henry — my ex — had moved out. He was a computer programmer who worked at home and couldn't stand the tantrums that Jacob would throw when the slightest thing set him off: a bright light in the bathroom, the sound of the UPS truck coming down the gravel driveway, the texture of his breakfast cereal. By then, I'd completely devoted myself to Jacob's early intervention therapists — a parade of people who would come to our house intent on dragging him out of his own little world. I want my house back, Henry told me. I want you back.
But I had already noticed how, with the behavioral therapy and speech therapy, Jacob had begun to communicate again. I could see the improvement. Given that, there wasn't even a choice to make.
The night Henry left, Jacob and I sat at the kitchen table and played a game. I made a face and he would try to guess which emotion went with it. I smiled, even though I was crying, and waited for Jacob to tell me I was happy.
Henry lives with his new family in the Silicon Valley. He works for Apple and he rarely speaks to the boys, although he sends a check faithfully every month for child support. But then again, Henry was always good with organization. And numbers. And his ability to memorize an entire Shakespeare folio at first reading — which had seemed so academically sexy in college — wasn't all that different from the way Jacob could memorize the entire TV guide schedule by the time he was six. It wasn't until years after Henry was gone that I diagnosed him with a dash of Asperger's, too.
There's a lot of fuss about whether or not Asperger's is on the autism spectrum or not, but to be honest, it doesn't matter. It's a term we use to get Jacob the accommodations he needs in school, not a label to explain who he is. If you met him now, the first thing you'd notice is that he might have forgotten to change his shirt from yesterday, or to brush his hair. If you talk to him, you'll have to be the one to start the conversation. He won't look you in the eye. And if you pause to speak to someone else for a brief moment, you might turn back to find that Jacob's left the room.
Saturdays, Jacob and I go food shopping.
It's part of his routine, which means we rarely stray from it. Anything new has to be introduced early on, and prepared for — whether that's a dentist appointment or a vacation or a new student joining his math class midyear. I knew that he'd have his faux crime scene completely cleaned up before eleven o'clock, because that's when the Free Sample Lady sets up her table in the front of the Townsend Food Co-op. She recognizes Jacob by sight, now, and usually gives him two mini eggrolls or bruschetta rounds or whatever else she's plying that week.
Theo's not back, so I've left him a note — although he knows the schedule as well as I do. By the time I grab my coat and purse, Jacob is already sitting in the back seat. He likes it there, because he can spread out. He doesn't have a driver's license, although we argue about it regularly, since he's eighteen and was eligible to get his license two years ago. He knows all the mechanical workings of a traffic light, and could probably take one apart and put it back together, but I am not entirely convinced that in a situation where there were several other cars zooming by in different directions, he'd be able to remember whether to stop or go at any given intersection.
"What do you have left for homework?" I ask, as we pull out of the driveway.
"English isn't stupid," I say.
"Well, my English teacher is." He makes a face. "Mr. Franklin assigned an essay about our favorite subject, and I wanted to write about lunch, but he won't let me."
"He says lunch isn't a subject."
I glance at him. "It isn't."
"Well," Jacob says, "it's not a predicate, either. Shouldn't he know that?"
I stifle a smile. Jacob's literal reading of the world can be, depending on the circumstances, either very funny or very frustrating. In the rear view mirror, I see him press his thumb against the car window. "It's too cold for fingerprints," I said off-handedly — a fact he's taught me.
"But do you know why?"
"Um," I look at him. "Evidence breaks down when it's below freezing?"
"Cold constricts the skin gland ducts," Jacob says, "so excretions are reduced, and that means matter won't stick to the surface and leave a latent print on the glass."
"That was my second guess," I joke.
I used to call him my little genius, because even when he was small he'd spew forth an explanation like that one. I remember once, when he was four, he was reading the sign for a doctor's office when the postman walked by. The guy couldn't stop staring, but then again, it's not every day you hear a preschooler pronounce the word GASTROENTEROLOGY, clear as a bell.
I pull into the parking lot. I ignore a perfectly good parking spot because it happens to be next to a shiny orange car, and Jacob doesn't like the color orange. I can feel him draw in his breath and hold it until we drive past. We get out of the car and Jacob runs for a cart; then we walk inside.
The spot that the Free Sample Lady usually occupies is empty.
"Jacob," I say immediately, "it's not a big deal."
He looks at his watch. "It's 11:15. She comes at 11 and leaves at 12."
"Something must have happened."
"Bunion surgery," calls an employee, who is stacking packages of carrots within earshot. "She'll be back in four weeks."
Jacob's hand begins to flap against his leg. I glance around the store, mentally calculating whether it would cause more of a scene to try to get Jacob out of here before the stimming turns into a full-blown breakdown; or whether I can talk him through this. "You know how Mrs. Pinham had to leave school for three weeks when she got shingles, and she couldn't tell you beforehand? This is the same thing."
"But it's 11:15," Jacob says.
"Mrs. Pinham came back, right? And everything went back to normal."
By now, the carrot man is staring at us. And why shouldn't he? Jacob looks like a totally normal young man. He's clearly intelligent. But having his day disrupted probably makes him feel the same way I would, if I was suddenly told to bungee off the top of the Sears tower.
When a low growl rips through Jacob's throat, I know we are past the point of no return. He backs away from me, into a shelf full of pickle jars and relishes. A few bottles fall to the floor, and the breaking glass sends him over the edge. Suddenly Jacob is screaming — one high, keening note that is the soundtrack of my life. He moves blindly, striking out at me when I reach for him.
It is only thirty seconds, but thirty seconds can last forever when you are the center of everyone's scrutiny; when you are wrestling your six-foot-tall son down to the linoleum floor and pinning him with your full body weight, the only kind of pressure that can soothe him. I press my lips close to his ear. "I shot the sheriff," I sing. "But I didn't shoot no deputy…"
Since he was little, those Bob Marley lyrics have soothed him. There were times I swear I played that song twenty-four hours a day just to keep him calm; even Theo knew all the verses before he was three. Sure enough, the tension seeps out of Jacob's muscles, and his arms go limp at his sides. A single tear streaks from the corner of his eye. "I shot the sheriff," he whispers, "but I swear it was in self-defense."
I put my hands on either side of his face and force him to meet my eyes. "Okay now?"
He hesitates, as if he is taking a serious inventory. "Yes."
I sit up, inadvertently kneeling in the puddle of pickle juice. Jacob sits up, too, and hugs his knees to his chest.
A crowd has gathered around us. In addition to the carrot man, the manager of the store, several shoppers, and two twin girls with matching constellations of freckles on their cheeks are all staring down at Jacob with that curious mix of horror and pity that follows us like a dog nipping at our heels. Jacob wouldn't hurt a fly, literally or figuratively — I've seen him cup his hands around a spider during a three-hour car ride so that, at our destination, he could set it free outside. But if you are a stranger and you see a tall, muscular man knocking over displays, you don't look at him and assume he's frustrated. You think he's violent.
"He's autistic," I snap. "Do you have any questions?"
I've found that anger works best. It's the electric shock they need to tear their gaze away from the train wreck. As if nothing's happened, the shoppers go back to sifting through the navel oranges and bagging their bell peppers. The two little girls dart down the dairy aisle. The carrot man and the manager do not make eye contact, and that suits me just fine. I know how to handle their morbid curiosity; it's their kindness that might break me.
Jacob shuffles along behind me as I push the cart. His hand is still twitching faintly at his side, but he's holding it together.
My biggest hope for Jacob is that moments like this won't happen.
My biggest fear: that they will, and I won't always be there to keep people from thinking the worst of him.
From House Rules by Jodi Picoult. Copyright 2010 by Jodi Picoult. Excerpted by permission of Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.