So please remember that Aggie is my friend and I’d like to keep just one person for myself.
Love, Erin
21 August
Dear Rudy,
Hello? Anyone there? I’m getting pretty sick of talking to myself over here. That’s what it feels like when you don’t reply. I gave up calling your mobile months ago, because it’s obviously flat now and your voicemail message makes me sad. I mean, of course I know you can’t have a phone, but rules have never stopped you before. If anyone could figure this out, it would be you. Like when Mum had me on that elimination diet to try and ‘cure’ my autism early on, and you managed to sneak lollies into the house, somehow, even though she was checking our schoolbags every day. I still don’t know how you did that, but I think about it sometimes and I’m grateful. Skittles and snakes make me think of you.
Dee wasn’t at school today, and I didn’t speak to anyone all day. That’s bad, isn’t it. I mean, I answered the teachers when they asked me questions in class, and I said hi to the Jessicas and Pointy Kathy when I sat with them at lunch, but otherwise I was just quiet. I don’t mind having quiet days, it’s only when I notice I’m not talking that I get stressed about it, because it’s not normal. And when Pointy Kathy said ‘bye, Mute’ at the end of lunch I knew it was weird to everyone else too. Dee usually texts me when she’s not going to be at school, but she didn’t today. I thought about going home, but I had English in fifth period and I wanted to hear what everyone had to say about Of Mice and Men. That’s the book we’re reading at the moment. You probably read it in year twelve too. Mrs Rossi said it was one of her favourites, and I can see why. It’s so short but it says so much. I’d like to write a book but I think I’d have the opposite problem and write too much and say too little. It’s a pity our final exam is not going to be on this book, but I’m sure I’ll love whatever book we’re tested on just as much.
I missed Dee’s laugh today. She would have cracked up when Freckle Ben walked into the doorframe coming inside. She loves physical comedy like that. She also loves sarcasm and knock-knock jokes and screwball. She just likes laughing, I think, and I’m glad. The only time I’ve ever been thankful for Dee not laughing was when I told her about my diagnosis. Remember when I was twelve and I was having outbursts so often I was taking big chunks of time off school? I wanted to stay inside, in my room, in my bed, inside my head. We’ve never actually talked about it, you and me. Not talking about stuff seems to be a family trait. After two weeks of me not really moving, eating or showering, Mum took me to a doctor—I can’t remember his name or what he looked like—and he talked to me and got me to answer some questionnaires and then he said I was on the autism spectrum. Mum said it made sense and Dad said we should get a second opinion.
When I got home Mum invited Dee over and I told her about the thing that means my brain is wired differently. We had an autistic boy, Dean, in our grade three class and I explained it was kind of like that, but also different because it’s a spectrum. Dee didn’t laugh or call me the R word or anything. Everyone used to call Dean the R word. And Dee promised not to tell anyone unless I said she could. She kept that promise too, by the way. Even though she likes parties and I prefer reality television these days, I like to remind myself of that.
People like Dee and Jessica Rabbit and Freckle Ben seem to have become more comfortable in high school as the years have gone on, but I think I’ve become less. They have settled into their places and got to know people and made friends and started in-jokes. I have said awkward things and been mute and embarrassed myself in front of people and acted strange and had outbursts. I think that’s what makes me hate school; people here know too much about me and I can’t be unseen. Here, I have the comfort of knowing the rules, but the discomfort of being known.
Have you always known that you like bike-riding and gardening and making friends with people other people find strange? Or that you don’t like egos or money or the kind of people who ask what school you went to? Sometimes I wonder if I even like the things I like, or if I’ve picked those things based on outside factors like how people will see me. I mean, I know I like certain books, but that’s a private thing. I guess I’m thinking about how a person becomes a person and what makes a person who they are.
You’ve always seemed so sure about your choices, even when you know they are choices other people are going to think are wrong. I’m not even sure about the things I’m sure about. And I’m definitely not sure about where I’m going or what I’m going to do when I’m an adult. How can a person be sure about something like that?
I wish I could see you to talk about this stuff. Knowing what I know now, I would make sure we are a family who talks.
Love, Erin
22 August
Dear Rudy,
We had shepherd’s pie for dinner tonight, minus the carrots. Mum made a big thing of forgetting the carrots at the shop, but I knew. I think it still makes everyone think about you because it’s your favourite dinner. You should come home so Mum can make you shepherd’s pie and fuss over you. She’ll give you the biggest serving and call you a ‘growing lad’. I love the texture of the mashed potato and how it makes me feel warm, and Mum smiled when I told her that. Dad told Oliver not to bring his figures to the table, and I said if Dad can have the radio on the races, then Oliver should be able to have Batman and Spiderman. Oliver shot me his dimple-cornered smile and I poked my tongue back. I wish I was the type of sister who gave him life lessons and had long chats and cuddles on the couch, but our closeness is an unspoken kind. We spell out rude words with our vegetables on our dinner plates and snigger quietly, that kind of thing. I’m not sure if that makes our bond any less meaningful than those siblings who do talk, but I hope not. You’re better at talking to him, and I know he’d love to hear from you.
I used to get annoyed that Mum makes us sit at the dinner table every night, because eating on the couch in front of the television is nice. But now I’m kind of glad. Even two years ago when Mum and Dad weren’t talking, and when they said the word divorce late at night when they thought we were asleep, we always ate dinner at the table together. It’s because Mum read an article in a magazine about how it keeps families together, and even though I’m not sure how it works, I like it anyway. They don’t say the word divorce anymore, not even late at night when they think we are asleep, and I don’t know what has changed. Dad still goes to the pub, Mum still meditates and fusses over what she eats, you’re not here and I’m still having outbursts. Oliver stopped wetting the bed, though, so maybe that was the balancing factor. When I’d finished eating, I asked them if they were happy and they both said yes, but their eyes said they weren’t sure. Maybe they were happy though, and adult happiness just looks different.
Mitch was here for dinner too. You probably don’t want to hear about him, but I’ve been telling you heaps of things in these letters and I’ve hardly mentioned him so far, so here we are. We were having a fight, Mitch and I, another one. I still can’t quite figure out if I was completely in the wrong like he said I was, or if maybe I was right and he just couldn’t admit that. I’m going to tell you how it went, and maybe you can give me some advice. You’re a big brother, after all, even if you’re not acting like one at the moment. So, it was like this: