I noted Elvi’s frown whenever Mom had to help me do something.
Sad to say, I need a lot of help. Many tasks that seem simple are like mountains I struggle to climb. I cannot cut my food or button my pants or go to the bathroom without support. A typical teenager would say my life s-u-c-k-e-d. I do not use that word, even in my head, because Gram does not like it. She sweetly scolds random teenagers whenever she visits Dad’s surf shop. “Honey, we don’t say something sucks. We say it vacuums vigorously.” They do not understand the joke, so they usually stare at her like she is from another planet.
Me too. I do not understand things sometimes—for example, about Aunt Elvi. (1) Why does she listen to music that sounds like an owl screeching in a bowling alley during a thunderstorm? (2) Why does she bring a black lace parasol when she goes with us to a baseball game? If it rains, the lace will be useless to keep her dry. (3) Why do all her friends have so many skull tattoos?
I could go on.
But I understood why Aunt Elvi did not want me at her wedding. She was probably afraid I would mess it up with my icky, yucky, stinky autism. For weeks, she hinted this to my mom. Five days before the wedding, they had a faceoff in our kitchen.
“You don’t get it! It’s my big day, Gail. I want it to be perfect.” Sitting at the kitchen table, Elvi blew her cat-black bangs out of her eyes, heavy with red eyeliner. She scrunched her mouth into a pucker. With her white-powdered face and blood-red lips, she looked like a vampire from one of Dad’s favorite classic horror movies.
Elvi is Mom’s youngest sister. I noted that with a slight rearrangement of letters, her name would be Evil.
Elvi kept complaining while Mom chopped onions for chili. The smell attacked my nose, and my mouth complained with a loud “Arrghhhhhhhh.”
“You want the fan on, honey?” Mom was pretty good at interpreting my noises.
My eyes followed the rhythm of the fan blades spinning round and round, round and round. Watching things spin fills my brain with peace.
My body stood and spun with the blades.
Spin-spin-spin-spin.
Even though she’s an adult, Elvi could whine as high as the two-year-old next door when his popsicle dropped on the driveway. “I mean, geez, you’re my big sister. You’re supposed to be up there with me, not babysitting your kid in the audience.” Her squeaky voice scratched my eardrums. I stopped spinning.
Mom flashed Elvi a look of warning. Her teeth smiled, but she was like a cobra ready to bite. Mom had told Elvi a total of eighteen times, “Don’t talk about my kid right in front of my kid.” Lots of adults do that, though.
Hypothesis: Because my mouth cannot speak words, people think my ears cannot hear them.
“We’ve discussed this,” Mom said, smiling in my direction. “I can’t be in the wedding because I need to be with Charity.”
The fact that the bridesmaids’ dresses were the color of an orange hazmat suit might have had something to do with it too.
Elvi kept complaining till her voice reached frequencies only dogs could hear. “But Gaaaaaail, couldn’t you just hire a dang sitter? I mean, even if she doesn’t make a scene, I don’t want Joel’s relatives to feel uncomfortable. They don’t have any . . . retarded people in their family.”
And there it was. The R-word. Coming from my own aunt.
That’s when Mom lost it.
“Listen to me, Elvi.” She pointed the chef’s knife toward her sister’s face. “Don’t you EV-ER call my daughter that. She has more smarts in her little finger than anyone I know. Charity is a member of this family, and she’s been excluded from important occasions more times than I can count. From now on, it’s all of us or none of us.”
Mom stabbed the knife into the cutting board. “Your choice.”
Elvi snatched her velvet black purse and marched away. When she reached the door, she turned and hissed, “Fine.”
That’s why I love my mom.
Knowing that Mom fought for me to come to the wedding, I felt more pressure to stay in control. Unfortunately, when I am nervous, my unpredictable body usually does the opposite of what I want. And when I am really nervous, my insides boil like hot water in a teakettle until I pop my top in a massive KETTLE EXPLOSION.
I put my hands on the wooden bench beneath me and felt it vibrate from the church organ playing Mozart, a song called “Ave Verum Corpus,” which means Hail, true body. I first heard this on Mom’s classical music station three years ago—May 4th, to be exact. The chords flowed around my own imperfect body like the swirling, bubbling water of Gram’s whirlpool tub. For a few seconds at least, the music calmed me.
In front of us sat my cousin Mason and my stylish Aunt Kiki. A tiny purple hat was perched on top of her head. I watched its feathers dance in the air.
I noted Mason peering at me over his shoulder.
Apparently, this silly pink dress does not make me look NORMAL.
Dad handed me my lucky sea glass, made smooth and round by tumbling ocean waves. We found it on the beach last spring, the color of a blue crab among all the brown, boring stones. Rolling it in my fingers kept me from biting my knuckles.
Roll. Roll. Rolling my lucky sea glass.
One by one, neon orange bridesmaids drifted down the aisle.
“Should’ve brought our sunglasses,” Dad whispered.
Roll. Roll. Rolling my lucky sea glass.
The music paused. The organist hammered the opening notes for the “Bridal Chorus.” Pounding chords shook the whole church. I covered my ears.
Everyone looked back to see Elvi wearing a black wedding dress fitted tight to her tiny waist with a ball-gown skirt. I imagined how the silky fabric felt on her skin. Her dark hair was draped over her bare shoulders. A heavy
