During this exchange of niceties, Margaret was a tempest of activity. She grabbed her fanny pack off the table by the door, heaved it around her hips, and clicked the clasp shut. Then she rushed over to Sarah, who bowed her head so that Margaret could smell her hair, an old habit of my sister’s. Margaret gave a big sniff, yelled, “Bye, Sarah!” and trotted out the door and down the wooden steps of the big blue house, ignoring everyone else. I’d forgotten how fast she could move, so I was doing double time trying to keep up as I called good-bye to the rest of them over my shoulder and followed her out to the car. So much for transitions. So much for leaving behind greetings and partings while running.
Margaret stood and waited for me next to the car, her hands clasped in front of her and resting on her big tummy, her eyes cast down at her feet. I looked her over as I walked toward the car, thinking that in her tennis shoes, blue jeans, and pastel Windbreaker, my older sister looked like any other thirty-something woman on her day off. Her short hair looked good, turning reddish in the summer sunlight. I noticed that she was showing some gray, but at least her hair didn’t look like she had recently tried to cut it herself, a longtime favorite prank.
When we were younger, if Margaret got her hands on a pair of scissors, she would go looking for my mother. Then she’d grab a hank of her hair and call out sweetly, “Hi, Mom!” When my mother looked up from whatever she was doing, Margaret would chirp, “You don’t cut your hair, Mom!” Snip! And then my mother, too late, would yell, “Margaret! Don’t cut your hair!” And my sister would laugh and laugh and run away with her crazy new haircut.
I didn’t know how often she was cutting her hair these days. But it was still pretty hard to find a pair of scissors around my parents’ house. The last time I had been home for Christmas, I’d found myself folding, licking, and tearing wrapping paper to cover my presents, because the scissors had been hidden so well that no one could remember where they were. This was just one example of how we tried to anticipate Margaret’s behavior and not only failed but also made things harder on ourselves. Even better, Margaret probably knew where the scissors were and could have saved me some time and saliva if I’d just asked her to get them for me.
My family had spent a collective lifetime trying to predict what Margaret might do and how to deal with it. But she was as mutable as a summer storm—and as surprising and terrifying. Funny haircuts were just the tip of the iceberg, and not so important. The more significant and overwhelming issue was our inability to connect with her, to know for sure if we were reaching the person who was Margaret behind the disorder that was autism, and what, in the end, we were supposed to do about it. Sometimes we had to be satisfied with smaller accomplishments, like her haircut. The fact that she had left it alone was a signal to me that she was feeling okay inside. Besides, her haircut also looked really cute, which made me happy. I’ve always hoped my sister could have a normal life, as far as that is possible. And when she looks like everyone else, she blends in more easily.
Margaret rubbed her chin as she waited for me to cross the lawn and unlock the car. She didn’t look at me as she yanked the door open, jumped in, and slammed it shut so hard that the car rocked from side to side. I’d forgotten about this behavior, so it startled me for a minute. I don’t know what it is with Margaret and doors, but “closed” to her always takes this much force—no more, no less. As the rocking stopped, I got in. She reached over her shoulder and yanked on her seat belt. She waited until I turned the key, then she leaned over, released the emergency brake, and shifted the car into drive for me. “Thanks,” I said, surprised. But she didn’t say anything, just waited for me to drive and looked out the window as we made our way to the local diner. It was a short drive, and neither of us spoke on the way there. As soon as I eased into a parking space, Margaret reached over and threw the car into park, yanked up on the emergency brake, turned the car off, and tossed me the keys. Then she undid her seat belt and jumped out of the car in one motion, slamming the door just as hard as when she had gotten in. She speed-walked toward the diner, and I laughed out loud, even as I hurried to follow her. This was new. U-Park Valet Service.
Arnie’s was probably packed with Gonzaga University students during the school year, but on this summer day the 1950s-style diner was empty but for us and the staff—two young women wearing chest-hugging T-shirts and tight blue jeans. From what I gathered, one of them, the cook, was terribly hungover. It was a little worrying to think about ordering lunch knowing that it was to be prepared by the person who kept leaving her post to lie down in a booth and moan. But I tried to be brave, and we took our seats at the counter to look over the menu.
As we sat on our red vinyl stools, I found myself feeling smug. Here we are. Two sisters having lunch. How nice. How normal. What’s so hard about this? In truth, I’d been dreading this lunch date all week. But by the time we got our butts onto the shiny red stools, I was cautiously optimistic and feeling
