section six

The intercom buzzed and clicked over, “Brig, can you come down and set the table?” It was Dad.

We had had the intercom system installed for Andrew. Most families would just yell up the stairs, but we couldn’t yell because Andrew didn’t like loud noises—unless he was the one making them. I didn’t like the color of our carpet, but you didn’t see my parents rushing to change them out.

I pressed the button to click over to him, “Sure thing,” I did my best to keep the smart aleck-y tone out of my voice but went downstairs to set the table and await the lecture I would receive about needing to help out and not being so ‘smart’ about it. I didn’t see why Andrew couldn’t set the table. Autism affected his brain, not his arms.

Dad said nothing however and I dutifully sat the table like I was asked. It just wasn’t worth arguing about. We ate in silence. Mom, Dad and I the linguini Mom had defrosted and Andrew his peanut butter sandwich with carrots. It was the food he was currently obsessed with. Before that it had been popcorn balls. It got to the point where Mom had had to figure out how to put the fruits and veggies he needed in to them because he would refuse to eat anything else. Then, a few Mondays ago, he decided he was done with it and that he wanted a peanut butter sandwich on white bread with carrot sticks. I think he pulled that crap just because he knew he could get away with. I was never able to leave the table without cleaning off my entire plate, even when we had brussels sprouts.

“Brigitte,” Mom started, she looked over at Dad for some kind of silent confirmation communication. Dad cleared his throat which must have meant yes since she continued, “your Dad and I know how hard it is for you, having Andrew as a brother—” do you really now?— “we’ve decided that it would be a great idea for you to join a support group.”

“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” Andrew yelled out suddenly. In Andrew’s world I’m sure that meant something to him. I’m sure he thought that it was an appropriate response to the fact that Mom thought I needed a support group.

“Like AA?” I asked, ignoring Andrew’s outburst. It was something that was fairly easy to do after ten years.

“ARE YOU A GOOD WITCH OR A BAD WITCH?” Andrew yelled again.

I turned towards him at his end of the dinner table. He liked the end so that he could see himself in the mirror, as Dad always said, he was his own biggest fan. “Andrew, keep your voice down.”

“Flying monkeys! Flying monkeys! Flying monkeys!” He had pulled apart the peanut butter sandwich and was clapping the two pieces together, creamy peanut butter was being flung everywhere. Mom got up to try and stop him, but when he started rocking back and forth she backed off ready to just let him throw a tantrum.

“Andrew, calm down,” Dad got up as well. He went right up to Andrew and helped him put the sandwich pieces down, not before he chucked one at me though. The smooth peanut butter clung to my skin and I felt the bread slide down my face and plop on to my foot. The peanut butter made its way between my toes and I shivered from the feeling.

I pulled the bread off of my foot and trudged in to the kitchen, leaving Dad to calm down Andrew and Mom to stand their shell shocked, just like she did every time Andrew got upset, like it was the first time he had ever acted that way. Mom followed me though and frowned with disapproval as I sat up on her granite countertops to wash my foot off in the sink.

“No, not like AA, honey. It’s just a group of kids and a mentor who get together once a week and talk about what it’s like to have a sibling with a disability. I think that seeing that there are other kids out there, even in this community, that are in your exact same position.”

I gritted my teeth so I didn’t say anything. I highly doubted that there was anyone else in the exact same position that I was. I’m sure that the kids that went to these meetings had parents that didn’t miss recitals and birthdays because of their brother and sister. Their families probably functioned.

“I really don’t want to, Mom.”

“It’s not really a suggestion, Brigitte. Your father and I really don’t appreciate the way that you are acting, it’s really immature. We could let you get away with it when you were a kid, but not anymore.”

“I’m fifteen, I still am a kid! I can’t vote, I can’t drive, I can’t drink, I can’t join the military and I can’t play the lotto. I think that means I’m still a kid.” I was certainly still treated like a kid.

Mom scoffed at me. “Don’t be so ridiculous. If this was any other instance you would be arguing that you weren’t a kid anymore and that you needed more freedom to do things. It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t a suggestion. The meetings are from six to eight on Wednesday nights, if it will make you behave better you can go to that frozen yogurt place that you like so much. The meetings are in that big building right next to it.”

I hated when Mom did stuff like this. We never got to go to the frozen yogurt place because Andrew was lactose intolerant. I sighed, defeated. “I’ll try it out. No promises though. If they make us play the name game though, I’m out of there, fro yo or no fro yo.”

Mom didn’t say anything but I knew that my refusal to go back probably wouldn’t work out too well. She turned to pack up the left overs—even though no one had said they were done eating. I stayed on the counter but took my foot out of the sink. Now that my Wednesday nights were ruined I was on a mission to at least make up for them by getting to the dance.

“Mom,” she made a vague noise of paying attention, it was probably the best I was going to get so I just jumped for it, “do you think I could go to the dance next Friday?” I asked quickly.