Dear John(42)

I turned away, feeling a rising sense of frustration and panic. Everything she was saying was true.

“It just hit me today,” she went on, “while I was browsing in the bookstore. I went there to get you a book, and when I found it, I started imagining how you’d react when I gave it to you. The thing was, I knew that I’d see you in just a couple of hours, and then I would know, and that made it okay. Because even if you were upset, I knew that we’d get through it because we could work it out face-to-face. That’s what I came to realize while sitting out here. That when we’re together, anything is possible.” She hesitated, then continued. “Pretty soon, that’s not going to be possible anymore. I’ve known since we met that you’d only be here for a couple of weeks, but I didn’t think that it was going to be this hard to say good-bye.”

“I don’t want to say good-bye,” I said, gently turning her face to mine.

Beneath us, I could hear the waves crashing against the pilings. A flock of seagulls passed overhead, and I leaned in to kiss her, my lips barely brushing hers. Her breath smelled of cinnamon and mint, and I thought again of coming home.

Hoping to take her mind off such gloomy thoughts, I gave her a brisk squeeze and pointed at the bag. “So what book did you buy me?”

She seemed puzzled at first, then remembered she’d mentioned it earlier. “Oh yeah, I guess it’s time for that, huh?”

By the way she said it, I suddenly knew she hadn’t bought me the latest Hiaasen. I waited, but when I tried to meet her eyes, she turned away.

“If I give it to you,” she said, her voice serious, “you have to promise me that you’ll read it.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Sure,” I said, drawing out the word. “I promise.”

Still, she hesitated. Then she reached into her bag and pulled it out. When she handed it to me, I read the title. At first, I didn’t know what to think. It was a book—more like a textbook, actually—about autism and Asperger’s. I had heard of both conditions and assumed I knew what most people did, which wasn’t much.

“It’s by one of my professors,” she explained. “She’s the best teacher I’ve had in college. Her classes are always filled, and students who aren’t registered sometimes drop in to talk to her. She’s one of the foremost experts in all forms of developmental disorders, and she’s one of the few who focused her research on adults.”

“Fascinating,” I said, not bothering to hide my lack of enthusiasm.

“I think you might learn something,” she pressed.

“I’m sure,” I said. “It looks like there’s a lot of information there.”

“There’s more to it than just that,” she said. Her voice was quiet. “I want you to read it because of your father. And the way you two get along.”

For the first time, I felt myself stiffen. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not an expert,” she said, “but this book was assigned both semesters that I had her, and I must have studied it every night. Like I said, she’s interviewed more than three hundred adults with disorders.”

I withdrew my arm. “And?”

I knew she heard the tension in my voice, and she studied me with a trace of apprehension.

“I know I’m only a student, but I spend a lot of my lab hours working with children who have Asperger’s . . . I’ve seen it up close, and I’ve also had the chance to meet a number of the adults my professor had interviewed.” She knelt in front of me, reaching out to touch my arm. “Your father is very similar to a couple of them.”

I think I already knew what she was getting at, but for whatever reason, I wanted her to say it directly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded, forcing myself not to pull away.

Her answer was slow in coming. “I think your father might have Asperger’s.”

“My dad isn’t retarded. . . .”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “Asperger’s is a developmental disorder.”

“I don’t care what it is,” I said, my voice rising. “My dad doesn’t have it. He raised me, he works, he pays his bills. He was married once.”

“You can have Asperger’s and still function. . . .”

As she spoke, I flashed on something she had said earlier. “Wait,” I said, trying to remember how she’d phrased it and feeling my mouth go dry. “Earlier, you said you think my dad did a wonderful job in raising me.”

“Yeah,” she said, “and I mean that. . . .”