At first, doctors brushed aside their concerns over his late speech development. His physical coordination tested average: hand-eye, motor skills-a typical boy in that regard. Then, subsequent tests confirmed their fears. Doctors said autism, but my parents preferred to call it by the more nebulous name: pervasive developmental disorder. I won't take the time to describe the resulting repercussions of that label. Let me just say that our lives were never the same. But things eventually morphed into a routine and pattern my parents could live with. And part of that routine meant burying themselves in their work, leaving me holding Dylan's hand. Yet, I wouldn't have it any other way.
As we reached the front of the school that day, I finally found my voice. "Dad, what happened? Is Dylan-" I spotted our Toyota, parked illegally in the red zone reserved for the school buses. Already half a dozen buses had driven up and sat idling their rumbling engines, waiting for the throng of students to tumble out of their classrooms at the final bell. They still haven't figured a way to convert the larger buses and trucks from diesel to electric, and I noticed the ugly smoke belch from the exhaust pipes. I could make out my brother sitting immobile in the backseat of our car and a sigh of relief exploded from my lungs. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath.
But if Dylan was all right, then-
I yanked on Dad's neatly pressed white shirtsleeve. When he turned to me, still walking fast-paced to the car, tears trickled from the corner of his eyes. My mind went completely haywire. I said something ludicrous like, "Dad, do you want me to drive?" I had my learner's permit, and seeing his distraught expression, the only thing I could think of was that he was in no mental condition to drive. That he'd get us killed before he'd finally get around to telling me what happened.
He fumbled with the remote and unlocked the doors. Not that Dylan had any interest in escaping the confines of the car. One look told me Dylan was deep. That's the term I use. Often he's right there, just hovering on the surface, able to converse with me in some fashion. Mostly I can tell what he means to say by the expression in his eyes and by his gestures and body language. But, in that moment, he could have been a manikin placed on the seat. Someone having bent his legs so he could sit, and folded his arms across his lap so his hands rested peacefully, one over the other. His eyes were beyond vacant. I used to think he was staring out at something, and I'd turn and glance around, try to see what caught his attention. It was only after many months that I understood he wasn't looking out; he was looking in. Then I wondered-just what did he see in there?