The Summer Wind (17 page)

And that, she realized with amusement, was enough.

Three days later, Carson was on her way to the Florida Keys. Her hands clenched the wheel of the Blue Bomber as she stared at the highway, counting the miles. She was overtired, over-caffeinated, and at her wit’s end. Florida was one long state—it went on forever!

The sun was beginning to set by the time she got off the mainland to the first of the islands of the Keys. She’d hoped to get to the motel before dark. The planned twelve-hour trip was taking fourteen because of all the stops Nate had to make. She glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see the boy sitting quietly absorbed with his handheld video game. “Thank God,” she muttered.

The trip had been grueling. The front seat was littered with various brands of wipes she’d bought before Nate finally accepted one. Lord knew, the boy needed to keep his hands clean. Eating had been a nightmare. Dora and Lucille had specially prepared food that they packed in a cooler. Unfortunately, something was “wrong” with the sandwiches
they’d made. Carson still wasn’t sure what. It was something about the way they were made or looked or how they smeared . . . Nate flatly rejected them. She’d resorted to trolling fast-food chains along the road, hoping he’d find something acceptable. The car smelled like a fast-food restaurant because she’d bought Nate hamburgers, fish burgers, submarine sandwiches, pancakes, until he finally agreed to eat chicken nuggets and French fries—as long as there was not a drop of catsup or sauce on them. She’d found that out the hard way.

If eating was tough for Nate, elimination was worse. As far as she could tell, Nate had the bladder of a pregnant woman. He had to stop to pee every two hours like clockwork. He was terrified of having an accident, and the minute he felt the urge he screamed for her to take the next exit.

“We’re on the Keys now,” she called in a cheery voice to Nate in the backseat after another shout for a bathroom stop. “Hold on. Shouldn’t be long now!”

“It’s six forty-seven,” Nate said. “We’ve been on this trip for twelve hours and thirty-two minutes. We should be there.”

Carson glanced in the rearview mirror to see Nate looking at his watch. She blew out a plume of air and wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. He was a good kid, she reminded herself. Dora had prepared her for his idiosyncrasies—how he didn’t show emotion in his voice or face. How he could develop an obsessive interest in something. How he could overreact to something seemingly inconsequential. But driving to Florida with Nate was like being in the car with a dictator. Meet his demands, or meet his wrath!

“Yes, we did plan to be there by now,” Carson said evenly,
marshaling her frustration. “But we made so many stops it slowed us down. We’ve got at least another hour.”

“Oh.” A moment passed. “I can’t wait an hour. I have to go to the bathroom
now
.”

The motel was a 1950s-era stucco two-story painted lime green and billed as a “resort.” Carson had booked the room online, and as often was the case, the professional photos looked better than the actual location. Calling the small, scruffy, off-the-highway motel a resort was a long stretch, but it was close to the Dolphin Research Center and cheap and they had a room available. An undeniably attractive trifecta, in her budget-conscious mind.

It was dark by the time she parked in the gravel lot. After she checked in, she gathered their suitcases and led a wary Nate along the narrow, poorly lit pavement pathway to the rear of the motel, praying a snake or iguana or some rodent wouldn’t jump out from the shadows. The light over the cottage door was dim but she got the door open without trouble. Her hand felt along the wall for the light switch. In an instant, the room was revealed.

It was a small cottage, spartanly furnished with cheap, beachy white wicker furniture. And it was pink. Pink walls, pink fabric, pink bathroom tile, and splashes of pink in all the nautical prints on the wall. The space was divided into two sections by a half wall open to the front windows. The front area was narrow and long. To the left, a cluster of mini white appliances made up the in-room kitchenette. To the right was a lumpy-looking futon and an ancient TV atop a white wicker stand.
The rear was a bedroom with a queen bed, a wicker bureau, a small wicker desk, and the bathroom.

Carson dropped her bags to the floor and walked around, surveying. She opened the fridge and checked for ice. There wasn’t any.

“Make yourself at home,” she told Nate. “This is where we’ll be living for the next five days.”

Nate stood by the door, ramrod straight and clutching his bag. “I don’t like it here.”

“It’s not a palace, but it’s clean.”

“It smells bad.”

“Yeah, it does,” she said. The scent of mildew was prevalent. “We’ll open the windows, okay? Get some of that nice ocean breeze in here.”

“It’s dirty.”

She followed his gaze to the corner where the linoleum was chipped and curling. “It’s not dirty, Nate. It’s just old.”

“I want to go home.” Nate’s face crumpled.

Carson’s heart went out to the little guy who’d tried so hard all day to keep it together. She brought to mind Dora’s warnings of a meltdown and immediately walked close to Nate and gently took his bag.

“Hey, little man, let’s check out the bedroom. We’re tired and it’s dark. We’ll feel better in the morning. Tomorrow we’ll eat breakfast, then go right off to see the dolphins,” she told him, hoping he’d feel more comfortable if she laid out the plan of the day. “You can have the bed in front of the TV. Does that sound good? This is your space,” she said, walking over to pat the futon mattress. “Tell you what. While I jump into the shower, you can watch TV and unpack. Take your time. Okay?”

He stared at the futon but didn’t respond.

Carson felt the miles clinging to her skin and couldn’t wait to wash them away. She turned on the television, found a local station of cartoons, then pulled down the futon into a bed. The sheets were crisp and smelled clean. She poured him a glass of water, set it on the table by the futon, and waited. Soon, Nate’s interest was captured by the cartoons. She wanted him to acclimate at his own pace. She went to the back room, stripped off her clothing that reeked of fast food, and went into the pink bathroom. It was barely large enough for one person to stand in but the water in the shower was hot. After a blissful scrubbing, she felt revived.

Wrapping herself in a towel, she went back out into the room. She found Nate standing in the back bedroom, putting his many dolphin books and clothes into the bureau drawers. On top of the bureau, he’d laid out in a neat row his toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, comb, shampoo, liquid soap, and a book.

“Nice job,” she told him, feeling relieved that he was settling in. She followed suit, unzipping her bag. She casually set her toiletry bag on the dresser.

“No!” he exclaimed with alarm. “This is where my things go.”

“Can’t we both put our things here? There’s plenty of room.”

“No.”

Biting her tongue, Carson withdrew her toiletry bag and went to put it in the bottom drawer.

“That’s where my books go,” he told her in a voice bordering on panicked.

“Nate, there are three drawers. We have to share.”

“No!” he exploded. “My books go in there.”

“Where do my clothes go, then?”

“I don’t know.” He thrust out his chin and turned his back to her.

Carson heard obstinacy in his tone and knew he was teetering on the brink tonight. Hearing the triggers, she held her tongue and went to the small closet and set her suitcase in there. She’d lived out of a suitcase before, she told herself.

“When you’re done, it’s your turn for the shower,” she said in a cheery voice.

“I take baths.” His voice, though monotone, trembled.

Carson skipped a beat and cursed her luck. No tub . . . She knew he was struggling with everything being different; he was out of his routine. Sensing he was a time bomb about to go off, she tried for humor.

“You’re in luck. You don’t have to take a bath tonight! You can take your choice. You can brush your teeth first or get in your pajamas first.”

“I’ll get in my pajamas.”

“Good.”

Carson, exhausted after fourteen hours of driving stop-and-go and dealing with the child’s demands, knew her work wasn’t over yet. Leaving Nate to change clothes, she went to the door and stepped out on the front porch. She dialed Dora’s number and said a prayer of thanks when Dora answered on the second ring.

“Are you there?” Dora asked, sounding slightly breathless.

“Yes, we got here. The motel’s okay, not great. It’ll do. But it doesn’t have a tub.”

“Oh, Lord, batten down the hatches,” Dora said in mock horror.

She laughed. “And Nate says it smells bad.”

“Oh, Lord,” Dora said again.

It was exactly what Carson needed to hear. She’d been worried that Dora would freak out and then she’d have two hysterias to deal with. But here she was, making a joke and defusing the tension. She was pleasantly surprised by how her older sister was reacting.

“What’s he doing now?” Dora asked.

“He’s changing into his pajamas. I told him he didn’t have to take a bath tonight. Bought me some time.”

“Good thinking. The thing to keep in mind is that right now Nate’s dealing with a lot of new stimuli and he doesn’t have any place safe to sort things out. You and I have the apparatus to deal with these things, but he doesn’t. He’s rearranging his mental map of the world. It’s a scenario for a meltdown. Remember, though, if he has one, he’s not angry, he’s reacting.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“You’re doing real good all on your own. You took away the conflict when you told him he didn’t need to take a bath. I’m impressed.”

“I’m scared.” Carson made it sound like a joke, but she wasn’t kidding. She wished she could tell Dora how inept she felt dealing with this child. What was she thinking? She didn’t know the first thing about children. But she’d made sweeping assurances so that Dora would go along with their plan. She couldn’t make her sister nervous now.

“Aw, sis, I feel for you. You know I do. But don’t be. He’s the one who’s scared.” Dora’s voice hitched a bit. “Just a scared little boy. Remember that, and you’ll do fine,” she said, her voice returning to normal. “If he has a meltdown, just hold him
tight until he gets through it. It won’t be easy. You’ll be just as exhausted as he is when it’s over. But you will get through it. I think right now the main thing is to get him on a routine as soon as possible. Maybe make him a schedule.”

“You mean with gold stars and all that?” She looked toward the interior of the room, wondering where she’d put it.

“Kids with Asperger’s do better with pictures than charts. How good are you at drawing?”

Carson slipped on her flip-flops and hurried in the dark to the car to fetch the box of art supplies that Dora had packed for the trip. Little did Dora realize that it would be Carson who would use them. She fumbled with her key but managed to get back into the room before Nate realized she’d left. She carried the box to the small glass-topped table and pried open the box. There was the usual assortment of computer paper, colored pencils and markers, watercolors, coloring books, glue, and Scotch tape. Carson smiled when she saw dolphin stickers. Her sister really was a great mom.