Meeting Jack

I’m not forgetting the Batman one, but this one inserted itself into my brain this morning and I feel the strong need to write it down before it exits my brain.

That said . . .

Meeting Jack

He was small when his sister was born. He watched the world carefully; even though his world consisted mostly of kneecaps, table legs and floor designs. He remembers the day that his sister was brought home. His father and his uncle were at the house, perfecting the room that his sister would stay in. To his relief, they weren’t talking much, but mostly spent the time handing each other mechanical parts and the tools that were used to put them together. He watched discreetly from the hallway, even though his father thought that he was in his room.

When they did finally get into a conversation longer than three sentences, it was as he had suspected; it was about him.

“Chris,” his uncle said, “how do you know that this one will be okay?”

“Jesus, Brad, you of all people should know what happened the last time! I daresay that there will be no mistakes this go around, considering the mud we dragged that other doctor through. Not only will that man never find another job in the medical field, but he’ll also be paying us out of pocket for the rest of his natural life.”

“Do you honestly believe that he did it on purpose?” Brad answered, incredulity tinging his voice.

“He’s one of those damn neo-evolutionists, Brad. He did it on purpose, trust me. ‘Making the world more diverse for tomorrow’s children. Expanding the neurological barriers.’” He said in a sing-song voice, quoting the slogans he had no doubt heard many times before. “God, what a crock. I want to know how having a kid like Jack is going to do anything more than cost the government some pretty pennies after Sue and I are gone.”

“Speaking of him,” Brad said, “aren’t you worried that he might hurt the baby?”

“I doubt he’ll notice the baby. Besides, we keep a pretty good eye on him. He doesn’t like to move that much. If I just set something shiny in front of him, he’ll stay there the rest of the day.”

He had wandered off then, back to his room and its “shiny things,” as his father had put it. He wasn’t angry at his father’s words, or at his uncle’s words. Anger was too loud for him to think about. It hurt his brain. He tried to avoid it.

Later, after his mother and sister had gotten home, and they had gone back to their respective schedules, except his sister who was fast asleep, he decided to sneak in and see her. They told him that his mother was taking a bath and his father was in there with her, talking to her. That was on the other side of the house. They wouldn’t hear him. They rarely noticed him anyway, except when they wanted to. He felt pain at the memory of their choices in times to notice him. It seemed that they almost purposely chose times when they knew he would be completely invested in something and not want to be disturbed. They didn’t notice of course, but there were times that he wondered.

He walked to her room with his eyes closed. He did better when he didn’t rely on his eyes. His other senses tended to be easier to process. Besides, the light in the hallway was too loud, and much too yellow.

He opened the door softly, taking care not to just crash into the room like his parents often crashed into his, even when they thought they were being quiet. He listened closely to the tumblers move in the door knob as he turned his hand one way and then back. When he was perfectly quiet, he could see them move in his mind. When there were others around, he could only feel them in his palm; a sensation he didn’t like, because it itched.

After closing the door behind him, he crept carefully to her crib, sidestepping the diaper bag easily; its position already memorized from watching his father put it down earlier that evening.