The restaurant is busy. Someone at the table behind us laughs loudly.
Outside, a spring drizzle falls from the sky.
May. A fickle month in New England. Yellow sun one day, metallic clouds the next.
My son Jack sits next to his father. He studies the menu, sliding his finger along the drink options.
Jack Cariello and his Dad
He orders a pilsner.
He stumbles over the word. Carefully, he takes out his wallet. He hands you his ID.
You glance at him. Your gaze lingers for a beat.
It happens a lot. People often glance at him. They don’t know what to make of his movements, his downcast eyes, his curtailed speech.
I hold my breath, like I’ve done one thousand times before.
The day the doctor said the words “Autism Spectrum Disorder” so many years ago.
The morning he rode the bus for the first time.
The long afternoons when I waited for the school to call to tell me all that went wrong.
The day we dropped him off in this very city at a college program.
Through it all, I have held my breath.
And now, on his 21st birthday, his first drink. He longs to enjoy this typical milestone. As reluctant as I initially was, I can’t help but be swept up in his enthusiasm.
Standing at our table, you shift from one foot to the other. The pens in your apron click together. I’d guess you were my age, perhaps a little over. Mid-fifties, perhaps.
I wonder how much you know about autism. If you have anyone in your life on the spectrum. If you recognize the way he flicks his fingers together, or how he hesitates a beat between words.
I exchange glances with my husband Joe. My mind begins to race.
Without a Driver’s License, Jack’s only proof of age is a government-issued identification card. Why didn’t I think to check and make sure a government ID is enough to order alcohol? I mentally kick myself for not thinking ahead.
It should be enough. It lists his birthday. It has his picture. Still, my stomach tightens.
You look at the ID. You look back at him. Your eyes narrow. I hear the girl at the table next to us giggle. Another server walks by carrying nachos.
Do you see what I see? The eyes of a young boy wrapped inside the body of a young man. The fervent hope of a family who has reconstructed dreams out of broken pieces.
You seem rushed. Maybe you’re having a bad day. Maybe you were late to work, or you didn’t feel like coming in at all.
I have to anticipate what everyone is thinking. I hate this.
My son grew up, and autism grew up right along with him. Now, instead of conversations about social stories, IEP meetings, or therapies, we talk about online dating, guardianship, and most recently, alcohol.
These are the things no one warned me about.
Yet so often, we are at the mercy of others. Their goodwill. Their moods.
Today, my son is twenty-one.
We picked him up a half hour ago. He was standing outside of his apartment. He clutched an umbrella in his hands. He was wearing the pants I bought him. My heart squeezed at it all.
I wanted tonight to be perfect. Now, at this table, I feel it all slipping away.
For as long as I can remember, I longed for a crystal ball to see the future.
There was a time I thought this boy may sit in our house forever surrounded by his DVD’s and his handwritten schedule—an exotic bird in a gilded cage of his own choosing.
Now, he lives hundreds of miles from home, in a community with other kids like him.
Jack.
Jack-a-boo.
Jack-attack.
He is a constant surprise.
Life alongside autism.
Again and again, I long to curl inward.
Instead, I force myself to listen for birds gone free against the sky.
Their wings are a song. They change the course of clouds with their dance.
Can you hear them?
Please, hear them.
Hear him.
He is rain, he is the umbrella, he is the music.
Your face softens.
“Well, young man, happy birthday! It’s a big one!”
Thank you.
Thank you.
Carrie Cariello is a mother of five. She and her husband live in New Hampshire. She speaks and writes regularly about autism, marriage, and family. Her latest book, Autism Out Loud, made the New York Times Bestseller list.
