Waxing and Waning

I am on my knees in my garden up to my elbows in fertilizer when I notice the shadow falling over my shoulder. Thinking it is my husband returned from the coffee shop, I start talking before I look up.1

“Did they have that new girl working there…” my voice trails off as I realize that the shadow is cast instead by a young boy, maybe seven years of age. I recognize him as the younger of two boys who have just moved in next door.2

“Hi,” I say to the boy. He is staring intently at the ground and stepping very carefully among my neat rows of herbs and vegetables.3

Without looking up, he says, “My mom collects candles and my brother collects cars. I don’t know what my dad collects. I want to collect bugs.”4

Caught off guard by this intimate revelation, I can think of little to say. “Do you have many bugs in your collection?”5

“None yet. I just started today. I think I want to have a beetle and a grasshopper and a bumblebee. Have you seen any of those bugs today?” He still has not looked at me, but continues scanning the ground vigilantly.6

The older brother, maybe twelve, comes running over then and grabs the younger boy by the arm. He has not paid any attention to the plants he has crushed on his way.7

“Please be careful where you step,” I say in a stern voice. I always grow more herbs than I need, but it is still not a good idea to let anyone trample the little guys.8

“Oh,” he says, looking down at his feet for the first time. “Uh, sorry. My brother has autism. C’mon!” This last is said with a rough tug at the younger boy’s arm. The younger boy hardly seems to register the violent movement, his eyes transfixed on a point one row over from where he is standing. I think he has spotted a bug.9

I move closer and the older boy shies away as though I might grab them both. The younger one has found a beetle crawling diligently across a head of lettuce. I had hoped to keep most of the bugs out of my garden by using natural methods: planting herbs that insects avoid among the vegetables. Apparently, my plan was failing or this little guy had an underdeveloped sense of smell.10

The insect itself is a brilliant mirrored green color that shines beautifully in the afternoon sun. Torn between wanting the insect out of my garden, but with no wish to see it mounted on a piece of cardboard with a needle through its thorax, I try distracting the boys.11

“So, what are your names? I saw your parents moving into the house next door last week.”12

“Hayden and Matthew. I’m Hayden; he’s Matthew,” the older boy says in a tone that suggests he has had to introduce his brother a million times before.13

“Hi Hayden and Matthew. It’s very nice to meet you both. I have a daughter named Alise. She’s about your age, Hayden.”14

To this last announcement, Hayden makes a face. Matthew’s visage is porcelain; he sees only the beetle.15

“We hafta go now, Matthew,” Hayden says, pulling again on his brother’s sleeve. Matthew seems to come out of a trance and stares at his brother then at me. He trudges obediently behind Hayden toward their house, still stepping carefully over the plants at his feet. His brother has forgotten my admonishment already and plants a foot squarely into the basil at the edge of my garden. Good thing it grows so plentifully.16

Later that day, as I am cooking our family a dinner of fresh squash casserole and baked tomato with mozzarella on bruschetta, I hear a knock at our door. Wiping my hands clean on a towel, I see out the window my new neighbor waiting at our door. She looks worried, shaking her head slowly side to side.17

I open the door and before I can say hello, she launches into what sounds like a carefully prepared speech.18

“I’m so sorry that Matthew came into your garden earlier today without being invited. I was breastfeeding the baby and I saw him so I sent Hayden over to get him. I hope you’re not angry; he’s got Asperger’s Syndrome and he doesn’t always understand courtesy.” All this tumbled out in one breath, as though I might slam the door in her face.19

“Hi, I’m Mary,” I say with a smile and an extended hand. She looks at my hand in genuine confusion for a moment before taking it with hers. I like her grip. It is not the soft, mealy grip that too many women seem to think is “proper”.20

“I… I’m Shelley. I’m sorry. It’s nice to meet you.” She looks abashed, realizing her own manners had left her in her haste to explain her son’s behavior.21

“Would you like to come in for a minute? I have a couple things going in the kitchen that I need to get back to, but we can talk while I work.”22

Shelley casts a worried glance back at her own house then seems to come to a decision. “That would be nice,” she says with a smile.23

“I don’t mind that Matthew came into the garden. He said he was starting a bug collection, though I think I may suggest a leaf collection instead, if that’s alright with you.”24

Shelley has a lopsided grin on her face and she’s looking at something not in the room with us. “Did he really say that to you?”25

“Yeah, just before Hayden came stomping through. Now, I think Hayden will need to learn to respect the plants before I allow him back in the garden.”26

“Of course,” Shelley says, and she is still very far away.27

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I try to keep bottles of red, white and blush around at all times, though I seldom drink.28

“Um. Do you mind if I just have a glass of water, no ice?” Shelley returns her attention to her surroundings, taking in my well-equipped kitchen.29

“Mmm, you’re a girl after my own heart.” I pull two tall crystal glasses from the cupboard and fill them from the tap in the refrigerator door.30

“Thanks,” Shelley says, taking her glass. “It looks like you do a lot of cooking.” The gleaming copper of the pots suspended from the rack above the island in my kitchen was designed to be both functional and impressive.31

“I came from a family where nuking a Hot Pocket was the most cooking that went on six days out of seven, so naturally, I learned everything I could about cooking when I was old enough to know that too many Hot Pockets causes… Well, let’s just say I prefer to eat differently now that I’m older and have a family of my own. Now, I thought Hayden said that Matthew was autistic?” I slide the last dish into the oven and straighten up to meet Shelley’s eyes.32

“We decided, my husband Mike and I, to tell Hayden that it is Autism because Asperger’s sounds too much like ‘ass burgers’. At the time, the last thing we needed was another thing to add stigma to Matthew’s life. I must confess, though, he’s not usually as bold as he was this afternoon. Sometimes he will go days without speaking more than a few words. Even Asperger’s isn’t a completely accurate diagnosis. They don’t have any other name for Matthew’s differences though, and the insurance companies need a specific label.” Shelley takes a sip from her glass and still looks timid, even after her outpouring.33

“I thought he was charming. It takes an act of Congress to get my daughter out there in the garden with me. Come to think of it, my husband avoids it unless he’s directly invited to participate,” I say with a laugh.34

Shelley smiles again and I realize she’s not very old. At least five or more years younger than me. She carries herself like an older woman would; the weight of three children and an unnamed disability pulling her into a premature stoop.35

“Thank you for being so understanding. A lot of people we meet think he’s odd and try to just, well, pass him over as though he isn’t there or isn’t different. I think if we acknowledge his differences and work with them, there’s a better chance he will learn how to function better with others. Too much to sweep under the rug, really.” She slips back into a far away place where I think she must be more comfortable.36

“Well, like I said, Matthew is welcome any time that I’m out there and I am out there a lot. I think it would be better if he stayed out when I’m not there, though, just in case. I doubt there’s much that can hurt him, unless he has any allergies?”37

“No, none that I know of,” Shelley says, shaking her head slowly again.38

“How about the baby, boy or girl? How old?”39

“She’s a little girl, our first, coming up on six months old in a few days.” At this, Shelley smiles a broad smile that shows beautifully straight teeth. “Her name is Alexis Elizabeth. She’s named after my great grandparents who helped raise me.”40

“Your great grandparents? Wow, I only knew one grandmother, on my mother’s side, and she always seemed put out at the thought of grandchildren.”41

“Uh-huh. They lived on a farm near my grandparents and never minded an extra mouth when it was attached to an extra pair of hands. My mom was only fourteen when I was born and my grandparents only in their mid-thirties. My great grandma was sixty-five when I went to live with them when I was seven, but she was a young sixty-five. She still danced at the VFW every Saturday night until she died when she was ninety. You’re very kind to listen to my whole life story. I can’t believe I’m boring you with it all on our first meeting.” Shelley laughs quietly and it is almost indistinguishable from a cough.42

“I seem to have that effect on people. Your son opened up to me right away, too. It’s good to know a nice family has joined the neighborhood.” I salute her with my water glass and she returns it with a grin.43

“I better go see how Mike is doing with the kids. He rarely has to juggle all three of them.” Shelley places the glass down on the island and runs her hand across the marble surface. I know the kitchen next door only has a laminate countertop because one of my closest friends lived there for twelve years. That makes me think of a housewarming gift idea.44

“Matthew also told me that you collect candles. What are you favorite kinds?”45

Something like fear or guilt crosses Shelley’s face. I wonder if I have said something wrong, but I know I could not have known what might seem inappropriate to her.46

“I did collect candles. They fascinated Matthew. I always tried to be so careful with them, keep the boys away from the matches and never burn them unattended. It was my hobby, like your garden, I imagine. I had all sorts, even elaborately carved ones that I didn’t burn. It was just that, one evening, after I put the boys to bed, I was tending my ‘garden’ when the baby started crying. I guess the noise woke Matthew. He loved looking at the candles, wanted to catch one of the flames and hold it, he told me once.” Her voice had grown tight. I am frozen in place.47

Shelley takes a deep breath. “Matthew knocked one of the candles over and it caught the curtains on fire. Mike was at work at the time. Matthew screamed and ran outside. Hayden heard him and went running after, too. I ran out with Alexis.” Her voice was down to a whisper. “Christopher was asleep. He always slept so deeply, like only a four-year-old can. I couldn’t get back in the door to get him. I would have left the other three without a mother.” The last word comes out as tears break the dam and flow down her cheeks. The pain is so fresh and raw I wonder if she has even spoken of it to anyone else yet. Perhaps a stranger was the best place for her to start.48

I think of her wilted garden, the wax melted together in an single pool of colors, distinct forms lost to the uniform mass. I pull her close and let her cry for her loss.49