. . .It was about 1:00 a.m. when the Blount County Rescue Squad Chaplain arrived at our door. Cathy and I had the same thought: “Oh crap! They think he’s not coming back.” Immediately after this realization came a sense of relief that I didn’t know what to do with. It was such a harsh reaction, I felt like I could admit it to nobody: not the chaplain, or even Cathy, not Luke, not even myself. Luke had been gone for about three hours by then, and it is not an exaggeration to say that every available car in the county was involved in the search. The chaplain’s vehicle made five of them parked in our driveway, not counting the ones down on the street and those out looking.
I was the one with his hand on the doorknob, with Cathy looking over my shoulder as the chaplain introduced himself. It took me a few awkward seconds to realize I was supposed to invite him in, which I finally did. We saw that he was in radio contact with the rest of the squad and the sheriff’s department and figured we may as well talk to this guy for a time. What else did we have to do but worry?
When we got into the kitchen, Cathy and I moved toward our usual seats, which left the chaplain to sit at Kate’s place. He put the radio on the table there, but didn’t sit down. Thinking he was just waiting to be invited, I said, “Have a seat, Chaplain.” Slowly, he did. Then started by asking us about Luke’s early years.
Cathy and I aren’t normally paranoid, but we are always keenly aware of how unfavorably the nonautistic world must be processing and interpreting our lives. Judging us from a neurologically typical mindset isn’t the right starting place, but how could they know that? It was only three months earlier that my parents were watching the kids during Christmas week while Cathy and I took a tenth anniversary cruise. Before we left we told them they needed to lock Kate in her room at bedtime or she would roam the house after everyone was asleep. We added that they shouldn’t lock Luke in, because he usually sleeps like the dead anyway, but will get up to pee if he needs to. They didn’t ignore the directions, which would have been a typical grandparent reaction. My dad reversed them, resulting in Luke climbing out his bedroom window and making his way to Alcoa Highway before a motorist picked him up, bought him a snack at the Krystal’s across from the airport, and called the police. When the police realized that Luke wasn’t a typical nine year old, they called a couple who oversaw foster care for special needs children in the county. They took Luke in to their own house until morning, when my father discovered the open window and got to experience first hand what Cathy and I had regularly since Luke was five. There is no way to describe it for those who have never been there and (by the grace of God) never will be. All I can offer is imagine that feeling you get when you reach in your pocket or look in your purse and your wallet isn’t there. Then multiply that sucking, sinking fear of the consequences by a million. Dad beat us to the Department of Children’s Services in Blount County. But for us, dealing with DCS started in Virginia with our sitter whipping Luke with a switch for wiping feces all over his room, then sending him to school with the kind of back special education teachers dread seeing. We came to be on a first name basis with the Fairfax County DCS after that, and permanently lost the trust of Luke’s teacher.
So it was hard to know what to tell the chaplain about Luke’s early years. Fortunately, Cathy and I didn’t have to try for very long. One of the deputies came over the radio saying, “I found him!” We could tell in those three words that he meant found him alive and well, because the deputy’s voice was full of both relief and success. However, Cathy and I weren’t ready to unburden the weight of the past three hours until the deputy added, “He’s fine. A little wet and dirty, but fine.”
I’d swear I saw the strain visibly leave Cathy’s face like a veil lifting on its own. She and I were floating at that news, the giant weights of shame, stupidity, and guilt having been lifted off our shoulders, at least until the next time. It was such a joy to feel good about the ordeal ending, especially after my selfish, inexplicable sense of relief at Luke possibly being gone forever. I felt like somebody had just removed a bunch of clothespins that I didn’t know were there from my neck and shoulders. The three of us went outside to meet the vehicle that would be returning with Luke in it.
Only under the porch light did I notice the chaplain had chocolate pudding on the back thigh of his trouser leg. I made a mental note to do a better job of cleaning up the table and chairs after dinner each night, because at autism house we never knew who would be visiting. . .
