And I believe in his only begotten son, Jesus Christ, who actually in the flesh asked that question of the man by the pool. The man who perhaps—the story does not say—had gone there because people were tired of him being sick and disabled, who perhaps had been content to lie down all day, but he got in the way.
What would Jesus have done if the man had said, “No, I don’t want to be healed; I am quite content as I am”? If he had said, “There is nothing wrong with me, but my relatives and neighbors insisted I come”?
I say the words automatically, smoothly, while my mind wrestles with the reading, the sermon, the words. I remember another student, back in my hometown, who found out I went to church and asked, “Do you really believe that stuff or is it just a habit?”
If it is just habit, like going to the healing pool when you are sick, does that mean there is no belief? If the man had told Jesus that he didn’t really want to be healed, but his relatives insisted, Jesus might still think the man needed to be able to get up and walk.
Maybe God thinks I would be better if I weren’t autistic. Maybe God wants me to take the treatment.
I am cold suddenly. Here I have felt accepted—accepted by God, accepted by the priest and the people, or most of them. God does not spurn the blind, the deaf, the paralyzed, the crazy. That is what I have been taught and what I believe. What if I was wrong? What if God wants me to be something other than I am?
I sit through the rest of the service. I do not go up for Communion. One of the ushers asks if I am all right, and I nod. He looks worried but lets me alone. After the recessional, I wait where I am until the others have left, and then I go out the door. The priest is still standing there, chatting with one of the ushers. He smiles at me.
“Hello, Lou. How are you?” He gives my hand one firm, quick shake, because he knows that I do not like long handshakes.
“I do not know if I want to be healed,” I say.
His face contracts into a worried look. “Lou, I wasn’t talking about you—about people like you. I’m sorry if you think that—I was talking about spiritual healing. You know we accept you as you are—”
“You do,” I say, “but God?”
“God loves you as you are and as you will become,” the priest says. “I’m sorry if something I said hurt you—”
“I am not hurt,” I say. “I just do not know—”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Not now,” I say. I do not know what I think yet, so I will not ask until I am sure.
“You did not come up for Communion,” he says. I am surprised; I did not expect him to notice. “Please, Lou—don’t let anything I said get between you and God.”
“It won’t,” I say. “It is just—I need to think.” I turn away and he lets me go. This is another good thing about my church. It is there, but it is not always grabbing. For a while when I was in school I went to a church where everyone wanted to be in everyone’s life all the time. If I had a cold and missed a service, someone would call to find out why. They said they were concerned and caring, but I felt smothered. They said I was cold and needed to develop a fiery spirituality; they did not understand about me, and they would not listen.
I turn back to the priest; his eyebrows go up, but he waits for me to speak.
“I do not know why you talked about that Scripture this week,” I say. “It is not on the schedule.”
“Ah,” he says. His face relaxes. “Did you know that the Gospel of John is not ever on the schedule? It’s like a kind of secret weapon we priests can pull out when we think a congregation needs it.”
I had noticed that, but I had never asked why.
“I chose that Scripture for this particular day because—Lou, how involved are you in parish business?”
When someone starts an answer and then turns it into something else it is hard to understand, but I try. “I go to church,” I say. “Almost every Sunday—”
“Do you have other friends in the congregation?” he asks. “I mean, people you spend time with outside of church and maybe talk with about how the church is getting along?”
“No,” I say. Ever since that one church, I have not wanted to get too close to the people in church.
“Well, then, you may not be aware that there’s been a lot of argument about some things. We’ve had a lot of new people join—most of them have come from another church where there was a big fight, and they left.”
“A fight in church?” I can feel my stomach tighten; it would be very wrong to fight in church.
“These people were angry and upset when they came,” the priest says. “I knew it would take time for them to settle down and heal from that injury. I gave them time. But they are still angry and still arguing— with the people at their old church, and here they’ve started arguments with people who have always gotten along.” He is looking at me over the top of his glasses. Most people have surgery when their eyes start to go bad, but he wears old-fashioned glasses.
I puzzle through what he has said. “So… you talked about wanting to be healed because they are still angry?”
“Yes. They needed the challenge, I thought. I want them to realize that sticking in the same rut, having the same old arguments, staying angry with the people they left behind, is not the way to let God work in their lives for healing.” He shakes his head, looks down for a moment and then back at me. “Lou, you look a little upset still. Are you sure that you can’t tell me what it is?”
I do not want to talk to him about the treatment right now, but it is worse not to tell the truth here in church than anywhere else.
“Yes,” I say. “You said God loved us, accepted us, as we are. But then you said people should change, should accept healing. Only, if we are accepted as we are, then maybe that is what we should be. And if we should change, then it would be wrong to be accepted as we are.”
He nods. I do not know if that means he agrees that I said it correctly or that we should change. “I truly did not aim that arrow at you, Lou, and I’m sorry it hit you. I always thought of you as someone who had adapted very well—who was content within the limits God had put on his life.”
“I don’t think it was God,” I say. “My parents said it was an accident, that some people are just born that way. But if it was God, it would be wrong to change, wouldn’t it?”
He looks surprised.
“But everyone has always wanted me to change as much as I could, be as normal as I could, and if that is a correct demand, then they cannot believe that the limits—the autism—come from God. That is what I cannot figure out. I need to know which it is.”
“Hmmm…” He rocks back and forth, heel to toe, looking past me for a long moment. “I never thought of it that way, Lou. Indeed, if people think of disabilities as literally God-given, then waiting by the pool is the only reasonable response. You don’t throw away something God gives you. But actually—I agree with you. I can’t really see God wanting people born with disabilities.”
“So I should want to be cured of it, even if there is no cure?”
“I think what we are supposed to want is what God wants, and the tricky thing is that much of the time we don’t know what that is,” he says.
“You know,” I say.
“I know part of it. God wants us to be honest, kind, helpful to one another. But whether God wants us to pursue every hint of a cure of conditions we have or acquire… I don’t know that. Only if it doesn’t interfere with who we are as God’s children, I suppose. And some things are beyond human power to cure, so we must do the best we can to cope with them. Good heavens, Lou, you come up with difficult ideas!” He is smiling at me, and it looks like a real smile, eyes and mouth and whole face. “You’d have made a very interesting seminary student.”
“I could not go to seminary,” I say. “I could not ever learn the languages.”
“I’m not so sure,” he says. “I’ll be thinking more about what you said, Lou. If you ever want to talk…?
??
It is a signal that he does not want to talk more now. I do not know why normal people cannot just say, “I do not want to talk more now,” and go. I say, “Good-bye,” quickly and turn away. I know some of the signals, but I wish they were more reasonable.
The after-church bus is late, so I have not missed it. I stand on the corner waiting, thinking about the sermon. Few people ride the bus on Sunday, so I find a seat by myself, and look out at the trees, all bronze and coppery in the autumn light. When I was little, the trees still turned red and gold, but those trees all died from the heat, and now the trees that turn color at all are duller.
At the apartment, I start reading. I would like to finish Cego and Clinton by the morning. I am sure that they will summon me to talk about the treatment and make a decision. I am not ready to make a decision.
“PETE, ” THE VOICE SAID. ALDRIN DIDN’T RECOGNIZE IT. “This is John Slazik.” Aldrin’s mind froze; his heart stumbled and then raced. Gen. John L. Slazik, USAF, Ret. Currently CEO of the company.
Aldrin gulped, then steadied his voice. “Yes, Mr. Slazik.” A second later, he thought maybe he should have said, “Yes, General,” but it was too late. He didn’t know, anyway, if retired generals used their rank in civilian settings.
“Listen, I’m just wondering what you can tell me about this little project of Gene Crenshaw’s.” Slazik’s voice was deep, warm, smooth as good brandy, and about as potent.
Aldrin could feel the fire creeping along his veins. “Yes, sir.” He tried to organize his thoughts. He had not expected a call from the CEO himself. He rattled off an explanation that included the research, the autistic unit, the need to cut costs, his concern that Crenshaw’s plan would have negative consequences for the company as well as the autistic employees.
“I see,” Slazik said. Aldrin held his breath. “You know, Pete,” Slazik said, in the same relaxed drawl, “I’m a little concerned that you didn’t come to me in the first place. Granted, I’m new around here, but I really like to know what’s going on before the hot potato hits me in the face.”
“Sorry, sir,” Aldrin said. “I didn’t know. I was trying to work within the chain of command—”
“Um.” A long and obvious indrawn breath. “Well, now, I see your point, but the thing is, there’s a time—rare, but it exists—when you’ve tried going up and got stymied and you need to know how to hop a link. And this was one of the times it sure would’ve been helpful— to me.”
“Sorry, sir,” Aldrin said again. His heart was pounding.
“Well, I think we caught it in time,” Slazik said. “So far it’s not out in the media, at least. I was pleased to hear that you had a concern for your people, as well as the company. I hope you realize, Pete, that I would not condone any illegal or unethical actions taken toward our employees or any research subjects. I am more than a little surprised and disappointed that one of my subordinates tried to screw around that way.” For the length of that last sentence the drawl hardened into something more like saw-edged steel; Aldrin shivered involuntarily.
Then the drawl returned. “But that’s not your problem. Pete, we’ve got a situation with those people of yours. They’ve been promised a treatment and threatened with loss of their jobs, and you’re going to have to straighten that out. Legal is going to send someone to explain the situation, but I want you to prepare them.”
“What—what is the situation now, sir?” Aldrin asked.
“Obviously their jobs are safe, if they want to keep them,” Slazik said. “We don’t coerce volunteers; this isn’t the military, and I understand that even if… someone doesn’t. They have rights. They don’t have to agree to the treatment. On the other hand, if they want to volunteer, that’s fine; they’ve already been through the preliminary tests. Full pay, no loss of seniority—it’s a special case.”
Aldrin wanted to ask what would happen to Crenshaw and himself, but he was afraid that asking would make whatever it was worse.
“I’m going to be calling Mr. Crenshaw in for an interview,” Slazik said. “Don’t talk about this, except to reassure your people that they’re not in jeopardy. Can I trust you for that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No gossiping with Shirley in Accounting or Bart in Human Resources or any of your other contacts?”
Aldrin felt faint. How much did Slazik know? “No, sir, I won’t talk to anyone.”
“Crenshaw may call you—he should be fairly steamed with you— but don’t worry about it.”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll have to meet you personally, Pete, when this settles down a bit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you can learn to work a little better with the system, your dedication to both company goals and personnel—and your awareness of the public-relations aspects of such things—could be a real asset to us.” Slazik hung up before Aldrin could say anything. Aldrin took a long breath—it felt like the first in a long time—and sat staring at the clock until he realized the numbers on it were still changing.
Then he headed over to Section A, before Crenshaw—who must have heard by now—could blow up at him on the phone. He felt fragile, vulnerable. He hoped his team would make the announcement easy.
I HAVE NOT SEEN CAMERON SINCE HE LEFT LAST WEEK. I DO not know when I will see Cameron again. I do not like not having his car to park my car facing into. I do not like not knowing where he is or whether he is all right or not.
The symbols on the screen I watch are shifting in and out of reality, patterns forming and dissolving, and this is not something that had happened before. I turn on my fan. The whirling of the spin spirals, the movements of reflected light, make my eyes hurt. I turn the fan off.
I read another book last night. I wish I had not read it.
What we were taught about ourselves, as autistic children, was only part of what the people who taught us believed to be true. Later I found out some of that, but some I never really wanted to know. I thought it was hard enough coping with the world without knowing everything other people thought was wrong with me. I thought making my outward behavior fit in was enough. That is what I was taught: act normal, and you will be normal enough.
If the chip they will implant in Don’s brain makes him act normal, does does this mean he is normal enough? Is it normal to have a chip in your brain? To have a brain that needs a chip to make it able to govern normal behavior?
If I can seem normal without a chip and Don needs a chip, does that mean I am normal, more normal than he is?
The book said that autistics tend to ruminate excessively on abstract philosophical questions like these, in much the same way that psychotics sometimes do. It referred to older books that speculated that autistic persons had no real sense of personal identity, of self. It said they do have self-definition, but of a limited and rule-dictated sort.
It makes me feel queasy to think about this, and about Don’s custodial rehabilitation, and about what is happening with Cameron.
If my self-definition is limited and rule-dictated, at least it is my self-definition, and not someone else’s. I like peppers on pizza and I do not like anchovies on pizza. If someone changes me, will I still like peppers and not anchovies on pizza? What if the someone who changes me wants me to want anchovies… can they change that?
The book on brain functionality said that expressed preferences were the result of the interaction of innate sensory processing and social conditioning. If the person who wants me to like anchovies has not been successful with social conditioning and has access to my sensory processing, then that person can make me like anchovies.
Will I even remember that I don’t like anchovies—that I didn’t like anchovies?
The Lou who does not like anchovies will be gone, and the new Lou who likes anchovies will exist without a past. But who I am is my past as well as whether I like anchovies now or not.
If my wants are supplied, does it matter what they are? Is there any difference between being a
person who likes anchovies and being a person who does not like anchovies? If everyone liked anchovies or everyone didn’t like anchovies, what difference would it make?
To the anchovies a lot. If everyone liked anchovies, more anchovies would die. To the person selling anchovies a lot. If everyone liked anchovies, that person would make more money selling them. But to me, the me I am now or the me I will be later? Would I be healthier or less healthy, kinder or less kind, smarter or less smart, if I liked anchovies? Other people I have seen who eat or do not eat anchovies seem much the same. For many things I think it does not matter what people like: what colors, what flavors, what music.
Asking if I want to be healed is like asking if I want to like anchovies. I cannot imagine what liking anchovies would feel like, what taste they would have in my mouth. People who like anchovies tell me they taste good; people who are normal tell me being normal feels good. They cannot describe the taste or the feeling in a way that makes sense to me.
Do I need to be healed? Who does it hurt if I am not healed? Myself, but only if I feel bad the way I am, and I do not feel bad except when people say that I am not one of them, not normal. Supposedly autistic persons do not care what others think of them, but this is not true. I do care, and it hurts when people do not like me because I am autistic.
Even refugees who flee with nothing but their clothes are not forbidden their memories. Bewildered and frightened as they may be, they have themselves for a comparison. Maybe they can never taste their favorite food again, but they can remember that they liked it. They may not see the land they knew again, but they can remember that they lived there. They can judge if their life is better or worse by comparing it to their memories.
I want to know if Cameron remembers the Cameron he was, if he thinks the country he has come to is better than the country he left behind.
This afternoon we are to meet with the treatment advisers again. I will ask about this.
I look at the clock. It is 10:37:18, and I have accomplished nothing this morning. I do not want to accomplish anything in my project. It is the anchovy seller’s project and not my project.