Life Happens Next by Terry Trueman

around with both my tongue and my teeth. As I munch on my first tiny piece of hamburger, I think again, “Boyfriend!?” I wish I could tell Mom, “New rule: No more MTV for Debi!”

24
    I t’s much later in the day, nighttime, and I’m sitting in my wheelchair and Debi comes and stands near me again. She takes my hand and holds it. We look out the window.
    There are two boats, their running lights sparkling against the dark water.
    â€œPurtty,” Debi says, like she said last time. “Yep,” I answer silently.
    We are quiet.
    â€œYou smart, S-S-S-Swan, but nobody know.”
    What? What did she just say?
    â€œNobody know you smart … nobody know us, S-S-S-Swan, just us know us—you know me … I know you.”
    I can’t be hearing this right. She can’t be saying what I’m hearing her say.
    But now she adds, “You love A-A-A-Ally, but she love B-B-B-Baul.”
    I feel myself blush.
    Debi says, “It okay, you sad but it okay.”
    How does Debi know all this? How does she know how I feel?
    Suddenly a rush of images races through my mind: Debi staring at me so intently that day when Rusty first came. How she sits quietly so often, watching all of us, listening and staring. I always assumed that Debi didn’t understand anything. I, of all people, should have known better. Just like everybody in the world “knows” how much of a veg I am, right? Debi was paying attention to the things most of us can’t even see. And she was paying attention to me.
    Debi mumbles, still whispering, “Wusty smart like us.”
    Mom walks into the room and says, “Hi, Debi, are you visiting with Shawn?”
    â€œYeth,” Debi answers.
    Mom says, “That’s nice. What are you two talking about?”
    Debi says, very softly, “Wusty.”
    â€œPardon me?” Mom asks.
    Debi is silent, just like always, acting as if she doesn’t understand Mom’s question.
    Rusty, who has been lying near us on the floor this entire time, perks up at the sound of his name, his ears rising as he looks over at Debi and me. He gets up and slowly ambles over to the foot of my wheelchair, and now he plops back down, lying on his side.
    Mom says, “Well, you guys have a nice chat.” She leaves the room.
    Debi is silent again for a while. At last she speaks. “Wusty ’n’ me love you, S-S-S-Swan.”
    â€œThanks,” I think.
    Debi says, louder than she has been speaking, “See you soon, S-S-S-Swan.”
    I wish I could nod my head and say, “Okay,” but I can’t. And, truthfully, I don’t understand what Debi’s trying to say. Doesn’t she see me right now? She’ll see me soon? What does she mean?

25
    O kay, let’s get real, and this is not me going into whiner mode again, it’s just stating simple facts: I’ll never graduate from high school, not really. Special education students at my level of disability don’t actually finish required classes, but we get to hang around until we reach twenty-one, and then, whether we’ve learned anything or not, we have to leave. I’ll never have a first love affair, first time driving a car, first time getting drunk, first time—anything. I won’t go to college. I won’t sky dive. I won’t become a gourmet cook. I won’t get married and have kids and argue with my wife. I won’t get a job. Or get fired from a job. Or buy a house. Or move anyplace cool or move anyplace not cool, anytime ever. At least not until Mom dies or gets too sick or too old to take care of me anymore. And then I suppose I’ll be sent somewhere else to live. Like Debi was sent to us. What will happen to me is whatever life brings next. And in this way, I’m like everyone else.
    But here’s something I’ve also figured out. Maybe my ideas about being known and knowing others are a little bit off. I thought I knew Rusty.