go through all those tests again. I guess Jer’s language arts teacher, Ms. Graham, tried to teach him sign language our first year here. It didn’t take, though. Jeremy likes to write notes. You should see his handwriting.”
“So that’s it?” Chase asks. He hasn’t taken another bite of his sandwich since we’ve been talking about Jeremy. T.J. has finished both of his. “There’s really nothing else wrong with him?”
“Nope. Not with Jer,” I answer. “Nothing except the fact that people have a hard time understanding unique.”
“Unique.” Chase mutters this, so I can’t tell if it’s a question or not.
I know he doesn’t get what I’m saying, and I’m not sure how to say it any better. I want him—them—to
get
Jeremy. I struggle for a minute over how to explain the Jeremy I love, what makes him who he is. And then I know.
Leaving our dirty dishes, I get up from the table. “Come with me.”
14
Standing outside Jeremy’s bedroom , my hand wrapped around the doorknob, I know one thing. Chase and T.J. are about to get a true glimpse of Jeremy Long. What I don’t know is how they’ll react. Slowly, I turn the knob and open the door.
This time, it’s T.J. who hangs back and Chase who goes in first. He stares up and around, in a full circle, as if awed by a starry sky. His gaze passes over the baseball bedspread I found at Goodwill in Oklahoma. My brother loves that spread. Most days since he’s been gone, I’ve come in and smoothed out the wrinkles. The only piece of furniture in the room besides this single bed is an old dresser I painted blue to match the bedspread. Above the dresser hangs one of Jeremy’s drawings—a circle divided into sixteen pie pieces, each meticulously colored in with a different color. This is Jeremy’s art. My brother has made me dozens, maybe hundreds, of these pictures, each with a different color scheme, but all the exact same design. I’ve saved every one of them.
But Chase isn’t looking at the dresser or the color wheel. He’s staring at Jeremy’s glass jars. Three walls are lined with shelves. The last owner or renter must have filled these shelves with books—most people would.
But not Jeremy.
“These are the jars you talked about in court,” Chase whispers, as if afraid of disturbing the row after row of emptiness. His eyes widen as his gaze shifts from one wall to the next. “How many does he have?”
“I’ve never counted them.”
“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” He says this like he’s able to admire the collection, to respect my brother. “It must have taken him a long time to do this.”
“He’d have more if a box of the jars hadn’t been left back in Chicago one time. Not a pleasant experience for any of us,” I admit. An image flashes through my mind—Jeremy throwing glasses and plates in our new kitchen, Rita the one hiding under the table for once.
T.J. clears his throat. It startles me, and I turn to see him still standing in the doorway, his arms straight out from his sides, like he’s holding on to the doorframe. He nods at the baseball curtains I got when I found the spread. “He really loves baseball, huh?”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “At least that’s something you guys can understand. You’ve probably been baseball-crazy since you were little boys.”
“Got that right,” T.J. agrees. “Dad took me to my first Wooster-Grain game when I was six weeks old.”
I wait for Chase to say something like that, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know. I like to play, but I can’t say I’ve ever been
crazy
about baseball.”
I’m surprised. He always looks so serious about it at practices, dedicated even.
“Hold on a minute,” T.J. says, venturing into the room with us. “You play here in the summer, and you’re on a team in Boston too, right?”
“That was Husband Number Two’s idea. When I started playing, I guess I was pretty good, like it was natural for me. All of a sudden, my dad started
“So that’s it?” Chase asks. He hasn’t taken another bite of his sandwich since we’ve been talking about Jeremy. T.J. has finished both of his. “There’s really nothing else wrong with him?”
“Nope. Not with Jer,” I answer. “Nothing except the fact that people have a hard time understanding unique.”
“Unique.” Chase mutters this, so I can’t tell if it’s a question or not.
I know he doesn’t get what I’m saying, and I’m not sure how to say it any better. I want him—them—to
get
Jeremy. I struggle for a minute over how to explain the Jeremy I love, what makes him who he is. And then I know.
Leaving our dirty dishes, I get up from the table. “Come with me.”
14
Standing outside Jeremy’s bedroom , my hand wrapped around the doorknob, I know one thing. Chase and T.J. are about to get a true glimpse of Jeremy Long. What I don’t know is how they’ll react. Slowly, I turn the knob and open the door.
This time, it’s T.J. who hangs back and Chase who goes in first. He stares up and around, in a full circle, as if awed by a starry sky. His gaze passes over the baseball bedspread I found at Goodwill in Oklahoma. My brother loves that spread. Most days since he’s been gone, I’ve come in and smoothed out the wrinkles. The only piece of furniture in the room besides this single bed is an old dresser I painted blue to match the bedspread. Above the dresser hangs one of Jeremy’s drawings—a circle divided into sixteen pie pieces, each meticulously colored in with a different color. This is Jeremy’s art. My brother has made me dozens, maybe hundreds, of these pictures, each with a different color scheme, but all the exact same design. I’ve saved every one of them.
But Chase isn’t looking at the dresser or the color wheel. He’s staring at Jeremy’s glass jars. Three walls are lined with shelves. The last owner or renter must have filled these shelves with books—most people would.
But not Jeremy.
“These are the jars you talked about in court,” Chase whispers, as if afraid of disturbing the row after row of emptiness. His eyes widen as his gaze shifts from one wall to the next. “How many does he have?”
“I’ve never counted them.”
“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” He says this like he’s able to admire the collection, to respect my brother. “It must have taken him a long time to do this.”
“He’d have more if a box of the jars hadn’t been left back in Chicago one time. Not a pleasant experience for any of us,” I admit. An image flashes through my mind—Jeremy throwing glasses and plates in our new kitchen, Rita the one hiding under the table for once.
T.J. clears his throat. It startles me, and I turn to see him still standing in the doorway, his arms straight out from his sides, like he’s holding on to the doorframe. He nods at the baseball curtains I got when I found the spread. “He really loves baseball, huh?”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “At least that’s something you guys can understand. You’ve probably been baseball-crazy since you were little boys.”
“Got that right,” T.J. agrees. “Dad took me to my first Wooster-Grain game when I was six weeks old.”
I wait for Chase to say something like that, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know. I like to play, but I can’t say I’ve ever been
crazy
about baseball.”
I’m surprised. He always looks so serious about it at practices, dedicated even.
“Hold on a minute,” T.J. says, venturing into the room with us. “You play here in the summer, and you’re on a team in Boston too, right?”
“That was Husband Number Two’s idea. When I started playing, I guess I was pretty good, like it was natural for me. All of a sudden, my dad started
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