Free Saving Jason by Michael Sears

parade-ground pacing was one of his tricks for achieving self-discipline, for getting his demons back in their dens. His battle was exhausting him, but he was winning. When he stopped in front of me, he was breathing hard, but focused, no longer frightened.
    “Your. Whirl. Mamma.”
    “Okay,” I said. “Show me.” Maybe I could get him to draw something for me that would help.
    He walked to the telephone—the landline that I occasionally used for sending a fax or to make a call when my cell phone was charging. “Your whirl. Mamma.”
    Your World. Delivered.
The telephone. He wanted to call his Mamma. Impossible. I must have still had it wrong. The Kid knew what
dead
meant. He knew that his mother was dead. That there was no chance of calling her. He was cracking up. I had never read of a behavioral tic like that, but one thing I had learned—autism is always surprising.
    “Kid. You can’t call your Mamma. She’s gone. You know that.” I stopped. He was shaking his head in a vehement
NO!
I had it wrong somehow.
    “Mamma. Mamma. Mamma.” He picked up the handset and held it out to me. “Mamma.”
    Angie had referred to herself as Mamma, but only in the thirdperson. Her mother was also Mamma. And she was most definitely alive. She called once a week and kept the Kid on the phone for long sessions, entertaining him by reading books or car magazines, hoping for a few words from him before he disconnected. He never said good-bye. He rarely said hello.
    “You want to call your grandmother? Have I finally got this figured out?”
    He nodded once.
    “Okay. We can do that.” I took the phone and dialed from memory. Muscle memory. I wouldn’t have been able to verbalize the number, but my index finger remembered.
    Mamma blamed me for her daughter’s death. So did I, for that matter, but her anger was beyond reason. I felt for her and wished peace for and with her. Her daughter had disappointed her in many ways, but blood was all in her world. Angie’s brother, Tino, had brokered a kind of détente between us. Mamma had agreed. Refraining from yelling accusations at me was a small price to pay for the opportunity to talk with her only grandson once a week.
    “Jason?” she answered. “Is everything all right?”
    “Yes, ma’am. But the Kid is having a hard day and wants to talk to you. Is this a good time?”
    The Kid was watching me out of the corner of his eye. If it wasn’t a good time for her to talk, I was going to have a time explaining it to him.
    “But he’s all right? He’s not hurt?”
    “No, ma’am.” I had stopped calling her Mamma after Angie was killed. “He’s okay.” An explanation that he had freaked out over a burnt sandwich and reacted as though I was poisoning him would have left more questions than answers. And he
was
okay. “Just a bit shaky. Can I give him the phone?”
    “Let me just turn off my kettle. Yes, give my little one the phone.”
    I handed it over. The Kid took it and flopped down on the rug, folding himself into a cross-legged sukhasana pose. He could hold itfor hours. I backed away to give him some privacy. He didn’t really understand the concept yet, but I did.
    The offending sandwich was on the table with cold French fries and colder green beans. I took it all into the kitchen and dumped it in the trash. Then got a sponge and cleaned up the spilled water and the black crumbs that littered the table, chairs, and floor. The Kid usually lasted fifteen or twenty minutes on the phone before his inner clock ticked over and he hung up. I found my cell phone and hit the speed dialer for the Athena take-out number. I ordered him his usual and treated myself to a cheeseburger deluxe. They said they were a little backed up, but would be over with the order in twenty minutes. Perfect.
    I opened up my message folder. There was a single text. It came from FBI Special Agent Marcus Brady.
    It would be a gross and unlikely deception to say that Brady and I were friends. I was