Catch Me (Synacky)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Zacky

I was kept inside the isolation room for two days. A total of six meals.

Then I was let out. I was in much better health this time, even though I was rather exhausted and I did not have my pet, and I ran to the room to see Brian.

He wasn’t there.

He must have still been in isolation. I wondered how long they would keep him there. I hoped not too long… It’s very easy to go insane in one of those rooms…

Because I had missed my individual therapy day while I had been in isolation, I had it today, Thursday. I did not mind this. I despised group therapy, and would have preferred to have individual therapy every day instead.

On my bed there was a box that had my clothes, my watch, the string and paper clip, and the dollar bills. Not the change.

I put on a Pi Day shirt that Dad had bought me when we were at the Seattle Math and Science Convention last year. I also put on my watch (the time was 6:23 PM) and an aid came to take me to individual therapy.

Dr. Brooks was there, sitting at the table in the corner of the rec room, reading a book called Mayans: the Science behind the Legends.

When I sat down, he looked up, smiling at me and closing his book. “My,” he said, “you don’t look so well. How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted.” I replied. I slid into the chair across from him and put my head in my hands. “I-I don’t-“ my breathing began to quicken and I forced myself to take a few slow, deep breaths. “I don’t have my pet.”

My hands clenched into fists. 1, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13…

“You know, I wondered what this was doing out near the institution parking lot. I thought I’d bring it in and ask you myself.” He reached down into a bag on the floor and pulled out a brown stuffed dog with floppy ears and a button eye, complete with a hat and scarf.

I snatched it up quickly. My pet! I cuddled it close to me, stroked the worn, softness of its fur. “Oh,” I breathed, “Oh, thank you.”

I thought it would be lost forever. I thought I would never see it again after it fell outside the institution.

Dr. Brooks smiled, “You’re welcome, Zacky. How did your little excursion with Brian go?”

“Are they going to separate us?” I asked, ignoring his question.

Dr. Brooks sighed, “Zacky, I don’t know. It’s quite possible that they will. They won’t want you both plotting to do anything like that again.”

“I don’t want them to.” I said. “Brian makes me feel safe and happy.”

He made me feel even safer than my pet did. My pet was soft and familiar, but Brian was so much more than that. He was warm and gentle and alive. I did not know what I would do without Brian.

Then we talked about sadness.

With kids like me, often we feel depressed but don’t know how to handle that sadness. So a lot of times, autistic teens kill themselves. But I had not felt sad, not in a while, other than the frantic pain from losing my pet.

No, I was not depressed. According to the DSM-IV (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) depression was a very severe disorder. And I was not always exhausted (I only was when I didn’t get enough sleep) and I was not sad all the time (only when something bad happens to me) and I did not feel guilty or worthless all the time.

I told this to Dr. Brooks. He wrote something down. He asked, “So when you’re sad, what makes you feel better?”

“My pet.” I replied. “And I also like to recite pi or prime numbers. Sometimes I play gypsy jazz in my head.”

Except I also did that when I was angry and when I was frustrated when I was confused and all of those other negative emotions. I do not know how to distinguish between them. They’re just bad feelings.

And I liked to rock and groan when I had bad feelings, because it always calmed me down and helped me to ignore everything else around me and think.

He asked what I like to do when I was happy, and I replied, “I like to spin.”

Spinning is wonderful. I do it when I have good feelings, because it just maximizes those feelings and makes me feel even better. Dizziness provides in itself a special high, and I loved the feeling, loved watching everything move around and around, the world rushing around me even after I’d stopped.

When I was with Brian, I felt this same sort of thrill, this same rush, and it was wonderful.

Dr. Brooks asked, “Why don’t you spin when you’re sad, to help you feel better?”

“That won’t work.” I replied. Spinning when I’m sad is like laughing when you cry, or crying when you’re happy (although some people do cry happy tears, which is one of the most confusing things of all). It’s irrational, and any attempts to better my mood by spinning would be useless.

That night, I slept in my own bed, watching the empty space where Brian usually lay. I wondered if he was even in isolation at all. Maybe he had already been moved to a different room.

That thought made my head hurt and my insides feel bad, and I rocked and groaned. Who knows? Maybe they’ve already transferred him. Maybe I’ll never see my Brian again.

My mind played through Django’s Tiger and The Call of Ktulu. I closed my eyes tight and covered my ears. What would I do if I could never see Brian again? Mum left me, then Dad was taken away from me, and now Brian?

I did not believe in luck. I believe in proportions and combinations. Statistically, if you flip a coin for eternity, you will eventually get 2,831 heads in a row. Statistically, someone will have lost their father, mother and lover all within a few years. According to chance, anything can happen. But the difference between chance and luck, is that chance is something you cannot control. You can’t have “good chance” or “bad chance.” You can’t have good luck either. Luck doesn’t exist.

But I did feel unlucky in that moment. I wanted Brian, I wanted him to hold me and kiss me and sing to me. I wanted him to come and make everything right.

Was he breaking his promise to me? He said he would be there no matter what to catch me when I fall.

But I decided that he wasn’t breaking the promise, because the situation was out of his control. Chance.

And chances were, I would never be seeing my Brian again.