Page 147 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Wait,” I say in a rush. I know I should tell her that Mary doesn’t want me anywhere near her son, but all I can see in my head is my nephew after a meltdown. Besides, Susan knows Mary doesn’t want me with Aidan, yet she suggested theycontact me anyway. I need to put his needs before my own. “I’ll come. Give me about five minutes.”

Thank goodness I’m close.

“Thank you so much.” The relief in her voice is palpable. “You’re doing us all such a big favor.”

Then she hangs up, and I draw in a ragged breath. I’m happy to try to help Aidan, but I’m worried about Mary’s reaction. Nevertheless, there’s only one thing to do. I get in my truck and head straight for the school.

When I pressthe intercom at the school entrance, I tell them who I am, and I’m buzzed right through. A woman I don’t recognize walks down the hall toward me.

“Mr. Hagan, thank you so much for coming.” When she reaches me, she holds out her hand. “I’m Brenda Killigan, the school principal. Rebecca says you’re a miracle worker with Aidan.” When I give her a questioning look, she adds, “Ms. Liu.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She’d told me her first name before, but I obviously wasn’t paying attention. “Sorry. I’m just surprised you all called me.”

She gestures down the hall and starts walking. I follow and quickly catch up.

“As I’m sure Rebecca explained,” she says, “he’s very upset and has been asking for you. We hated to call you, but there was no one else.”

“We were supposed to meet today, and it got cancelled,” I say, my mind inevitably shifting back to Mary. I can’t imagine her knowingly ignoring a call from her kid’s school. Despite myself, I’m worried about her. Where is she?

“So we gathered from Ms. Duckworth,” the principal says as she moves briskly down the hall and takes a right when it dead-ends into another corridor. “But she said she thought you’d be willing to step in and help.”

“Yeah. Sure.” I’m nervous, not just because I’m worried about Mary, but because playing games and drinking hot chocolate are totally different than helping to settle a raging child.

I can hear him before we reach the office doorway, and I take a deep breath as I follow Aidan’s sounds of distress. He’s sobbing and shouting my name.

He’s in a small conference room, lying on the floor, kicking as he shouts, “I want to see Jace! He’s supposed to be here.”

My heart breaks, and I want to gather him in my arms, but I suspect that’s the last thing I should do. Instead, I say, “I’m here, buddy,” as I slowly walk into the room. He’s too worked up for my words to sink in, so I lower myself to the floor and sit crossed-legged close to him, my back against the wall. I’m hoping my presence will comfort him when he starts to calm down.

I glance up at Ms. Killigan. “How long has he been like this?”

“Thirty minutes? Long enough that we tried calling his mother and his aunts.”

I remember Ben’s rages. Once he was in a full-fledged meltdown, there was no bringing him out of it. He just had to work through it. I imagine the same is true of Aidan. But I knew Ben’s triggers and what would soothe him after he settled. I don’t know Aidan very well, but I do remember something Susan shared with me.

I glance up at Ms. Killigan. “Does Aidan have his weighted blanket here?”

“No,” she says sheepishly. “I’m afraid it was misplaced.”

I slip off my heavy jacket and lay it atop him, although I’m not sure it will work. A weighted blanket is heavier, the weight more evenly distributed, but at least it’s something. After a couple of minutes, his sobs and shouts begin to subside, and soon the sounds coming from him are soft whimpers.

Scooting a little closer, I croon, “Aidan. It’s Jace.”

He looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. “You’re here.”

I give him a reassuring smile. “Yep.”

While some people would see this as rewarding bad behavior, it doesn’t even register as a concern. For one thing, autistic kids’ brains don’t work that way. Aidan isn’t acting out because he didn’t get something he wanted. His system is completely overrun by emotion he can’t process, physical triggers that would be annoying for most people but which are excruciating for him, or both, and he’s lost control. My biggest worry is that he’ll go through this all over again when he realizes I still can’t be his buddy.

I look over at the principal. “Can you get him some water?”

“Of course,” she says, then disappears from the doorway.

“Do you want to keep lying there or sit up?” I ask quietly.

“Sit up.” He gets up and scoots next to me, pressing his side to mine, his back against the wall.

I rearrange my coat so it’s draped over his lap and chest, tucking it around him so he feels cocooned. Honestly, I’m a little worried I’ll set him off again, but I figure it’s worth the risk.

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