Page 16 of Am I the Only One

“You haven’t even tasted it, so how do you know it’s gross?”

“It looks gross.”

I pick up his spoon to hand it to him, but he pushes it away. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see several people staring at us, most likely wondering why a grown man is throwing such a childish fit. Their stares annoy me, as they always have, and I have to temper my urge to scream, “He’s autistic, so stop judging.”

I then dip the spoon into the bowl and scoop up one shell, encouraging, “Just take one bite.”

“No!” He shoves my hand away, sending the lone piece of pasta to splat onto the table.

“Well, this is dinner. If you don’t eat now, you’ll be hungry later.”

“I want normal mac and cheese.”

It’s useless to push him, so I drop it and eat my dinner while Matthew throws his fit, banging his palm against the table while everyone around us whispers in scrutiny.

Heat flares up my neck in embarrassment, but I shove it down and smile at my brother. “Why don’t we go to the store after this and buy a Christmas tree?”

His eyes brighten in excitement and the fist-banging comes to a stop.

With that, I pay the check, and I can’t get out of this restaurant and away from all the invasive stares fast enough.

“Why can’t we get a real tree,” he asks when we arrive at the store to buy Christmas decorations. “We always get real trees.”

“The hotel won’t let us have a real tree. It’s a fire hazard, so we either get a fake tree or have no tree at all.”

“Fake trees suck.”

“Hey!” I scold as he walks ahead of me, but I understand. Everything about this Christmas feels wrong.

Every year, Mom and Dad would drive us out to the tree farm to pick our Christmas tree. Even after I went off to college, I could still depend on all the same family traditions when I came home for the holidays. My mother loved Christmas. She always went above and beyond. The house was always so warm and alive with music playing, the fire crackling in the hearth, and there was always something yummy baking in the oven.

I quickly brush away a rogue tear at the memories, and my heart sinks even lower.

“Look at this one!” Matthew shouts as he points up to a ginormous fourteen-foot tree.

“That’s way too big. We need something more like ...” I stroll down the aisle, and then point to a small five-foot, pre-lit tree. “This one.”

He claps and smiles, pulling out the item slip for us to take to the registers.

“We need ornaments too.”

“I want red ones,” he says.

After grabbing some ornaments, a couple of stockings, and a few decorations, I put everything on my credit card, which I have no money to pay off, and we load up and head back to the hotel.

I do my best to recreate Mom’s festive spirit. We find a Christmas movie on the television and work together to set up the tree and decorate the room with cheap tinsel garlands. Once the stockings are on the posts of our headboards on our beds, I take a quick shower and slip into my jammies. Matthew is hyper-focused on his tablet, watching YouTube when I slip under the covers.

“Hey, Em,” he says from his bed. “Did you know that sixty percent of tray tables have traces of MRSA.”

“That’s disgusting,” I mutter as I plug my phone into its charger.

“Also, airplane blankets are only washed every five to thirty days.”

I look over to find him reading something on his tablet. Matthew has been obsessed witheverythingairplane related for a few years. Ask him any random question, and chances are, he already knows the answer. Before airplanes, he was fixated on hot air balloons. I don’t know what it is about air transportation that captivates him so much, but it’s more than just an interest; it’s more of an obsession. Last month, when I visited for Thanksgiving, I took him to the airport. We weren’t allowed past security, but Matthew still had fun watching everyone at the ticket counters and baggage claim. He even got to meet a pilot, which thrilled him like none other.

“It’s getting late,” I say while stifling a yawn. “You need to get your pajamas on, okay?”

“I’ll do it later. I’m not tired yet.”

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