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“How do you know?” I ask.
“She doesn’t let anyone touch her.”
I smile with pride and lower my head as we continue walking. Why doesn’t she let people touch her? I’ll ask later, as now would be inappropriate. When we reach Battle’s truck, Erinn climbs into the back seat of the king cab and closes her door.
Battle puts his hand on the passenger side handle to open my door. Before he does, he says, “I should take you back to your office.”
“I understand.” I send him a soft smile and heave myself up into his enormous truck.
Erinn’s headphones are firmly in place, her eyes glued to whatever projects from the iPad in her hands. She giggles every so often, and talks, only the speed of her words prevent me from understanding what she’s saying. I wonder about Erinn’s diagnosis. She’s definitely not mentally challenged. She’s a bit eccentric, but she seems fairly normal to me. We all have our idiosyncrasies, things we do that make us unique.
Open mouth and insert foot, I think, considering the night I met Battle. I guess I do agree with him about people being individuals and not fitting into a neat little box. I realize Erinn may be the reason for his staunch integrity.
I’ve only known her for all of five minutes, and I don’t actually care what her diagnosis is. Yes, she’s different, but there’s also something sweet and pure that radiates from her. It’s hard for me to imagine her hurting another child.
“You were supposed to turn,” Erinn shouts from the back seat.
“I know, Bean, but I need to take Faye back to her office, okay?”
“No,” she whines. “First you go straight, then right, then left, then straight for seven minutes, then left again.”
“That’s the way to my house, but I have to drop Faye off first.”
“Straight, right, left, straight, left,” Erinn repeats several times to herself.
Battle sighs and glances over at me. “She kinda has a routine. Would you mind if I took you back after my mother picks her up?”
“No, not at all.”
“Thank you,” he says, his features relaxing.
He turns the truck around and Erinn quits repeating the directions. When we pull into the garage at his house, she leaps from the car before the engine shuts off and runs inside.
I laugh, looking over at Battle. “She’s a handful, huh?”
He smiles. “You have no idea.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask without thinking and without tact. My skin burns with humiliation, and I want to shrivel up and die. “That came out all wrong. I’m sorry.”
“I know what you meant,” he smiles reassuringly. “She’s autistic.”
Oh. I’ve heard of autism, but I’ve never been around anyone who was autistic. When I think about it, I’ve always considered autism to look a certain way, like Down's syndrome. I frown, knowing I’m once again lumping people in with expectations.
“Why did she choke that girl?” I ask.
“Let’s just say autism and adolescence aren’t exactly friends,” he answers with a small laugh.
“Why doesn’t she let people touch her?”
“It’s a sensory issue people with autism struggle with. I’m still shocked she shook your hand.”
“Why?” I ask confused. “You’re the one who says people don’t fit into a box. Does that not apply to people with autism?”
“You make a mighty fine point, and no, not all people with autism fit into a box. Sometimes with Erinn, I forget. So, thank you for the reminder.” He smiles and gets out of the truck.
My eyes move behind him to a cherry red Camaro parked on the far side of the garage. It’s not a classic, and not new, but it’s gorgeous. I get out of the truck and walk over to it. “Nice car,” I say. Battle doesn’t respond. A thick coating of dust and dirt cover the hood. “Do you drive it much?”
“Never.” He frowns. “Let’s get some lunch.”
