Mikey's Room

The emptiness of Michael’s room struck me. A sudden feeling of weightlessness rose in my chest as I realised that emptiness was here to stay. It’s the same feeling as when you miscount the stairs and take one step too many… My brother used to count the stairs out loud when were little. Sometimes for an hour or more.

The clock on the wall ticked sharply, accentuating rather than masking the silence. I stood rooted to the spot, listening to the ticking. The pendulum underneath swayed to and fro in the same rhythm Michael did when he was anxious. It was 3:06pm now. He would have been watching TV if he was still around. Specifically, he would have been watching Channel Three. He used to watch Channel Three from 3:00pm until dinner at 5:00pm. Like his daily routine, his room remained unchanged for almost all of his life. It was frozen in time, like the world in a little snow globe.

My mind drags me back nearly 30 years. December 1992 layered a thick blanket of snow on the garden, and in a rare break from his silence, Mikey announced he wanted to build a snowman. I was too young to understand my mother’s amazement - she seemed ecstatic at the prospect of finally uncovering playfulness and imagination in her eight-year-old son.

However, it quickly turned out he hated the feel of the snow against his skin. Mikey quickly retreated back into his usual self and drew up the draw bridge. He sat stiff- not with the cold, but rather the anxiety of touching an unfamiliar texture. My dad dutifully placed him on top of a chair so he wouldn’t touch the snow and Mikey stayed there motionless until the snow man was finished.

Dad and I had been play fighting, putting snow down the back of each other’s necks for a laugh. I remember gathering a handful of snow and looking and my mum for permission to involve my big brother in the fun. She just shook her head slowly. “No, not your brother darling,” she said roused from deep thought, “Remember he’s our little special guy isn’t he.” She seemed sad. I never understood why back then, but worked it out years on.

I placed the snow globe back on my brother’s bedside cabinet. The cold glass was now warm from my grip. I exhaled slowly as my eyes ran across his room. Three pencils sat in the pot, three pairs of the same shoes lay lined up, three... If I couldn’t bring myself to clear my brother’s room then it would stay like this forever.

Michael’s multiple congenital health problems meant that his passing at age 37 was not a shock, but it still didn’t detract from the pain. Since his difficult birth, everyone knew my brother was on borrowed time, but returning what you borrowed is still never easy.

The window to Michael’s soul was rectangular, black and size A5. His diary was placed neatly in the exact centre of the desk. The notebook had to be a specific brand and bought from a pre-determined store, usually by me in late November. Michael used exactly one each year. Three pens were still lined up next to it; black, blue and red. I used to hate days when he wrote in red and could breathe comfortably on blue days. Now though, I miss both equally.

My brother’s problems with communication meant it was hard to know what he was feeling. His diary was a God-send for me and Mum. It was a well-needed back door that bypassed the high walls around his mind. I instinctively checked behind me before I picked the black notebook up, and felt a sharp twinge as I realised there’s no need to look around anymore.

Michael’s script comprised neat and deliberately formed capital letters. They had an unnatural, almost geometric, aesthetic. His writing flowed more like a disjointed list of facts rather than fluid prose you get from ‘normal’ people. He wrote candidly. A lopsided smile played across my lips. Candid is the only style he could write in.

Mikey’s autism meant he saw the world differently. In his world there were no lies, no mincing of words and humour was a nebulous concept that consistently evaded his comprehension. Michael was a fork in a world made of soup and I had loved him unconditionally.

TODAY IS A RED DAY. ITS BECAUSE OF THAT BAD WEATHER. IT IS THE BAD WEATHER. THE T.V. IS OFF. IT IS OFF. IT IS BECAUSE OF THE WEATHER. MY T.V. IS OFF BECAUSE OF THE WEATHER. MY BROTHER WILL BUY ME A NEW ONE. HE WAS BORN ON A SUNDAY…

There was one thing that my autistic brother shared with the greatest minds of all time. It was one act that linked the genius of Aristotle, Da Vinci and Shakespeare with Mikey. Something that most people don’t do. Documenting one’s thoughts with pen and paper. I shook my head and smiled. While Mozart penned timeless symphonies, my brother copied out car licence plates from memory. They were both geniuses in their own way.

His black suit was still hung up in his cupboard, having only seen the light of day twice. The last time he wore it was our dad’s funeral a few years ago.

I paused before the church altar and bowed my head before stepping up. Mikey was by my side, Nintendo DS in hand. I carefully led him up the steps to the microphone, where we would say a few words. The poetic tribute I had envisioned to my stoic father seemed to dry up and evaporate before it could leave my parched lips. Instead, I could only muster some inadequate clichés. When I finished my speech, I led Mikey to the microphone, who had his games console still whirring away. I took it out of his hand as gently as I could, praying that he wouldn’t have a meltdown. Please Mikey, for Dad, not here. Not now. Despite the beam of 100 grieving eyes concentrated on him, Mikey’s body language didn’t change one bit. People with no concept of social interaction don’t get stage fright. How can you get nervous of what other people will think if other people’s opinion doesn’t exist?

“Say ‘Bye Dad’ into the microphone” I prompted gently, holding back tears.

“Bye Dad” he duly repeated and shuffled back to his seat where he carried on playing. A chorus of sympathetic sighs rippled through the church and I couldn’t look up at them. I concentrated on tracing the faint lines on the back of my hand. Mikey understood what was going on. He loved Dad, but he just didn’t express grief like the rest of us.

I close the cupboard door, chastising myself for being so slow. I’ve got to go soon and this room looks about the same as when I first stepped in over half an hour ago. A purple plastic piggy bank sat on the window ledge, the local bank’s logo visible under a layer of dust. Unlike my pig, this one was nameless. I had baptised mine Percy within five seconds of the smiling bank clerk handing it over. Meanwhile Mikey had struggled to think up a name for his new roommate and gotten really distressed when Mum asked him what it was called. I picked the piggy bank up and shook it, already knowing what the answer would be. Empty. Mikey had no understanding of the concept of money. He knew what it was, and that’s the reason Mum had to go to work, but otherwise… he was blissfully unaware.

“Come onnn Mikey, which one?” thirteen-year-old smart arse me asked Mikey again. Mikey was only a few months shy of his 18th birthday at the time. In one hand I held out a £20 note and the other I held two used AA batteries from the T.V.’s remote control. Most people making a decision flit their eyes left and right and go ‘ummmm…’ and scratch their chin. Yet Mikey would just freeze in time. Head tilted slightly, avoiding eye contact, silent and still as a statue. ‘It looks like he needs batteries!’ I thought. Eventually he reached for the AA’s. Yes! My hypothesis was correct. Even after I walked away, Mikey had stayed there on the same spot, not knowing what to do next.

Ironically, it was Mikey’s indifference to money that meant he had so much of it to his name when he died. Our grandad had set up trust funds for us, which we could only access once we turned 18. I remember my excited 18-year-old self practically skipping to the bank. On the same day, I proudly put down a deposit on my very own flat, to decorate any way I wanted. When Mikey turned 18, the only diversion from his usual routine was a slice of cake at 5:30pm. Looking back I feel – or hope? – that there was some excitement under Mikey's expressionless exterior, but I just couldn’t tell. Maybe I was convincing myself. Who knows? We’ll never find out.

Michael’s spending habits were even more subdued than his behaviour. He never wanted anything. Not even when he was little. The only time he’d ask for something was at Christmas. Every year we’d get the same carefully written list:

2 D.V.D.s

2 C.D.s

1 JUMPER

A NEW BLACK NOTEBOOK

We usually had his presents sorted out months in advance. We even got him the same jumper some years. It sounds mean, but he was perfectly satisfied with that. He often never even watched the D.V.D.’s… People who don’t have someone with special needs in their life wouldn’t understand. For Michael, asking for presents wasn’t because he wanted them. It was because that’s what you do. People make wish lists at Christmas. Annually asking for those six items was just another task to complete - no different from brushing your teeth or posting a letter.

Naturally, Michael was never in control of his own money. Either my mum or I made the decisions for him. After his food shop there was still plenty of money left over from the weekly payment local government sent to his account. The bank balance climbed parallel to my frustration. I used to try to treat him sometimes. I’d ask him if would he like to go for a meal or go to the cinema. It was pointless. We couldn’t go out to the cinema because then he’d miss Family Fortunes at 7:00pm. We couldn’t go for something to eat because he had to be back home for lunch at 1:00pm. If it wasn’t in his routine, then it was a no-go. It often got to the point where he’d cover his ears with both palms and hum a tense monotone. Conversation over. I’d retreat back to my room close to tears with pure frustration.

At times it was heart breaking. As a child I was desperate to play with him and just generally be around him. How can you show someone you love them if they want to be alone? If every touch makes them rock with anxiety? If a minor change from routine meant the end of the world? I know he loved me. He just expressed it differently. Occasionally, out of nowhere, he’d smile and cradle his arms like he was holding a baby. Mum said he did that when he was remembering holding me. He used to write in his notebook a lot about me.

Soon the £20,000 or so that was spread across his trust fund and maintenance account will be transferred to his next of kin. I don’t know what I’ll do with the rest of it, but Christmas is approaching, so it’s time for me to go to a pre-determined store and buy an A5 black notebook.