Jodi Picoult - House Rules

He is poring over the Sunday paper. “Since when do you read the paper?” I ask.

“What kind of mother doesn’t want her son to be aware of current events?”

“Yeah, I’m not falling for that one. Let me guess-you’re clipping Staples coupons for Krazy Glue?” Jacob goes through that stuff like water; it’s part of the process used to get fingerprints off objects, and it’s a common occurrence in this household for something to go missing-my car keys, Theo’s toothbrush-and then to resurface beneath the overturned fish tank Jacob uses to fume for prints.

I measure out enough coffee into the automatic drip to make me human and then get started on breakfast for Jacob. It’s a challenge: he doesn’t eat glutens and he doesn’t eat caseins-basically, that means no wheat, oat, rye, barley, or dairy. Since there’s no cure yet for Asperger’s, we treat the symptoms, and for some reason, if I regulate his diet his behavior improves. When he cheats, like he did at Christmas, I can see him slipping backward-stimming or having meltdowns. Frankly, with 1 in 100 kids in the United States being diagnosed on the spectrum, I bet I could have a top-rated show on the Food Network: Alimentary Autism. Jacob doesn’t share my culinary enthusiasm. He says that I’m what you’d get if you crossed Jenny Craig with Josef Mengele.

Five days of the week, in addition to having a limited diet, Jacob eats by color. I don’t really remember how this started, but it’s a routine: all Monday food is green, all Tuesday food is red, all Wednesday food is yellow, and so on. For some reason this helped with his sense of structure. Weekends, though, are free-for-alls, so this morning my breakfast spread includes defrosted homemade tapioca rice muffins, and EnviroKidz Koala Crisp cereal with soy milk. I fry up some Applegate Farms turkey bacon and set out Skippy peanut butter and gluten-free bread. I have a three-inch binder full of food labels and toll-free numbers that is my chef’s Bible. I also have grape juice, because Jacob mixes it with his liposome-enclosed glutathione-one teaspoon, plus a quarter teaspoon of vitamin C powder. It still tastes like sulfur, but it’s better than the previous alternative-a cream he rubbed on his feet and covered with socks because it smelled so bad. The downside of the glutathione, though, pales in comparison to its upside: binding and removing toxins that Jacob’s body can’t do itself, and leaving him with better mental acuity.

The food is only part of the buffet.

I take out the tiny silicone bowls we use for Jacob’s supplements. Every day he takes a multivitamin, a taurine capsule, and an omega-3 tablet. The taurine prevents meltdowns; the fatty acids help with mental flexibility. He lifts the newspaper up in front of his face as I set down the two treatments he hates the most: the oxytocin nasal spray and the B12 shot he injects himself, both of which help with anxiety.

“You can hide but you can’t run,” I say, tugging down the edge of the newspaper.

You would think that the shot is the worst for him, but he actually lifts up his shirt and pinches his stomach to inject himself without much fanfare. However, for a kid who’s got sensory issues, using a nasal spray is like waterboarding. Every day I watch Jacob stare down that bottle and finally convince himself he will be able to handle the feeling of the liquid dripping down his throat. And every day, it breaks my heart.

It goes without saying that none of these supplements-which cost hundreds of dollars each month-are covered by medical insurance.

I put a plate of muffins in front of him as he turns another page in the paper. “Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes,” Jacob mutters.

I put my hand down on the paper so that it blocks his view. “Really?”

The few times Jacob lies, it’s so obvious to me that all I have to do is raise an eyebrow and he caves. The only times I’ve ever even seen him attempt dishonesty are when he’s asked to do something he doesn’t want to do-like take his supplements or brush his teeth-or to avoid conflict. In those cases, he’ll say what he thinks I want to hear. “I’ll do it after I eat,” he promises, and I know he will. “Yes!” he crows suddenly. “It’s in here!”

“What?”

Jacob leans over, reading aloud. “Police in Townsend recovered the body of fifty-three-year-old Wade Deakins in a wooded area off Route 140. Deakins succumbed to hypothermia. No foul play was indicated.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Can you believe that got buried on page A fourteen?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s gruesome. Why would anyone want to read about a man who froze to death?” I suddenly pause in the act of stirring half-and-half into my coffee. “How did you know that article was going to be in the paper this morning?”

He hesitates, aware he’s been caught in the act. “It was a lucky guess.”

I fold my arms and stare at him. Even if he won’t look me in the eye, he can feel the heat of my gaze.

“Okay!” he confesses. “I heard about it on the scanner last night.”

I consider the way he’s rocking in his seat and the blush that has continued to work its way up his face. “And?”

“I went there.”

“You what ?”

“It was last night. I took my bike-”

“You rode your bike in the freezing cold to Route 140-”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?” Jacob says, and I stop interrupting. “The police found a body in the woods and the detective was leaning toward sexual assault and homicide-”

“Oh my God.”

“-but the evidence didn’t support that.” He beams. “I solved their case for them.”

My jaw drops. “And they were okay with that?”

“Well… no. But they needed help. They were totally going in the wrong direction given the wounds to the body-”

“Jacob, you can’t just crash a crime scene! You’re a civilian!”

“I’m a civilian with a better understanding of forensic science than the local police,” he argues. “I even let the detective take the credit.”

I have visions of the Townsend Police showing up at my house today to berate me (at best) and arrest Jacob (at worst). Isn’t it a misdemeanor to tamper with a police investigation? I imagine the fallout if it becomes public knowledge that Auntie Em, the advice expert, doesn’t even know where her own son is at night.

“Listen to me,” I say. “You are absolutely not to do that again. Ever. What if it was a homicide, Jacob? What if the killer had come after you ?”

I watch him consider this. “Well,” he says, entirely literal, “I guess I would have run really fast.”

“Consider it a new house rule. You are not to sneak out of here unless you tell me first.”

“Technically, that wouldn’t be sneaking, ” he points out.

“Jacob, so help me-”

He bobs his head. “Don’t sneak out to go to a crime scene. Got it.” Then he looks directly at me, something that happens so infrequently I find myself catching my breath. “But, Mom, seriously, I wish you could have seen it. The crosshatch marks on the guy’s shins and-”

“Jacob, that guy died a horrible, lonely death and deserves a little respect.” But even as I say it, I know he can’t understand. Two years ago, at my father’s funeral, Jacob asked if the casket could be opened before the burial. I thought it was to say good-bye to a relative he’d loved, but instead, Jacob had put his hand against my father’s cold, rice-paper cheek. I just want to know what dead feels like, he had said.

I take the newspaper and fold it up. “You’ll write a note to the detective today apologizing for getting in his way-”

“I don’t know his name!”