Still, she hesitated. Then she reached into her bag and pulled it out. When she handed it to me, I read the title. At first, I didn’t know what to think. It was a book—more like a textbook, actually—about autism and Asperger’s. I had heard of both conditions and assumed I knew what most people did, which wasn’t much.

“It’s by one of my professors,” she explained. “She’s the best teacher I’ve had in college. Her classes are always filled, and students who aren’t registered sometimes drop in to talk to her. She’s one of the foremost experts in all forms of developmental disorders, and she’s one of the few who focused her research on adults.”

“Fascinating,” I said, not bothering to hide my lack of enthusiasm.

“I think you might learn something,” she pressed.

“I’m sure,” I said. “It looks like there’s a lot of information there.”

“There’s more to it than just that,” she said. Her voice was quiet. “I want you to read it because of your father. And the way you two get along.”

For the first time, I felt myself stiffen. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not an expert,” she said, “but this book was assigned both semesters that I had her, and I must have studied it every night. Like I said, she’s interviewed more than three hundred adults with disorders.”

I withdrew my arm. “And?”

I knew she heard the tension in my voice, and she studied me with a trace of apprehension.

“I know I’m only a student, but I spend a lot of my lab hours working with children who have Asperger’s… I’ve seen it up close, and I’ve also had the chance to meet a number of the adults my professor had interviewed.” She knelt in front of me, reaching out to touch my arm. “Your father is very similar to a couple of them.”

I think I already knew what she was getting at, but for whatever reason, I wanted her to say it directly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded, forcing myself not to pull away.

Her answer was slow in coming. “I think your father might have Asperger’s.”

“My dad isn’t retarded….”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “Asperger’s is a developmental disorder.”

“I don’t care what it is,” I said, my voice rising. “My dad doesn’t have it. He raised me, he works, he pays his bills. He was married once.”

“You can have Asperger’s and still function….”

As she spoke, I flashed on something she had said earlier. “Wait,” I said, trying to remember how she’d phrased it and feeling my mouth go dry. “Earlier, you said you think my dad did a wonderful job in raising me.”

“Yeah,” she said, “and I mean that….”

My jaw tightened as I figured out what she was really saying, and I stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “But it’s because you think he’s like Rain Man. That considering his problem, he did a good job.”

“No… you don’t understand. There’s a spectrum of Asperger’s, from mild to severe—”

I barely heard her. “And you respect him for the same reason. But it’s not as if you really liked him.”

“No, wait—”

I pulled away and got to my feet. Suddenly needing space, I walked to the railing opposite her. I thought of her continual requests to visit with him… not because she wanted to spend time with him. Because she wanted to study him.

My stomach knotted, and I faced her. “That’s why you came over, isn’t it.”

“What—”

“Not because you liked him, but because you wanted to know if you were right.”

“No—”

“Stop lying!” I shouted.

“I’m not lying!”

“You were sitting there with him, pretending to be interested in his coins, but in reality you were evaluating him like some monkey in a cage.”

“It wasn’t like that!” she said, rising to her feet. “I respect your dad—”

“Because you think he’s got problems and overcame them,” I snarled, finishing for her. “Yeah, I get it.”

“No, you’re wrong. I like your dad….”

“Which is why you ran your little experiment, right?” My expression was hard. “See, I must have forgotten that when you like someone, you do things like that. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

She shook her head. “No!” For the first time, she seemed to question what she’d done, and her lip began to quiver. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. But I just wanted you to understand him.”

“Why?” I said, taking a step toward her. I could feel my muscles tensing. “I understand him fine. I grew up with him, remember? I lived with him.”

“I was trying to help,” she said, eyes downcast. “I just wanted you to be able to relate to him.”

“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t want your help. And why is it any of your damn business, anyway?”

She turned away and swiped at a tear. “It’s not,” she said. Her voice was almost inaudible. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?” I demanded. “That you think something’s wrong with him? That I shouldn’t expect to have a normal relationship with him? That I have to talk about coins if I want to talk to him at all?”

I didn’t hide the anger in my voice, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw a couple of fishermen turn our way. My gaze kept them from coming closer, which was probably a good thing. As we stared at each other, I didn’t expect Savannah to answer, and frankly, I didn’t want her to. I was still trying to get my mind around the fact that the hours she had spent with my dad were nothing but a charade.

“Maybe,” she whispered.

I blinked, unsure that she’d said what I thought she had. “What?”

“You heard me.” She gave a small shrug. “Maybe that’s the only thing you’ll ever talk about with your father. It might be all he can do.”

I felt my hands clench into fists. “So you’re saying it’s all up to me?”

I didn’t expect her to answer, but she did.

“I don’t know,” she said, meeting my eyes. I could still see her tears, but her voice was surprisingly steady. “That’s why I bought the book. So you can read it. Like you said, you know him better than I do. And I never said he’s unable to function, because obviously he does. But think about it. His unchanging routines, the fact that he doesn’t look at people when he talks to them, his nonexistent social life…”

I whirled away, wanting to hit something. Anything.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice low.

“Because if it was me, I’d want to know. And I’m not saying it because I wanted to hurt you or insult your father. I told you because I wanted you to understand him.”

Her candor made it painfully clear that she believed what she was saying. Even so, I didn’t care. I turned and started up the pier. I just wanted to get away. From here, from her.

“Where are you going?” I heard her call out. “John! Wait!”

I ignored her. Instead I picked up the pace, and a minute later I reached the stairs of the pier. I pounded down them, hit the sand, and headed for the house. I had no idea whether Savannah was behind me, and as I neared the group, faces turned toward me. I looked angry, and I knew it. Randy was holding a beer, and he must have seen Savannah approaching because he moved to block my path. A couple of his frat brothers did the same.

“What’s going on?” he called out. “What’s wrong with Savannah?”

I ignored him and felt him grab my wrist. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Not a wise move. I could smell beer on his breath and knew that the alcohol had given him courage.

“Let go,” I said.

“Is she okay?” he demanded.

“Let go,” I said again, “or I’ll break your wrist.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” I heard Tim call out from somewhere behind me.

“What did you do to her?” Randy demanded. “Why’s she crying? Did you hurt her?”

I could feel the adrenaline surge into my bloodstream. “Last chance,” I warned.

“There’s no reason for this!” Tim shouted, closer this time. “Just relax, you guys! Knock it off!”

I felt someone try to grab me from behind. What happened next was instinctive, over in a matter of seconds. I drove my elbow hard into his solar plexus and heard a sudden groaning exhale; then I grabbed Randy’s hand and quickly twisted it to its snapping point. He screamed and dropped to his knees, and in that instant I felt someone else rushing toward me. I swung an elbow blindly and felt it connect; I felt cartilage crunch as I turned, ready for whoever came next.

“What did you do?” I heard Savannah scream. She must have come running once she saw what was going on.

On the sand, Randy was wincing as he clutched his wrist; the guy who’d grabbed me from behind was gasping and on all fours.

“You hurt him!” she whimpered as she rushed past me. “He was just trying to stop the fight!”

I turned. Tim was sprawled on the ground, holding his face, blood gushing through his fingers. The sight seemed to paralyze everyone except Savannah, who dropped to her knees at his side.

Tim moaned, and despite the hammering in my chest, I felt a pit form in my stomach. Why did it have to be him? I wanted to ask if he was okay; I wanted to tell him I hadn’t meant for him to get hurt and that it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t started it. But it wouldn’t matter. Not now. I couldn’t pretend as if they should forgive and forget, no matter how much I wished it hadn’t happened.

I could barely hear Savannah fretting as I began to back away. I eyed the others warily, making sure they’d let me leave, not wanting to hurt anyone else.

“Oh, geez… oh, no. You’re really bleeding… we’ve got to get you to a doctor….”

I continued to back away, then turned and climbed the stairs. I moved quickly through the house, then back down to my car. Before I knew it, I was on the street, cursing myself and the entire evening.