The Art of Adapting by Cassandra Dunn

Throat-clearing was one of those signals that had to be learned, and Asperger’s made it harder for Matt to absorb social cues.
    â€œMatt?” Lana said. He jumped, as always. She hated startling him, but hadn’t figured out how to draw him back from his reveries without doing so.
    â€œWhat’s in the bins?” he asked. Lana smiled. How he knew exactly what she was up to without knowing that she was about to say his name was one of the many Matt mysteries.
    â€œSome of Graham’s things. I need to put them in the garage, but I’m afraid if I try to lift them by myself I’ll fall down the stairs.”
    â€œDo you remember when Grandma fell down the stairs?” he asked. Matt had been only four when that had happened. Their grandma had broken her hip, and had never fully come back from it. Lana wondered if Matt remembered visiting her in the hospital afterward, or if he just remembered the stories.
    â€œYes, maybe that’s why I’m afraid to try.”
    â€œYou’re much younger than she was, so I bet it wouldn’t hurt you even if you fell,” Matt said. Lana nodded, waiting. He turned back to the window, rotating out of the conversation. Lana was being too polite, trying to get him to offer to help. She knew perfectly well that she needed to be direct and blunt with Matt. Subtlety was wasted on him. She’d been so good at dealing with Matt when they were younger, but years of marital diplomacy had taken their toll. She’d become too mousy.
    â€œI was wondering if you could help me carry them,” she said.
    Matt turned as if surprised to see her still standing next to him. He leaned around her and looked up the stairs at the bins perched on the landing. He nodded. “I can carry them,” he said, making no move to leave his window. He tracked a bird fluttering from one branch to another in the big tree out front. Just as Lana was about to prompt him again, he rose and headed toward the stairs. Lana followed him. Halfway up the stairs he turned and glared at her shoulder. “You can wait in the other room,” he said. His way of telling her to back off. Motherhood had made her into a hovering nurturer. Being married to Graham had bred a need for attention that she loathed in herself. Matt liked personal space, and lots of it.
    â€œSorry,” Lana said. “Of course you can do this yourself.”
    Lana had just made it into the kitchen when she heard a crash. She found Matt sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, a bin on top of him.
    â€œI’m fine,” he said before she could say anything. He waved her away. Matt was a strange mix of clumsy with lightning-quick reflexes. He was always knocking things off tables and desks, but catching them before they hit the floor. His gross motor skills were a trouble area. His fine motor skills highly developed.
    â€œMaybe I should be helping you,” Lana told him.
    â€œI’m younger than you,” he said. “I can fall down the stairs and not break anything. You go wait in the other room.”
    Lana sighed. What did she care if he dropped them all? They were Graham’s things, left behind for her to contend with. Her sister Becca had been telling her to clear out Graham’s belongingsfor months. Then she was supposed to light sage and spread the smoke throughout the house to cleanse it of the leftover bad energy of their troubled marriage. If only it could be that easy to clear away two decades of built-up memories, plans, arguments, wishes that never came true.
    When Graham arrived to drop the kids off, he stopped on the doormat like there was a force field before him. He rarely offered more than a brief wave through the open door as the kids passed from his world back to Lana’s. They usually exchanged a few words of small talk before he turned to head down the porch steps. He seemed to no longer feel welcome in his own house, and Lana wasn’t sure if