Big Mac

It started with a Big Mac. Or, more specifically, a Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke. 

She was in the kitchen, washing dishes when she heard the words-- faint over the sound of the running water and the TV in the next room-- but undeniable. “Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke.”

Her hand froze mid-scrub. She shut the water off abruptly, craning her neck to listen. Nothing but the cartoon’s overbright opening theme song. She peeled off one yellow rubber glove, soapy water dripping down her wrist onto her arm, then the other, and walked tentatively out into the living room. 

Joseph was positioned in his usual spot on the couch, long legs stretched out on the ottoman, almost overhanging the edge. His hair looked a bit shaggier than usual and curled under at the ends; he was overdue for a haircut, but it was always a battle. His black t-shirt, still dusted with crumbs from dinner, was bunched up around his middle, revealing a bit of a pale stomach paunch. The doctor would comment on his weight at his next physical, just like she had last year.

An episode of Paw Patrol was playing; one of the ones Joseph had seen at least a hundred times before. He stared straight ahead, unmoving. Transfixed. He always watched Paw Patrol after dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

"Mighty Pups are ready to go, go, go!" 

Joseph's hands flapped by his sides at the sound of his favorite line. They always did. Happy flaps, as everyone who knew him called them.

The iPad that was balanced haphazardly across Joseph's lap wobbled a bit with his movement, but it didn't fall. It wouldn’t have made a difference; it was housed in a rugged, child-proof case. The ad had touted that it was “Indestructible!” “Military grade!” and that it could withstand a drop from a height of at least four feet. Exactly what they needed. Its screen was alight with a grid of hieroglyphic picture symbols. Above each symbol was a corresponding word or phrase. Things like: want, open, go, yes, no, eat, I like it, all done. 

"JoJo?" His mother asked. "Did you... say something?" It felt almost weird to ask, the words unfamiliar as they left her mouth.

There was no response, at first. Joseph continued to stare at the TV screen. But then, his gaze shifted over to his device. He lifted his pointer finger. It hovered briefly over the screen. It pressed a button. 

"Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke." The words came out in a rush, the voice stilted and robotic. He had said it again. It was intentional. He was making a request.

Joseph’s mother’s breath caught in her chest. She crossed the distance between them in two strides. Her heart was racing and she felt near to bursting, but she tried to keep her voice even when she said, "McDonald's? You want McDonald's? Big Mac, large fry, and a medium coke?" She pressed the same button on his device, the one with the McDonald's logo, and heard it speak the same words again. “Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke.” An acknowledgement that she had understood.

More happy flaps. Much bigger and more enthusiastic than before. Joseph was smiling now.

His mother nearly tripped in her rush to the foyer. She jammed her feet awkwardly into a pair of muddy slip-on sneakers, grabbed her coat, and threw it over what she had on: pink striped pajama bottoms and a ratty, old t-shirt. No bra. It didn't matter what she was, or wasn’t, wearing. It didn't matter that they had just eaten dinner. Screw the doctor.

Keys already in hand, she called out, “Okay, Joe, let’s go get your McDonald’s!”

Slowly, Joseph hoisted himself up to stand, yawned, stretched his arms up over his head in an exaggerated, child-like movement, and then joined her at the door.

His mother helped him step into his black crocs. It was cold outside, but she didn’t bother offering him a coat; she knew he wouldn’t wear it. She put a hand on the knob, paused, and then went back to grab his device. His talker.

The drive to McDonald’s, the same one they took at least twice a week, was only about six minutes long. This time, it felt much longer. She wished she could’ve snapped her fingers and had the entire meal appear miraculously in front of him, at the exact second he had pressed that button. She wanted-- needed to show him how his words were tied directly to the things he wanted. That they had worked. That they gave him power. That he should use them again.

They finally made it inside and approached the bored teenage girl who stood behind the counter. Pushing a strand of hair behind one ear, she gave them an unabashed once-over before asking to take their order.

Joseph’s mother held the device out to him and waited. She looked at him expectantly. It was an offer for him to communicate, not a requirement. After a beat, she pressed the McDonald’s button herself, and the voice came out just like it had before: “Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke.”

The man at the next register turned to look at them. The cashier’s brow furrowed slightly, but still, she entered the order into the system, pressing buttons with pictures that were not unlike the ones on Joseph’s talker.

After another period of waiting that felt far too long, their food came out—mercifully exactly as ordered— and they seated themselves at a booth in their usual corner. Joseph’s talker lay on the table next to his tray, and as he shoveled fries into his mouth between happy flaps, his mother pressed the button again: Big Mac, large fry, and a medium coke.

She talked to him while they ate, following some of the things she said aloud with the press of a button on his talker. “That’s good, isn’t it?” she said, followed by a button press: Good. “Do you like your burger?” followed by: Like it.  

Joseph remained silent, as he always did. But it didn’t matter. Today he had used words, real words, to communicate something. Something that was important to him. Something he had wanted to tell his mother. She would give him a thousand Big Macs if it meant that the words—the connection-- would keep coming. First a request, and then maybe: greetings, comments, protesting when he didn’t like something, asking for help, telling a story. Maybe even, “I love you.” It started with a Big Mac.