My son, Jack, around the age of four, vanished in the mall. It happened in mere seconds. I was trying on a sweater, and in the brief moment it took to pull it over my head, he was gone. One moment he was right there, in his overalls, sticky lollipop residue on his hands from our bank stop, and the next, emptiness.
At four, Jack couldn’t articulate his own name, yet he possessed an uncanny ability to start a car. He didn’t know our address or phone number, but navigating out of doors and into a vast parking lot? That, he understood.
Alt text: Worried mother’s reflection on her autistic son Jack’s vulnerability, highlighting everyday dangers like at a Redbox.
Jack has autism. Those eight minutes he was missing were the most excruciating of my life. “Terrifying” doesn’t even begin to capture the feeling. My heart pounded in my ears, sweat slicked my skin, and I felt a dizzying sense of panic.
I knew the unique way a nonverbal child could slip away unnoticed—out a door, into the open. I had witnessed it before. Now, at thirteen, Jack remains on the autism spectrum, making him profoundly vulnerable in ways many can’t comprehend.
One critical aspect of his autism is his inability to communicate verbally under stress. Words simply fail to form in his mind, unable to travel to his mouth. He cannot call for help. This is a child who could be trapped in a fire, unable to shout for assistance unless someone is physically present. He won’t be able to vocalize if water is too deep, or if someone inappropriate touches him.
Constant worry is my unwelcome companion. My mind races with scenarios, each more frightening than the last. The grocery store Redbox is a frequent source of anxiety. Every visit, Jack gravitates to the Redbox kiosk. Even if I’ve told him we aren’t renting a movie, he’s drawn to the buttons, fascinated by the new releases. Imagine a fire alarm blares while he’s absorbed at the Redbox, as I wait in the checkout line, unable to reach him. I know, with chilling certainty, he wouldn’t escape on his own.
Alt text: Author Carrie Cariello expressing deep maternal concern for her vulnerable autistic son, emphasizing the need for societal awareness and care, especially in public places like near a Redbox.
He would likely cover his ears, frozen, like a statue. Perhaps a scream would escape, but no call for help, no direction, just stillness and fear. The parking lot is another constant source of dread. I have to hold his hand, can you imagine? A teenager taller than me, and I must grip his hand entering a store.
He lacks the inherent awareness of moving vehicles. Lost in thoughts of strawberry frosting or Disney movies, his mind is elsewhere. He operates on the assumption that others will always see and avoid him. He is, in essence, unguarded in a world full of potential hazards.
He adores butter-laden popcorn and makes a tick-tock-tick-tock sound with every turn signal in the car. He needs exactly six pillows to sleep. Every December 5th, he retrieves the big red Target boots from the basement, placing them by the fireplace, a tangible reminder of Santa.
He’s a teenager, yet his naiveté is heartbreaking. He is not unintelligent; far from it. He is pure, unshielded, and genuine. He trusts in the inherent goodness of people, believes the earth is unequivocally round, and thinks cars cost precisely one hundred dollars.
He is unique, unlike anyone you will ever encounter. He is like a vibrant, complex painting, a seemingly chaotic mix of colors – red, blue, green. Initially, it might appear a mess. But with a step back, a second look, each color emerges. You look down, then up again, and realize it’s more than paint. It’s a tapestry, intricately woven, telling the story of a remarkable boy.
So much of the world remains beyond his grasp. Hurricanes devastating islands, shooters targeting crowds, bullies selecting their victims – these concepts are alien to him. Concerts, gatherings of joyful singing and shared music, are experiences he understands in theory but not in the visceral reality of potential dangers.
He has no comprehension of stockpiled ammunition, weapons, or the calculated act of breaking a window for a clear shot. Autism has no cure, and this vulnerable boy will become a vulnerable man, susceptible to those who would exploit or harm him. A man who might stand motionless as danger approaches, unseen, unheard.
I desperately wish I could always be his shield, constantly intervening between him and harm. But I know this is impossible. Can you understand? Can you see why I must share his story? I must tell you about the mall, the popcorn, the six pillows. I must paint the picture of color and tapestry that is Jack, so that perhaps, one day, you might help me protect him.
Will you help me? Will you help me keep him safe? Will you look beyond the surface and see the beauty of this complex child? Will you show compassion for the different, mercy for the vulnerable? Will you pause before speaking, breathe before acting, and always check your surroundings when reversing your car?
Will you listen for those who cannot voice their needs? And if the fire alarm sounds in the grocery store, and you see a boy alone, hands clamped over his ears, will you take his hand and lead him to safety? Run with him, away from the danger, as if outrunning the very flames.
I need you.
Mom. About the concert. In Las Vegas. Did they stop dancing when the shooting started?
