The Boy Who Hugs Trees

by Dougie McHale

  ‘These embody three wide and interacting features of ASD. Individuals diagnosed with Asperger syndrome share difficulties on the triad of impairments and these difficulties should not be undervalued in comparison with classic autism. These difficulties influence the daily activities of life, making it awkward for individuals to initiate and sustain friendships. They may experience loneliness and frustration, misread social situations, they may not appreciate that their interests are not shared by others, experience difficulties when they have to organise themselves and in understanding everyday social situations. Also, it’s not uncommon to see individuals with an increased sensitivity to touch, sound, smells, taste and visual stimulation. All of these explain the world that people with autism experience on a daily basis.

  ‘However, it’s worth reminding ourselves there are those with autism who would advocate that these so called impairments, are not perceived as difficulties by every

  person with autism, and they would argue that it’s people who do not have autism, who they refer to as, neurotypicals, such as you and I, who display behaviours that are odd, peculiar and strange.’ A ripple of laughter floats towards him.

  ‘A mountain of research has been undertaken to explain what may be the source of these impairments, for want of a better word. And this brings us to the purpose of this afternoon.’ He gestures to the power point. ‘There are three main cognitive theories that are proposed and these are: deficits in a theory of mind, executive functioning and central coherence.

  ‘Why should we concern ourselves with these proposed theories?’ He pauses, waiting for a reply. There are none forthcoming. ‘Knowledge of the theoretical underpinnings of ASD enables us to empathise with and understand individuals with autism. It opens a window into how they may experience the social and communicative world. It offers us the opportunity to develop imaginative and effective methods in working with individuals in daily practice.’

  As he speaks, the room holds his words. ‘Is anyone familiar with these theories?’

  A handful of hands is shown.

  Using the power point, Adam explains each individual theory. At times, he answers a question, forwarded by an eager and anticipatory searching face. Then he organises the class into three groups of four and distributes cards that contain specific social scenarios and each group’s task is to show which scenario corresponds to each psychological theory.

  Vociferous debates vibrate around the room, until eventually; Adam brings a sense of order, by raising his voice above the cacophony of infectious enthusiasm that draws a sense of gratification from him. What intrigues him, in this moment, is the wave of eagerness that punctuates each individual face. He too, was once involved in their thirst to enquire, and as he stands in front of the smart board, a harsh sensation of hypocrisy stabs him, as he attempts to muster an inconspicuous and dignified betrayal and coat himself in an assured portrayal of the committed lecturer, whilst all along, in his ear.

  ***

  That morning, he left for the university with yet another drought from the letter box. Several weeks have passed since the interview and each day cements his growing instinct he is, by now, not the favoured candidate. He will leave the university at the end of the week and he has two options open to him. One is certain; the other seems to ebb from him, like a receding tide.

  Adam had intended to take a year out to concentrate on research, his area of interest pertained to families adjustment to their child’s diagnosis of autism and their experience of services’ involvement after the diagnosis. The research project had a year to conduct the research and write their report. Adam had all but agreed to become part of the team set to work on the project. However, since his interview with Georgia and with each passing day, he has thought of nothing else, relishing the logistics of a new challenge and the prospect of tutoring her son.

  Chapter 7

  Puddles and Snails

  Dylan, small in stature, forms a miniature build for his fourteen years. His complexion is pale, in contrast to the healthy crop of brown hair that sits in no particular style upon his head. He inherits his mother’s eyes.

  It is raining steadily as he shelters in the doorway of a coffee shop, with the woman his mother has insisted he spend time with, for the next two weeks.

  The month of May has arrived, shrouded in uncharacteristic and turbulent excesses. Snow has fallen on high ground; the sky seems to burst with rain each day, like a balloon over filled with water. Hail stones mercilessly pound the ground, stinging exposed faces that the biting winds slap with indiscriminate hands, and temperatures refuse to creep past 10 degrees Celsius. The sun has hidden for days behind a ubiquitous greyness that covers and lacquers a heavy and sweeping sky.

  ‘Is there anything troubling you Dylan? You seem to be preoccupied with your… eh, humming.’

  Dylan shrugs. ‘I’m fine now.’

  ‘Well, you don’t seem fine to me.’

  ‘I’m fine because I am humming.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you had looked at the communication passport my mum gave you, you would have found under the section, ‘sensory sensitivities,’ that I don’t particularly like noise. The sound of the rain on the tarmac, the cars and their tyres whooshing through the puddles hurt my ears. I hum to block it out.’

  ‘But surely your ears must hurt from the noise when you have your headphones on listening to your music?’

  Dylan does not look at her. ‘It’s not noise and it’s not my music, it's Mozart’s music and it’s scintillating.’

  ‘Of course, how silly of me. I didn’t mean to infer that Mozart was noise.’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘Did I? Oh, ok, well that’s not what I intended. I’m just trying to understand how something like the rain or the traffic, for that matter, can cause you to feel distressed.’

  ‘I thought you knew about these things. That’s why you are with me. My mum trusts you to be with me.’

  ‘Yes I do, but sometimes you need to understand the person and how they react to their surroundings. Like now for example.’ She smiles nervously. ‘I’d like it if you could explain it to me.’

  ‘I can get disorientated in places that are busy with lots of things that are going on at the one time. I feel uncomfortable in crowded places, I don’t like standing next to people, like now in this doorway. The space is too small. Your perfume is making me feel sick. I have never liked going to supermarkets or large shops. The humming of the fluorescent lights, the smell of fish and people bumping into me make my arms stiffen and my belly feel squidgy. I don’t like the noises, it sounds loud in my ears, it hurts them so that’s why I hum, it blocks out the noises.’

  ‘I’ll read the communication passport when we get back.’ Then her expression brightens as the rain stops and offers a distraction. ‘Look it’s stopped raining. We should get you back home.’

  ‘But there is only you. No one else is here,’ he says, as a matter of fact.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said ‘we’ but there is only you. Why do people never say what they mean?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it’s a good time to walk home now.’ She feels suddenly aggrieved.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say that,’ he murmurs.

  They step onto the pavement and as they walk, Dylan takes studious care to walk around and avoid the puddles, slowing their progress that etches a frustrated frown on the woman’s face.

  ‘Look how the sky is reflected in the water. I don’t like that.’ Dylan stops, intrigued, he studies the puddle.

  ‘I hate when it rains like this, it brings out these huge snails. Look at them, they are everywhere. God, I’ve just stood on one.’ She screws up her face.

  ‘You’ve crushed its shell, it will be dead now.’ Dylan pokes at the cracked shell.

  ‘Good. Stupid creatures, they’re slow and they take forever to get anywhere. They do nothing… except get stood on.’

  �
�That’s not true actually,’ Dylan says. ‘Snails move one metre an hour and can explore a garden in a night. We did a project about snails at school once. They have a strong homing instinct as well.’

  ‘Well not that one,’ she mews indignantly.

  ‘Snails can only move by producing slime and other snails use the trail to get around. How neat is that? I read that their slime is good for your skin.’

  ‘Aw, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘It’s good for birds too, they eat it.’

  ‘That’s vile.’

  ‘So snails do have a purpose. Also, they can carry a parasite that can eventually kill them.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘That’s not nice. I like snails and slugs… more than I like you.’

  Georgia meets them in the hallway as they enter the house.

  ‘Ah there you are, I was beginning to worry when it started to rain. I should’ve given you an umbrella, it’s been threatening all day.’

  ‘That’s ok; we kept out of the rain thankfully and had a nice talk,’ the woman says, smiling broadly.

  ‘What did you talk about Dylan?’ Georgia asks.

  ‘We spoke about things she is supposed to know, but doesn’t,’ says Dylan, as he runs up the sweeping stairs towards his room.

  ‘I’m sorry; he’s not coping as well as I’d hoped.’

  ‘It's fine, it must be hard for him,’ she says politely.

  ‘Yes,’ Georgia says, as her eyes travel the stairs and she fights an urge to go to him.

  Chapter 8

  A Change of Mind

  Adam sits at his desk in his study, a small box room that looks out onto the tree-lined street below. It is a bright morning, a welcome reprieve from the rain that even now, continues to leave its mark in damp patches on the walls of houses, dressing the soaked streets and pavements in a wet shroud. Adam cradles a cup of coffee, staring at the laptop screen and the e-mail he has opened fifteen minutes earlier.

  The sender is Professor Samson, the clinician leading the research project. He needs to know if Adam has made a decision. He can only give Adam one more day of grace; it is imperative that the project begins with no delay. It is not an option. Professor Samson is not known for his diplomacy; he has built a prosperous academic career on doing things his way. His habitual unorthodox approaches are delivered with the air of a man who does not breathe the air of conformity if it conflicts with his sense of professional integrity. At times, it has brought him into conflict with colleagues and policymakers. It is a quality that Adam admires but it now occurs to him he is the recipient of such confident and unswerving principles.

  He looks out of the window and sees a man striding purposefully out of the park opposite his house. A gust of wind catches his coat and it flaps like a sail. Just then, Adam’s mobile phone rings, vibrating on the surface of the desk.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello. It’s Georgia Armstrong.’ Already her voice is familiar to him. He feels a surge of elation.

  ‘The reason I’m calling is… I wondered if you could come to Edinburgh, this weekend, and be introduced to Dylan. That’s if you don’t have other plans of course.’

  He forces his mind to be active. ‘That should be fine… I think,’ he says, remembering the deadline Professor Samson has set. His elation seeps from him.

  ‘You sound hesitant,’ Georgia says. A hint of concern laces her voice.

  ‘No, it’s not that at all. Look it’s not your problem but I’ve until tomorrow to accept an offer of some research work. To be honest, I didn’t think I was in the running as I hadn’t heard from you.’

  ‘I must apologise. Let’s just say, things have not worked out as expected.’

  ‘I see,’ Adam says, deflated knowing he has not been one of the first two candidates. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Well, that depends on you Mr Newman. You can accept my offer and have a 50/50 chance of being selected or you can tell me you’re not interested, in which case I’ll trouble you no more. I don’t have the luxury of time. We’re leaving in two weeks. To be honest, I’d prefer to be beyond this stage. I should have finalised everything by now. I was thinking you could arrive around ten. Unfortunately, I need to move things along. It’s not ideal I know. So I’ll expect you for ten o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, ten o’clock then.’ He smiles, the decision is made.

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then,’ Georgia says, a tangible relief clear in her voice.

  Chapter 9

  The Boy Who Hugs Trees (1)

  Adam takes a train from Queen Street Station, arriving at Edinburgh Waverly Station at 9.30 a.m. He buys a carryout coffee from the rail station’s concourse, heads for Princes Street and hails a taxi Early morning shoppers and tourists throng the pavements, cars and buses pass his window, like stills in a moving film. He contemplates meeting Georgia once again, and the thought is pleasing to him

  The rubberised clapping of tyres on cobbles slows to a stop as the taxi pulls up outside a townhouse on Dean Terrace. Leafy trees spray silhouetted shadows as he pauses and lingers on the doorstep. A lurking thought suddenly accosts him. Is he embarking upon the right course of action? An uneasy panic tugs at him. The research project offers stability, the known, colleagues, and the academic bubble, all of which are familiar to him. Once through this door, he will set events in motion that will offer none of these, but an unfamiliar journey, an invitation into the unknown where events will undoubtedly accelerate. But does that not add to the excitement? He is considering this when the door opens. He clears his throat.

  ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’ Georgia says, extending her hand, which Adam shakes, registering its warmth and feathery grip.

  ‘Not a problem.’ He is aware of the irony that laces his words. His recent lapse into self-doubt is replaced by an undercurrent surge of excitement that surfaces and reverberates in his throat.

  She gestures for him to enter the house. ‘I feel embarrassed, actually. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking you’re my last resort, but let me assure you Mr Newman (He recalls she insisted on using his surname during the interview) you were by far the most impressive candidate. I was just not prepared to consider a man; it sounds absurd I know. It was Dylan who persuaded me to interview you. He said if someone applied, had the appropriate qualifications and impressed me with their performance at the interview, then that person should be given a chance. He was right of course. I’m grateful that you’ve chosen to come, consider this an apology.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise, really.’ He feels uncomfortable and avoids her eyes.

  They are still in the hallway. Georgia moves into the front room and invites Adam to follow.

  He thinks of asking whether her husband will join them, but reconsiders. She, too, already looks uncomfortable, flicking a stray strand of hair from her face and he does not want to add to the air of vulnerability that prowls around the room.

  He sits in the same chair as he did at the interview. The room feels different to him, Georgia has a relaxed air about her and it illuminates her face as she adjusts her sleeve.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty to apply for a disclosure. I hope you don’t mind but, as you can understand, I need to hurry things along a bit. I’m not going to start his lessons straight away. I thought I’d let Dylan have the first week, as a holiday, before starting his tuition.’

  Adam smiles. ‘That seems the sensible thing to do.’ He calculates if offered the position, he will start in three weeks.

  ‘Please sit down.’ She looks at him curiously. ‘Did you have time to look over the communication passport?’

  ‘I did,’ Adam says, sinking into the chair. ‘I printed the attachment you sent and read it on the train.’ He smiles reassuringly.

  ‘Good.’ A serious expression crosses her face. ‘It’s important that this goes smoothly. If Dylan feels comfortable with you, then, it goes without saying, the job is yours, Mr Newman. I’ll make the appropriate travel arrangements and s
end you the details. As far as the subjects to be taught are concerned, we can discuss that later. I’d expect around four hours of study a day will be enough. It’s more important to concentrate on spending the little time you have getting to know Dylan and for him to feel comfortable around you.’ Georgia looks at him studiously. ‘This is not easy for me. I’m putting my trust in you. It’s not every day Dylan spends time with a stranger.’

  The door opens and Dylan enters the room.

  ‘Dylan, this is Mr Newman.’

  ‘Hello Dylan,’ Adam says.

  ‘Hi,’ Dylan’s hands flap subtly.

  ‘I thought it would be a good idea to spend a little time in the garden. Would you like a coffee, Mr Newman?’

  ‘That would be nice, but please, call me, Adam, I insist.’

  She smiles at him. ‘Very well, Adam it is.’

  They walk to the back of the house and into a large spacious kitchen, the size of his flat, Adam thinks, as they go through glass sliding doors and onto a decking. At Georgia’s invitation, they sit on a brown garden sofa and Georgia places a tray, she retrieved from the kitchen, on a glass table. Above them, Adam watches membranes of cloud dust the sky, like small ships on a bleached sea, as he breathes air, diffused in freshly mowed grass. A wall borders the garden, softened by geraniums and aquilegia, alongside a stone pathway that winds down to a row of conifers. Dylan strides through the garden, listening to his I-Pod, as the trees above him stir in the breeze, like the sound of water.