Dylan nods.
‘Your mum is really worried about you Dylan.’
‘That’s not a good thing. I want Mum to be happy.’
‘Then you need to come home.’
Adam feels a presence behind him. He turns. A smile that stresses the lines on her face crosses Elena’s mouth as she looks down on them. She hands a bottle of water to Adam.
‘For the boy,’ Elena says, her English surprising Adam. Her voice is soft and motherly. Adam gives the water to Dylan and Elena smiles at Dylan while he drinks.
Adam does not recognise this manifestation of concern and human charity offered in quietude. He has only known Elena as a retributive figure who scorns at them with every opportunity, like an ogre. Adam wonders if the war is over or if this is just a truce. He prefers this Elena and acknowledges this with a grateful smile.
Adam returns with Dylan in a taxi. Released from her torture, Georgia throws her arms around the boy and weeps. Dylan stands still, arms by his side. He feels a panic rising, an urge to wriggle free but knows to stay in his mother’s arms is the right thing to do until he is released from her embrace.
Georgia does not entertain any suggestion that Adam leaves the house. Dylan has been through enough psychological trauma and she is determined that he will remain unscathed from any deviation to his normal routines. Arrangements are to remain intact, especially now.
Adam has no desire to contribute towards any further tensions between Stephen and himself and with Stephen’s restraint agreement, it is the best thing to do, under the circumstances; it is Dylan that matters. Stephen’s thaw makes Adam’s decision to stay, easy to make. Yet, he has felt the weight of Stephen’s falseness towards him, knowing that one drink too many will crack Stephen’s veneer.
A few days later, Stephen leaves on a business trip to Athens.
Chapter 23
Moving Closer
Adam’s days have a reposeful continuity about them. Stephen’s absence has brought a settled and smoothing quality to the rhythm of each day; these purifiers float in the air permeating through the house. He has a new found enthusiasm since censoring the thoughts that remind him of Stephen; he dismantles them and waves them away.
Georgia is rummaging in the fridge, a gleam has returned to her eyes.
‘There’s orange or lemonade, which do you prefer?’
‘I’m not fussy.’ Adam shrugs.
‘Both then.’ Georgia takes the two glass tumblers and gives them to Theresa who is setting the table on the terrace.
‘I thought I’d take Dylan into Corfu Town after lunch. Would you like to come?’ Georgia asks enthusiastically.
‘That would be good. I haven’t been yet,’ Adam says, placing a bread knife on the granite bunker. ‘Do you think that’s enough bread?’ He has cut the bread into thick slices.
‘More than enough, you’re not feeding an army.’
Dylan and Theresa are already at the table when Georgia and Adam sit down.
‘Can I eat now, I’m starving?’ Dylan asks.
‘Yes and take your time. Are you remembering we’re going to Corfu Town after lunch?’
‘Yes, Can I take my Mozart book to read in the car? I’m almost finished it.’
‘Of course dear, oh and Adam’s coming with us too. He hasn’t been before.’
Dylan nods his head and spoons bean soup into his mouth.
‘The soup’s lovely,’ Adam says.
‘It’s called Fasolatha, it's Theresa’s favourite. It’s a winter soup, but she makes it all year round. Don’t you?’ Georgia smiles at Theresa.
‘And I’m glad you do, it’s too good just to keep for the winter,’ Adam says.
Theresa nods her head in agreement. ‘I learnt the recipe from my mother; it has to be nice and thick, very filling, yes?’ Theresa asks.
‘It’s perfect,’ he says with immense satisfaction.
After lunch, Theresa clears the table and Dylan goes to fetch his book.
‘I’m glad you decided to stay, I would have understood if you hadn’t though. Stephen can be like a spoiled child at times.’
‘It wasn’t what I wanted, but I felt I had no choice. Dylan is what is important not how I feel,’ Adam says.
Georgia looks away, towards the garden, as if to avoid an unheard thought. Even in the shade, Adam squints against the light, but he can detect a change in her posture, her shoulders hunch, she flicks her hair behind an ear, an explosion of firecracker corkscrews.
Adam smiles. He inhales the scents of the garden for it is all he can do to stop himself from reaching out and touching her.
‘Are you happy Georgia?’
‘Sometimes.’ She hesitates. ‘When he is away.’
Her remark nips the bud of anger in Adam. ‘Does he often get aggressive... I mean like the other night when he drinks?’
‘Not always, but his drinking has got worse. He can get verbal, sometimes nasty.’
‘Has he ever hit you?’ He catches her eye, and she turns away, tracking the garden.
Adam looks at Georgia carefully, her silence unease’s him.
She nods her head. She is flushed.
‘The bastard.’ His eyes flick over her. The temptation to reach out and touch her is so strong. He has to clasp his hands together.
‘It was only the once, in Edinburgh, he cried like a child afterwards and promised it would never happen again. He says he hated himself. You can never tell anyone of this Adam.’ She looks at him now as if to strengthen and give meaning to her words.
He takes a long drink of lemonade. Georgia smiles at him nervously. ‘We better get a move on.’
In the car, there is a prevailing silence, as Adam contemplates Georgia’s disclosure. In a perverse way, he feels a quiet satisfaction that Georgia can convey such an intimate revelation to him. They are moving closer, she trusts him, it is a bond he does not want to suppress, although he wishes the circumstances were different.
They are travelling from west to east, from the coast that looks towards the Heel of Italy towards the coast that fringes the fledgeling democracy of Albania. Vast ornamentations of mountains, wooded havens and wildflowers remind Adam of Tuscany. The cypress, head and shoulders above every other tree, nudges towards a light that Adam would find difficult to describe to his friends back home. It hovers, halo-like, fringing magnificent forested hills where it melts into an oasis of blue sky.
A nervous somnolence sits between them, a presence in the car that can’t be concealed; an unwanted passenger, an intimidating stranger.
Dylan is buried in his book amongst the letters he devours studiously. He looks up for the first time since they set off, oblivious to the static tension of the adults. He launches into an indulgent monologue about Mozart.
‘Mozart is in Paris with his mother and every time he writes to his father at the end of each letter he puts, “I kiss your hand 1000 times and embrace my sister with all my heart and remain your most obedient son.” This must have been how they wrote in eighteenth century Germany.’
Georgia finds a new confidence wells inside her and feels oddly excited. It occurs to Georgia that a transition has taken place, an adjustment. She has moved from a dark corner into a bathing light and it has a profound effect upon her.
Adam is intense, an intellectual, the opposite of Stephen.
She turns to look at him. He has a look of uncertainty about him, a perplexed expression. Georgia is certain it was right to tell Adam, but so unlike her. It came from nowhere but she wanted the truth to be told; it felt right to tell Adam, she has not even told her closest friend. Georgia ponders this for a moment. It has changed the way they are together; even in this short time, she can feel it. Adam is the only person who knows, and he doesn’t know how to react. He has been so quiet; he looks like a child pondering what to say. Georgia feels sorry for him and in doing so she struggles to fathom this emotional investment. She will break their silence.
‘Did you know that Corfu is only forty miles l
ong and at its greatest breadth it’s twenty miles, not big at all really.’ she smiles at him.
‘No, I didn’t. It looks bigger than that, maybe it’s because the landscape is so green, it gives the impression of space. I wasn’t expecting that.’
Georgia pauses. They both smile at each other then.
Whatever was between them now recedes.
‘Corfu has a population of a hundred thousand or there- abouts, not a lot of people really. It has the population of a small city,’ Dylan says, as a matter of fact, without lifting his gaze from his book. ‘And just over thirty-nine thousand people live in Corfu Town. It’s on the UNESCO World Heritage list, actually.’ He turns on his I-pad.
Adam feels an irrepressible desire to sigh with relief.
There is a settled air around them now and for the first time, he relaxes in his seat. He looks out of the window. The traffic is heavier, and he glimpses the sea.
‘I’m glad I told you.’ Georgia glances across at him with a smile.
‘You are. You don’t regret it then?’
‘No, I’ve needed to tell someone for a long time but it had to be someone that cares.’ She hesitates a moment ‘Someone I can trust.’ There is a certainty of affection to her voice and no repercussion of regret. ‘You’ll love Corfu Town, especially the old town.’
There is now a build-up of houses and shops, mini supermarkets, hotels and tavernas. This semblance of civilisation encourages Georgia to tell Adam of her favourite places to visit and to eat in Corfu Town; it helps to dispel for good the gulf that has sat between them since lunchtime.
The road widens and soon they are parallel to the sea where two small islands, like anchored ships, seem to float on the placid water. Reefs sprout by the side of the pavement, tapered like Spartan spears. Georgia points out to Adam the port, where a ferry is about to dock.
Soon they are on foot, ambling through the cobbled stone lanes of the old town. Green and blue shutters, some sun burnt turquoise, like the Ionian itself, sprinkle the walls with fading grandeur. Many of the buildings have wrought ironed balconies and at three and four stories high, the walls shade the luminous stone pavements from the sun. There are tourist shops selling cheap trinkets, ceramics, t-shirts, blouses, fridge magnets, handbags and sun hats. They stumble upon churches, quaint cafes and restaurants where tables with newly pressed table cloths sit next to peeling banana yellow walls. They turn one corner to find ceramic vases populate a stone staircase with flowers that explode in an array of purple and orange, white and red and above Adam’s head, from one building to the next, washing lines dangle clothes in the eddied air.
They pass St Spyridon’s church, with its domed tower, Kremasti square and then the Jewish quarter. Dylan complains that there are too many people and he is hot. They buy ice cream and sit on steps. Dylan escapes the sounds around him by listening to Mozart on his I-pad.
‘He seems to be coping well.’ Adam nods towards Dylan.
‘He is. We visit the town often when we’re here, he has got used it. Actually, the places I’ve shown you are where we normally go when we visit.’ Georgia smiled.
‘Ah, I see, keeping to routine then.’
‘Very much so. It makes life easier. He’s not too bad at the house; he has his own rituals throughout the day as you’ve probably seen.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed he likes to visit a certain tree and hug it. When I first met Dylan, and we went for a walk along the waters of Leith, he showed me the tree he hugged there. I’d never come across that behaviour before, not in children with autism. The more I thought about it, I began to understand why. It de-stressed him from having to be continually sociable in his efforts to communicate with others throughout the day.’
‘He’s come a long way. I’m really proud of him, given what he’s had to cope with. When he was younger, it was different then. He wouldn’t interact with people he didn’t know and sometimes he didn’t even speak with those he did know, like Stephen’s parents. That was really frustrating and embarrassing, especially for them; they struggled to understand him anyway.
‘Social settings were nearly always excruciating affairs. I’d answer for him, so there was no need for him to interact with others, which of course just reinforced his difficulties. Why would he communicate with others when I was doing all the talking for him?’ She looks at Dylan and gives a little smile.
‘As a parent, it was hard, especially before his diagnosis; we didn’t have a reason why he behaved the way he did. We struggled to understand him but that changed when he was eventually diagnosed. We started to look at the world around us from Dylan’s perspective; it’s amazing how different it looks and feels. I walked around in his shoes for a day and tried to experience the world from an autistic perspective. After that, I read as much as I could, I went on the internet hungry for information, but there’s so much of it.’
‘Were you given any information when he was first diagnosed?’
‘We received an information pack, and I went to a parents’ group. Stephen didn’t. No surprise there. I was surprised at how many people there were. I was able to speak to others who didn’t view me as a neurotic mother. They empathised and shared their experiences. I’d discovered other parents who were going through similar experiences and emotions. That was powerful, a “wow” moment. Before then, I hadn’t let anyone help me or break into my inner circle, as it were. I thought if I asked for help, I’d be failing him as a parent.’
Adam shook his head. ‘You’re not the first to think like that, it’s common.’
‘The group occasionally invited guest speakers to discuss various topics. I remember one quite vividly. She was talking about communicating with your child, being responsive, she called it. As parents, we constantly want to help our children, it’s our natural instinct. We do particular tasks or even when we’re showing them what to do we end up doing it, anyway. But this was what was wonderful about her talk. She spoke about tuning into your child, finding the correct frequency, using what motivates them, being aware of what they’re doing and do it together. Share in their focus of attention. She urged us to take advantage of family routines and rituals as a means to encourage interaction and communication.’ Georgia wipes her hand with a napkin.
‘And so, that’s what I did. When Dylan was five he developed an interest in listening to classical music, well, initially it was a compilation CD of classical music that we got free with the Sunday paper. I use to play it in the car and he’d always ask for number 5, which was Mozart’s symphony, Jupiter. Eventually, I was so sick of hearing it, I bought him a compilation of Mozart and it just grew from there. He wouldn’t listen to anyone else; it had to be Mozart. I used his obsession as a motivation for good behaviour. We had a reward chart on the fridge and if Dylan achieved five stars at the end of the week, we’d go to a shop and buy him another Mozart CD and so Mozart became the impetus for our interactions. We’d listen to the music together and he started to interact. There was a common link. Now, of course, we’ve graduated to full conversations’.
‘What about Stephen?’ Adam asks the question gently.
‘Stephen was carrying around this overwhelming guilt that his son was not normal, that Dylan was not the perfect child. God, no child’s perfect. I, on the other hand, coated myself, I found an inner strength and all those people who were judgemental and critical of the way we dealt with Dylan ceased to have a negative effect on me. I stopped questioning myself.’ Georgia stands up and stretches her legs. ‘I’m sorry for going on so much. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’
Adam looks up at Georgia, her face framed in the Venetian splendour of the buildings all around them. ‘It’s really interesting. A lot of what you’re saying reflects a lot of parents’ journeys. Some don’t adapt as easily as others. You’ve done a good job. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘Dylan’s a credit to the way you’ve brought him up.’
; She waves her hand in the air dismissively. ‘Shall we get something to eat?’
They eat outside, seated at a small table with a red checked cloth fastened at each end with plastic clasps. They order meatballs seasoned with thyme and sage, spaghetti served in white bowls, salad with shredded lettuce, carrots, onions, cucumber, feta and olives. Bread arrives in a basket, fresh and with a crispy crust. They drink bottled water and when they have finished eating, they sip dark coffees, whilst Dylan savours two scopes of strawberry ice cream.
Georgia cradles her cup in both hands and smiles at Adam. He notices for the first time that her nose creases slightly when she smiles.
‘The perfect end to the perfect day,’
‘It was delicious, good choice,’ Adam says.
‘Another one of Dylan’s routines. He won’t eat anywhere else.’
‘Ah, I should have guessed.’ Adam’s eyebrows rise. His eyes meet hers and for a moment they linger.
‘Can we go now?’ Dylan asks.
‘Yes dear, I’ll pay the bill first.’
Adam reaches into his pocket. ‘It’s my treat, Adam.’ Georgia insists.
On the journey home, they zigzag along serpentine roads and, to Adam’s delight the sky is fused in lingering orange and red. Gradually the light drains, leaving a crimson ribbon of cloud that scorches the horizon. The sinking sun fades to pearl and before long, darkness falls like a black curtain, blotting the landscape that is now familiar to Adam.
‘I can’t believe how quickly it gets dark. One minute its light and then suddenly pitch black.’
A broad smile suffuses Georgia. ‘It took me a while to get used to it. I don’t even notice the change now.’
When they arrive at the house, Georgia has to wake Dylan, who has fallen asleep with his earphones plugged firmly in place. Drowsily, Dylan shuffles towards the house as Georgia instructs him to, ‘wash, teeth cleaned and bed.’
Georgia touches Adam’s arm. ‘I’m glad you decided to stay Adam.’
He is conscious of the gesture and smiles, ‘So am I. Thanks for today. It was wonderful.’
The Boy Who Hugs Trees Page 13