Harmony

by Carolyn Parkhurst

  “Good plan,” says my dad.

  Scott holds up a hand to get our attention. “If we’re all done with questions and . . . metaphors, I think I’m going to see if I can get a nap in before our guests arrive.”

  As everyone starts to get up and clear their plates, Tilly leans in close to me. “Penis,” she says, not whispering, but at least in a lower voice than usual. “I was going to say it was a euphemism for ‘penis.’”

  “Duh,” I say, because even I knew that. Everything’s always a euphemism for “penis.”

  • • •

  Cars start pulling into the camp driveway around lunchtime. Not that there are that many of them—there are only going to be three GC families each week—but it’s surprising to see anyone new after a week of being by ourselves.

  Scott stands on the lawn with a clipboard and greets each family as they arrive, giving them welcome packets and taking away their phones and other electronics. He’s got his hurt arm in a sling now, for some reason, and when people ask him about it, he just says, “A little mishap in the line of duty.”

  We all have jobs, and mine is to be the Welcome Guide for the Russell family: I’m supposed to show them where their cabin is, help them bring in their stuff, answer any questions they have, and then take the kids out to show them around while the parents have a few minutes to themselves.

  The Russells are the last family to arrive. There’s a mom and two boys, ages six and eight. They’ve come all the way from South Carolina and have real Southern accents. The mom asks me a million things about our family and how long we’ve been here and stuff like that, and then she asks me to go get them some towels; we have a bunch of extra linens that we keep in the laundry room. As I walk across Town Square, I make up a game where this is a hotel, and I have a job here as a chambermaid. My mom and dad run room service, and Tilly works at the front desk, even though she makes lots of mistakes with people’s reservations. And Scott is our boss, except he broke his arm, so I have to help him run the place. I’m not sure what his job is, I guess he’s the manager or something high-up like that. Maybe he even owns the whole hotel.

  chapter 19

  Tilly

  Date and Location Unknown

  On cold nights, when the elders gathered by the fire to tell stories and their talk turned to the Great Autism Panic of the early twenty-first century, we children were never quite sure how much to believe. The details were so odd that we were tempted to dismiss it as Hammondite folklore, no more or less true than the story of the strange summer camp where families went to learn how to be families.

  Either way, though, it was an intriguing period of history: the quaint euphemisms (“special needs,” for example, and “on the spectrum”), the fearmongering and misinformation, the chaos caused by the lack of an agreed-upon medical and therapeutic protocol. The elders lingered on the era’s rudimentary understanding of neuroscience, the dissent within the medical community itself as to nomenclature, classification, and diagnostic criteria. Celebrities giving advice based on superstition, rather than medical fact. The worry that a child’s natural inclinations and tendencies might become more destructive if left untreated. Parents seemed to be afraid of their own children’s brains.

  Most fascinating to us was always the idea that afflicted children were often segregated, confined to separate schools away from their “neurotypical” peers. It was a dark time, the elders conceded when we marveled at the cruelty, but you had to take it in context. Given the challenges that twenty-first-century parents faced, they said, perhaps we could cut them a little slack. We have to believe that they were doing the best they could.

  Years later, in classrooms and libraries, when we learned from our own studies that the tales had been true after all, we weren’t really all that surprised. Stranger things have happened. We simply shook our heads, like every generation does, and felt glad to be living in an age more enlightened than the one that came before.

  chapter 20

  Iris

  June 10, 2012: New Hampshire

  By dinnertime on Sunday, I’ve met all three GC families. There’s the Southern mom with the two boys that I helped earlier, there’s a family with a mom and dad and twins (one boy and one girl), and a family with a mom, a dad, and one boy. Tons of names to remember, and I’m trying to get them all down, even though they’ll be leaving again in six days, and we’ll have another new batch to learn.

  After dinner on Sunday, Scott stands up in the dining hall and gives a welcome speech to the Guest Campers. After talking about what time breakfast is and what kinds of activities we’ll be doing and all that kind of stuff, he says, “Now, several of you have asked about my injury.”

  He gestures to his arm, which is still in a sling. “The truth is, we had a little campfire mishap last night. Luckily, no one else was hurt, but we’re all aware that it could have had a much more unfortunate outcome. I just want to take this opportunity to assure you that we take fire safety very seriously, and we’re redoubling our efforts to make sure that nothing like this happens again.”

  He pauses for a minute and looks down, then shifts to a more cheerful tone. “And I think that’s pretty much it, so . . .”

  “Wait a minute, Scott,” someone calls out. It’s Janelle. She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up. “I’d like to say something, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” says Scott. He sounds concerned.

  “Thanks,” says Janelle. “So okay.” She looks around the room. “I think I’ve met all of our Guest Campers, but if I haven’t, my name is Janelle Ruffin. This is my husband, Tom, and that little guy sucking on his fingers over there is our son, Hayden. And the part of the story that Scott left out is that he only got hurt because he was trying to protect my child from harm.”

  “Oh, hey . . .” Scott interrupts. He’s shaking his head.

  “No,” says Janelle. “This is important. Because I know that these people who just got here today are probably feeling a little bit unsure about a lot of things. And I just want them to know that they’re in good hands, because this man standing up there in front of you . . .” Her voice is starting to shake a little bit, like she’s trying not to cry. “I am so grateful that he’s come into our lives. Before I met Scott Bean . . . I swear, I was starting to lose hope. Hayden is the most precious thing in my life, but I was starting to think there was nothing I could do to help him. Tom and I . . . we just felt so alone, you know?” She’s crying now, full-on sobbing, and for a minute that’s the only sound in the dining hall. Tom gets up and puts his arm around her. I look down at my plate, roll my leftover corncob from one side to the other. I hate it when adults get all embarrassing and sappy.

  “Okay,” says Janelle. “I’m finished. I didn’t mean to get all emotional on you. I just wanted to say that Scott Bean is a hero. He’s my hero.”

  “Oh, Janelle,” says Scott. He sounds like maybe he’s going to start crying, too, which makes me so embarrassed I kind of want to put my head down on the table. He walks over to Janelle and hugs her. My mom starts clapping softly, and other people join in.

  Tilly says, “I was going to say ‘Get a room,’ but I stopped myself.” Luckily, there’s enough noise that I don’t think anybody else hears her.

  • • •

  It turns out that things are different when we have Guest Campers here. At first, it seems fun, like a party: we’re meeting new people and showing them all the cool things we’ve made, and even the food is better than usual.

  But there’s a lot more work, which I guess makes sense because there are almost twice as many people. After a day or two, I’m starting to feel like the GCs are all on vacation, and we’re not. We have to get up super-early to make breakfast for everybody, then it’s chores all morning until lunch. In the afternoons, there are fun activities, but it’s still like the focus is on the visiting kids, and the rest of us are there to help set up or wha
tever. Plus, there’s this feeling that we’re on display; the visiting parents are watching us all the time, to see if we’re normal or well behaved or whatever it is they want their kids to be after coming here.

  On Monday afternoon, I’m helping Scott set up an obstacle course, and he asks me to get a pitcher of water and some cups to bring down to the lake, so I end up in the dining hall during one of the Parent Conversation Sessions. Before I go in, I can see through the screen that my mom is sitting right by the door, and I hear her say to one of the visiting moms, “No, Iris doesn’t have a diagnosis. She’s NT.”

  Then I open the door, and she sees me, and I go stand behind her and put my arms around her neck. “What’s NT?” I ask.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she says softly, and pulls me into a quick hug before she sends me on my way.

  That afternoon, I spend a long time imagining what those letters might stand for, both good and bad possibilities. First, I decide it means “natural talent,” and that makes me happy, but then I think about the kids like Tilly; they might be a little off-balance, but some of them are totally amazing at art or math or spelling or whatever. (Does memorizing whole TV episodes count as a talent?) And then I think, maybe the N stands for “negative,” and there aren’t any good combinations that can come out of that.

  Later, before bed, I ask my mom again, and she tells me it stands for “neurotypical,” which apparently isn’t good or bad, it’s just . . . normal. Tilly’s not NT; there are a million different ways she’s not normal. But I’m totally average, and it’s kind of disappointing to know that that’s the way my mom describes me to people when she doesn’t know I’m listening.

  • • •

  On Friday, while we’re getting breakfast ready, Scott asks Ryan and Tilly to help him hang up a big banner that says “Happy Mother’s Day!” Which doesn’t make any sense, because it’s June 15, and Mother’s Day was more than a month ago. But when I ask Scott, he says he won’t answer any questions until everyone’s arrived.

  Finally, once all the Guest Campers are here, and we’ve all gone through the line and gotten our food, he bangs a spoon on a glass.

  “Good morning, folks,” he says. “Are any of you wondering about this sign here?” And a bunch of people yell “yes,” just like you do in school when the teacher asks a question and wants you all to answer at once.

  “Well, allow me to explain,” says Scott. “I’ve always felt that once a year is not nearly often enough to celebrate mothers and all the wonderful things that they do for their children and for their families. So here at Camp Harmony, every Friday is Mother’s Day!”

  Some of the adults laugh, probably because they’re surprised, rather than because they actually think it’s funny. Right next to me, Tilly speaks up and calls out, “If we’re doing extra holidays,” but my mom puts a finger over her lips, and my dad starts whispering in her ear, and she quiets down before she can start demanding extra Halloween and Christmas and whatever else she was going to ask for. But she’s already given some of the other kids ideas, and they start yelling out “Valentine’s Day!” and “Thanksgiving!”

  “Okay, okay,” says Scott. “I hear you. There are lots of great holidays, and we’ve all got our favorites. And before any of the dads can ask, I think that Father’s Day is important, too. But here’s the thing: I’ve only got you here for a week—I’m talking to our Guest Campers now—and we’ve got a lot to do in that time, without trying to re-create Arbor Day and St. Patrick’s Day and what have you.”

  “No one said Arbor Day,” yells Ryan. Scott ignores him.

  “But unlike St. Patrick’s Day and all the others, Mother’s Day carries a message that fits in quite nicely with the other things we’ve been talking about all week. It’s about celebrating a family member who doesn’t get celebrated all that often. It’s about love and respect for the person who, more often than not, holds all the pieces of the family together from day to day. It’s about stepping out of our usual roles for a little while, and taking care of her, instead of letting her take care of us. And I think that’s a worthwhile pursuit, no matter what day of the year it happens to be.

  “So here’s how this is going to work. Moms, you get to relax. Get in your bathing suits, sit by the lake, read a book, take a nap. Whatever: your time is your own, which I know isn’t something you get to hear very often.”

  “I wish I was a mom,” says Tilly, but quietly enough that nobody yells at her. It’s a weird thought, Tilly as a mom, and I’m not sure if it sounds like a bad idea because she’s thirteen or because she’s Tilly.

  “As for you kids,” says Scott, “Guest Campers and Core Family both: you’re coming with me. I’ve got a few special activities planned.”

  Scott leads us out into the woods, to the spot where we had Saturday Campfire last week, when Scott got hurt. There’s still a circle of wood and ashes where the fire was.

  “All right,” says Scott. “We’re going to play a game called Werewolf.”

  chapter 21

  Alexandra

  February 2011: Washington, DC

  A week after winter break ends, Tilly has a half day at school: teacher in-service or one of those kinds of things. On the way home, you stop at McDonald’s for lunch, and you notice that suddenly—since this morning, even—Tilly has developed a compulsion to lick every surface she comes into contact with. She licks the counter, while you’re waiting for your food. She licks the display case where the Happy Meal prizes are kept. She licks the table you sit at and the window that looks out on the gray air of the parking lot, the asphalt covered with rough salt and dirty snow. She stops to lick the doorjamb as you pass through it, and you try not to look at the three or four customers who watch it happen.

  There’s another change, too, though it’s harder to quantify: an increase in defiance, in inappropriate language, in not following directions. In doing things she knows she’s not supposed to. An increase in pushing your buttons, basically. She tries to open the car door while you’re driving; you flick on the child locks. She throws a paper cup out the window; you pull over and walk her back a few hundred yards, so she can pick it up. And all the while, you don’t freak out, not when she licks gum on the pavement, not when she calls you a bitch in front of an old lady. You hold her hand tight, you keep your tone mild, and you wonder what the hell is going on.

  Is this a medical issue? She has a cold, and—in addition to thinking of the germs she’s spreading and the germs she’s taking in—you wonder if there’s some connection. These kinds of sudden changes (including the one that got her kicked out of pre-K) have all taken place in winter. But it seems like a tenuous link.

  You phone her pediatrician’s office, with all the usual misgivings; it’s a big practice, connected to a teaching hospital, and your kids never seem to see the same doctor twice. You take her in, do your best to keep her contained in the waiting room, as she giggles and runs for a door that says “Employees Only,” as she tries to knock over an infant in a baby seat, as she sings a song that contains no lyrics except the word “vulva.”

  But the doctors—she sees a resident first, and then, briefly, an attending—don’t find anything wrong with her, not anything they know how to treat, at any rate. As usual, the medical personnel seem faintly baffled by the mysteries your daughter presents. The attending mentions conversationally that Tilly has “cryptic tonsils” (which apparently means that they have folds in them where bacteria can gather) and you almost laugh. When has anything about Tilly not been cryptic?

  You get her to sit on your lap for a throat culture; you squeeze her tight and nuzzle her hair like you did when she was little. But she ends up being too frightened, and you have to join a team of two nurses in holding her down and getting her mouth open while a resident jabs at her throat. You’re almost crying, too, by the end of it, and the rapid strep test is negative, in any case.

  Afterward, you think a
bout taking her for ice cream. It’s easy to be fierce and brave in the car: the hell with it, you think. Your little girl has had a hard day, and she deserves a treat. The important thing is to tamp down your own anxiety. That’s one of the tips you took away from Scott Bean’s seminar, and it’s a good one. Any embarrassment her behavior causes you, any worry about what other people are thinking: it’s a waste of your time and energy. Your number one job is being your kid’s advocate, and you can’t do that if you’re nervous about what the people at the next table are thinking.

  Easier said than done, of course, and your nerves already feel ragged. In the end, you get her a cone to go, and you count it as a victory.

  • • •

  If you’re hoping that this will end as suddenly as it began, you’re out of luck. It goes on for weeks and weeks. You speak to Tilly’s teacher and to the therapist she sees at school; no one can really explain it. Just ride it out seems to be the best advice anyone can give you.

  At school, she’s not able to behave any better than she is at home, and even in a school designed specifically for kids with special needs, there are limits to what they can handle. When Tilly is too disruptive for the teacher to allow her to stay in the classroom, she gets sent out to “take a break,” sometimes in a counselor’s office and sometimes just in whatever empty room they can find. Eventually, the school asks you to keep her home for a little while. Among other things, the current situation is hurting her social interactions with her classmates; they’re grossed out by the licking.

  Throughout January and February, you and Tilly spend long, difficult days at home. Josh takes time off from work, when he can, to give you a break. When you leave the house, you wonder how you’re able to walk around in public without people seeing that you’re a complete mess.