His Hands were Quiet

by P. D. Workman

  Angel garbled out a sound, but if it was speech it was incomprehensible. He was shocked again. The mother started sniffling and protesting.

  “You need to be strong with him,” the therapist ordered. “You can’t be crying and letting him control the session. You are in charge. Whatever he does to manipulate you, you have to be strong and resist it. Give him a different instruction. Tell him to give you a hug.”

  Angel’s father let go of him so that Angel would be able to obey the instruction if he were so inclined. Angel backed away from them, scratching his arms and then his face. He started to flap his hands beside his face.

  “No stimming,” the aide said, immediately shocking him.

  Angel went rigid, but as soon as the shock was finished, he was flapping again, faster and more frantic this time. He opened his mouth and started to make a noise, a guttural hooting.

  “He’s trying to communicate,” Zachary said to Dr. Abato.

  “He’s merely voicing.”

  Another shock, which stopped Angel in his tracks for a moment, and then he started flapping again. Another shock within seconds of the last, and he fell to the floor, screaming in pain and scrabbling at another electrode that must have been on his torso under his shirt.

  Angel’s mother cried out and she took a step forward to go to him. But Mr. Salk reached out and stopped her. “He’s just trying to get attention,” he warned.

  “He’s hurt! My baby.”

  “He’s not hurt,” the therapist said. “He’s just fine. He’s dramatizing to get your sympathy. You need to ignore this behavior. Insist that he get up. Tell him to give you a hug.”

  Angel’s mother was unable to follow the instructions. His father made a noise of disgust and reached down to grab Angel by the arm. He was a big boy; he had to be at least a hundred and eighty pounds, but Mr. Salk had no trouble pulling him to his feet.

  “Hug your mother,” he instructed. His expression was blank. If he felt any sympathy for his son, he had shut it down and locked it away in order to continue with the training session.

  Angel held his arms wide. He didn’t look in his mother’s direction or walk over to her, but the invitation was there. His mother crooned and got closer to him. “Good boy. Good boy, Angel,” she praised, putting her arms around him. His arms went tightly around her body in a squeeze that was clearly not meant to be a gentle hug of affection, and Mrs. Salk yelped in pain.

  Angel’s arms flew open as he was shocked, and his mother freed herself, her face pale and frightened. Angel flapped his hands. “Ma!”

  “He didn’t mean to,” Angel’s mother excused him. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.” She put her arms out for him again. “Gentle this time, Angel. Give me a nice hug. Gentle.”

  Angel continued to flap his hands, not approaching his mother, trying to watch all of the people in the room at once.

  “No stimming,” the therapist commanded. If anything, Angel flapped harder. He moaned, pacing the room. He jolted with another shock.

  “Give me a hug,” Angel’s mother repeated.

  “No…” The word was a long moan. Angel’s head snapped back with another shock.

  “He’s trying to talk,” Zachary said to Dr. Abato. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “He is refusing to speak when he’s asked to speak, and speaking when he’s asked to hug,” Dr. Abato said. “Does that sound like he’s being obedient or manipulative?”

  “I don’t think he’s being intentionally disobedient,” Zachary protested. “He’s upset. Confused.”

  “And you’re drawing upon what expertise?” Dr. Abato asked, his lip curling slightly.

  “I don’t have any expertise. I’m just observing…”

  “Well, we have decades of expertise and training between us. And we have dealt with Angel before. This is typical, and he’s suckered better than you. He’ll do whatever he can to resist doing what he’s told. We need to break him of that behavior if we’re going to get anywhere with him.”

  Zachary shook his head. “This isn’t right. He’s got to have some basic human rights.”

  Quentin had undergone sixty shocks the day he had died. Zachary now had a much clearer picture of what that entailed. And they had withheld food. How was what they were doing any better than the torture in a POW camp?

  “I understand this is hard to watch. You asked to see how the skin shock therapy works. I’m not sanitizing it. Angel is just the type of child that we need the shocks for. He has been in dozens of other programs that have not been able to help him and curb his violence. This is the only program that has any chance of rehabilitating his behavior, and his parents know it. Do you think they would go through this if they thought there was any other way?”

  Zachary swallowed and shook his head. Obviously not. Especially not his mother. But his father too had been driven past his limits, disengaging from his own emotions in order to continue the therapy.

  “Let’s do some sensory work,” the therapist suggested. “Angel is obviously sensory-seeking at this point. Flapping. Hugging too hard. Behaving in a way that demands we hold him still. Acting-out behaviors that he knows will get him shocks. He’s actually seeking out the negative attention.”

  His parents both nodded as if this made sense. Zachary shook his head. The suggestion that Angel wanted to be shocked was ridiculous. It was obvious that it caused him pain and distress.

  “We know Angel,” Dr. Abato reminded Zachary. “You haven’t seen the lengths he goes through to get attention.”

  “Sit with him on the floor,” the therapist directed. “Make sure he’s sitting properly, and we’ll work on desensitization.”

  “Sit down,” Mr. Salk ordered in a loud voice.

  Angel didn’t comply. He jolted with a shock and brushed at his arm as if trying to flick away a fly or stinging insect.

  “Sit down.”

  He still ranged about the room as if he couldn’t stop moving. Zachary could see him trying to watch everyone at once, an impossibility even in the small space.

  “Angel, please sit down,” his mother contributed, her voice pleading.

  When he didn’t obey, he received another shock. His father caught him, grappled with him for a minute, and tried to throw him to the floor.

  “Stand clear of him,” the aide instructed. Zachary switched his attention to her, and he watched her finger depress the button on Angel’s remote once, then again, and again, without giving him any time to recover or comply in between. Angel howled and fell to the floor writhing and trying to pull the electrodes away from his skin. “He’s got his arm band loose,” the therapist told the aide. “You’d better secure it.”

  In spite of the fact that Angel was a large boy and known to be violent, the aide didn’t appear to have any fear of approaching him. She picked up Angel’s right arm, and Zachary could see that the electrode band had slipped from its previous position. There was a large red welt where it had been attached. The aide moved it to just below the welt and tightened the band again to secure it in place.

  “He has a mark,” Zachary told Dr. Abato. “There must be something wrong with the electrode. It’s not supposed to cause any damage, is it?”

  “Repeated shocks can cause some redness. It’s superficial and will fade. The aide has reattached the cuff away from the irritated skin. That’s appropriate.”

  “But what about the other electrodes? If that one has caused damage, aren’t the others doing the same thing? Shouldn’t they all be moved? Maybe he’s had enough today.”

  “Just watch, Mr. Goldman. Let’s give them a few more minutes.”

  Zachary pressed his lips together and watched the mother and father sit down on the floor with their son. The aide moved Angel into a sitting position, prompting him with ‘Good sitting, Angel. Show us good sitting,’ and guiding his limbs into place until he was sitting cross-legged in a triangle with his parents.

  “Good job,” his mother praised softly.

  “Let’s work o
n light touch. You are going to work on giving Angel light touch and encouraging him to give you light touch in return,” the therapist explained.

  Both parents nodded, looking at him.

  “Mom, I want you to rest your hand on Angel’s arm, and to stroke it gently downward.”

  “He doesn’t like—” she started to protest.

  “I’m aware he doesn’t like it. That’s why we’re trying to desensitize him.”

  Angel’s mother put her hand tentatively on Angel’s forearm and brushed it down the length. Angel jerked back, grimacing as if she had hurt him.

  Zachary leaned forward, trying to get a better look at Angel’s arm. As he had noted, the surface of Angel’s arm was pitted and dimpled with scar tissue and small red scabs. It must have been painful for him.

  “That’s gentle touch, Angel. Can you give your mother gentle touch?” The therapist moved closer to the little group, making Angel cock his head sharply to keep an eye on her.

  Angel’s mother lifted his hand and placed it on her arm to encourage the desired action. Angel jerked back, his shoulders hunching protectively. He scratched his arm and started picking at one of the scabs.

  “No picking. Show your mother gentle touch. Give gentle touch.”

  When he continued to pick the scabs, Angel received a jolt. He turned his head to watch the aide, completely aware who it was causing him pain.

  Angel’s mother again picked up his hand and placed it on her arm, then gently drew it down. “See, Angel? Gentle touch. Good job!”

  She put her hand into her pocket and produced a small candy, but when she tried to put it in his mouth, Angel batted her hand away, sending the candy flying across the room. He went rigid with the resulting punishment shock and tried to reach the electrode positioned behind his back. Zachary frowned. Was Angel preferring the shocks over the positive reinforcer?

  “Dad, your turn. Give Angel a gentle touch and then encourage him to reciprocate.”

  Mr. Salk gave Angel’s arm a cursory pat.

  “That’s not enough,” the therapist scolded. “Give his arm a slower, gentle stroke.”

  Angel’s father scowled at her. He put his hand again on Angel’s scarred, pock-marked arm and stroked down gently.

  Angel again reacted as if the touch were painful, flinging his father’s hand off and making a mad-bull sound of protest. His shoulders went back at a shock and he dug at his belly, trying to get at an electrode under his shirt.

  “Give your father a gentle touch,” the therapist ordered, her voice hard. The contrast between the words and the woman’s tone was surreal.

  Angel reached his hand out and placed it on his father’s meaty arm.

  “Good,” the therapist praised. “Good gentle touch. Give him a reward, Dad.”

  Angel’s father pulled away from his son’s touch and checked his pockets. Mrs. Salk handed him a candy. He held it out toward Angel. Angel pincered it between his fingers and held it up to his nose.

  “In your mouth,” the therapist told him. She looked at Angel’s father. “Put it straight in his mouth, don’t give him the opportunity to play with it.”

  “Last time I did that, he bit me.”

  “In your mouth,” she said again, as Angel touched the candy to his tongue. The therapist sent a look at the aide, who again pressed the shock button.

  Angel flung the candy away. He struck out at his father, howling in pain or anger. Mr. Salk turned aside to avoid a blow to his face, getting hit in the shoulder instead. Angel writhed on the floor. Zachary again saw the aide hitting the button repeatedly, overriding the built-in two-second shock, cycling through all of the electrodes.

  So much for delivering a consistent punishment every time.

  “Stop them!” Zachary told Dr. Abato, grabbing him by the arm. “They can’t do that! She’s not following the protocol. She can’t keep shocking him like that! Stop them!”

  Abato looked at Zachary for a moment, his dark eyes glittering. Then he reached out and rapped his knuckles twice on the observation window.

  The adults in the room all looked at each other. Angel paid no attention to the noise, moaning and making loud, incoherent noises of protest, his body doubled up on the floor. The therapist nodded at the aide, who went to the door, opened it, and looked out at the observation chairs to see what was wrong.

  Her eyes widened when she saw Dr. Abato sitting there.

  “This session is over,” Dr. Abato said calmly. “Return Angel to his room.”

  “His parents came for a full day of training,” she protested. “They had to drive all that way and we’ve just barely started…”

  “Explain to them there is a problem with the equipment. We’ll have to reschedule.”

  She stood looking at him for a long moment, then nodded and returned to the meeting room.

  The therapist’s face grew red as the aide explained the cancellation of the session to the Salks. The aide coaxed Angel to his feet and took him from the room. His hands were flapping as he was escorted past Zachary and Dr. Abato. The therapist apologized to Angel’s parents and she stalked out into the hallway to find out what was going on. Dr. Abato rose from his seat to talk to her. Zachary was happy to get to his feet. His whole body was clenched in a tight knot. He turned his head back and forth to try to loosen up his muscles.

  “It would appear there is a problem with the ESD,” Abato told the angry therapist. “Miss Kelly was having to press the remote several times to get a proper shock. We may need to re-evaluate alternatives.”

  “He was getting a shock, that was obvious!”

  Dr. Abato glanced over at Zachary. “Mr. Goldman noticed that Miss Kelly was having to press the remote several times. Whether that is an equipment malfunction or whether it is becoming less effective, I don’t know. We will have to investigate further.”

  The therapist glared at Zachary, then apparently decided she’d better listen to Dr. Abato. She nodded. “Fine.”

  “Please have his parents reschedule for another day.”

  She nodded again and walked back into the meeting room to discuss it in a low voice with Mr. and Mrs. Salk.

  “We will look into this matter,” Dr. Abato told Zachary. “I appreciate your help.”

  “You would have let her just keep shocking him continuously.”

  “Sometimes the equipment malfunctions. I’m glad you noticed there was an issue. I’m sure I would have seen it before long, or Miss Kelly would have brought it to our attention, but your quick eye was a great benefit.”

  Zachary wondered if Dr. Abato ever quit putting on a show.

  “Do you count that as one shock or several in the therapy log? Was Quentin shocked sixty times in his last therapy session? Or several hundred?”

  Dr. Abato raised his hands in a calming gesture.

  “Where was the log sheet just now?” Zachary looked back into the meeting room. There was no paperwork in evidence. Neither the therapist nor the aide had been marking the prompts and the shocks on a session log.

  “Miss Stewart will be filling it out as soon as she sees the Salks off, I’m sure.”

  “It’s supposed to be filled out in real time. Every prompt and response. Every time he is shocked. You can’t just remember that and fill it in later!”

  “You’re right, of course. Real-time record keeping is a very important part of the program. I will talk to Miss Stewart about it.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Zachary’s anger was rising, his voice getting louder. “What you’re doing here is abuse—”

  “What we are doing here, Mr. Goldman, is saving children and saving their families. Do you know how many people are trying to get their children into this program? Families who are at the ends of their ropes and have nowhere else to go. No other hope. We can only fit so many Quentins and Angels into our program. There are limits as to how many people this facility that accommodate. And that means that for every child you see being helped here, there are a thousand others across the coun
try who are just as bad off. Who need our help just as desperately.”

  “You can’t just keep shocking them and hoping that something works. You could be causing them injury. Maybe Quentin had a weak heart and the shocks were just too much for him. You don’t know, do you?”

  “Quentin Thatcher had a full physical, including an EKG, just like every other child who enters our program. He didn’t have any heart problems. Nor do any of the children who enter the program. You led me to understand you had seen the police report and photos. If you did, you know Quentin died of strangulation, not from skin shocks.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Z

  achary was speechless. He stood there shaking with anger, trying to put his thoughts into words that would somehow reach Dr. Abato and make him see what he was doing to children like Quentin and Angel, and even ones like Ray-Ray who were not being shocked, but who were still being traumatized by the punishment/reward cycle that Lovaas so unashamedly promoted to gain psychological control over them.

  “Would you please wait here while I deal with a few points?” Dr. Abato requested.

  “What are you doing? I want to hear.”

  “This is not part of the tour. I have administrative matters that need to be dealt with, and that is not any of your business. If you will please just wait here for me, I won’t be long.”

  There wasn’t anything Zachary could do but agree. He didn’t have the right to be wandering through the institution on his own. If he tried it, he was just going to end up stopped by one of the security staff. Dr. Abato strode out of Zachary’s sight.

  Angel was confused by the abrupt end to his therapy session. He flapped his hands anxiously beside his face, unsure what to expect next. Being released from a therapy session early in the day was something unknown to him. Kelly led him by the hand to his room.

  His skin was still buzzing. Angel scratched at it, trying to calm the itching of a hundred fire ants under his skin.

  “Angel. Here. Come here,” Kelly encouraged, taking him to the desk in his room. She picked up a pump-bottle of lotion. “Here, cream. Let me put some on for you.”