How to Speak Dolphin

by Ginny Rorby

  Suzanne has his hand, so I unsnap the leash from his harness. He jerks free, runs to the nearest table, and crawls under it. He presses his back to the wall, draws his legs up, and clamps his hands into his armpits.

  “Leave him there,” Elisa says. “I’d rather see him come out on his own.”

  “I want,” a mechanical voice says.

  Tall, skinny Roberto, the oldest of the children by about four years, sits last at the table. A teacher sits next to him.

  In front of him is a green box called a GoTalk Communicator 4. It’s a battery-operated recorder and picture box. The top square on the left says I WANT. Below are four pictures, three of food choices—apple, goldfish, cereal—the fourth is the word tickle. The top square on the right says ALL DONE.

  Roberto pushes the cereal-box picture and the voice says, “Cereal.”

  The teacher pours out a little pile of Cheerios. Roberto puts a few in his mouth, then pushes the I WANT button again, then TICKLE.

  “Chew and swallow first,” the teacher says.

  He does, then pushes I WANT and TICKLE again.

  “Show me your mouth.”

  He opens wide and twists in his seat to give her the best view.

  “Good boy.” She reaches over and dances her fingers up and down his ribs. He doubles over, giggling.

  A teacher turns her attention to Daniel. “Daniel, can you touch your nose?”

  He stops rocking and touches his nose with his index finger.

  Elisa, who’s standing beside me, says, “Asking them to do something helps them focus.”

  “Excellent, Daniel. Now can you show me what you want to eat?”

  I glance at Adam. He’s still in the same place but is moving his head from side to side and tapping his lips with clumped fingers—the sign for eat.

  Elisa sees it, too. “How many sign words does he know?”

  “Two: eat and drink.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “My stepfather thinks it will delay him learning to talk.”

  “Any form of communication lessens frustration and probably speeds up the process of learning to speak.”

  Elisa squats down. “Adam, there’s a chair for you at the table. Are you hungry?” She signs eat.

  Adam puts his fingers in his ears and rolls his head from side to side.

  “Well, come out if you want something to eat.” Elisa stands up and turns her back to him.

  I follow her lead and turn my back, too.

  I hear Adam’s feet clump, clump on the floor as he scoots out from under the table. I glance back at him. He’s at the edge, between two of the legs. I sign eat, but he ignores me. He’s watching the little girl at the table, then catches sight of his diaper bag, which is on the floor next to Suzanne’s leg. The dolphin’s head is sticking out. Adam flaps his hands and squeaks.

  “He wants his dolphin,” Suzanne says.

  Elisa takes it out of the bag and puts it in the empty chair at the table.

  Adam starts to scream and bang his heels on the floor.

  Elisa takes the dolphin, gets a clear plastic container down from a high shelf in one of the rooms, and puts it inside.

  Adam’s eyes follow her while she puts the container back on the shelf. I think he’s going to lose it, but he looks at his hand flapping against his own palm and squeaks. Before I have a chance to realize something different just happened, he crawls out from under the table, walks over, and looks up at his dolphin in the plastic bin. He points, then starts his pre-meltdown jig.

  Elisa walks over, squats in front of him, and brings clumped fingers to her lips. “We eat first, Adam, then you can play with your dolphin.”

  Adam screams like he’s been burned with a lit match, leans over, and head-butts her. Caught off balance, she falls over. He kicks her in the shoulder before either Suzanne or I can react. I grab for him, but he twists away and dives under another table, curls into a ball, and shrieks.

  Once again my heart is pounding so hard I can see my pulse through the skin of my wrist. Not only is he not potty trained, but he’s turning violent and dangerous. “I’m so sorry.” I hold a hand out to help her up.

  “Don’t think a thing about it. It’s actually pretty typical.”

  I blurt, “Thank heavens.”

  She smiles and takes my hand.

  When Suzanne, who’s carrying a sleeping Adam, and I come in from the Cutler Academy, Don turns from staring out the window over the sink. He hasn’t shaved, his hair is a mess, and his eyes are red.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My emotional bank-vault of a stepfather shakes his head. “Nothing. How’d it go?”

  It was a nightmare, but I glance at Suzanne and say, “Pretty good.”

  Suzanne nods, turns, and carries Adam down the hall to his room.

  “Really? Why’s he asleep?” He looks at his watch. “It’s only one.”

  “He had a bit of a meltdown.” This isn’t a huge lie. It only lasted forty-five minutes, but what it lacked in duration, it made up for in an all-time effort and volume. He screamed until he hyperventilated and couldn’t breathe. Suzanne pinned his arms while Elisa cupped her hand over his nose and mouth and held his head still until his breathing got back to normal. I stood there thinking about how happy he is with any dolphin. I want to believe, like that woman at the Largo Center said, that he needs both, but in contrast to swimming with the dolphins, this is a nightmare.

  Then I remembered Mom once said that life is full of hills we have to climb. I was young enough to think she meant autism was one of those hills and that once Adam reached the top, he’d start back toward being a normal little boy again on his way down the other side. Only in my dreams. Of course, in those, Mom is still alive. I sometimes think I’m as deep in denial about how his mind works and what it will take to reach him as Don is.

  Suzanne comes back down the hall. “Did you tell him about that thing Roberto was using?”

  I shake my head.

  Don looks from me to Suzanne and back.

  “It was a battery-operated box with pictures of food,” I say.

  Suzanne goes to the sink, squirts liquid soap onto a sponge, and turns on the water. “Roberto is eight—”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Don says. “And he still can’t talk?”

  “It’s different. He’s autistic and has cerebral palsy. He uses it to tell the therapists what he wants to eat.”

  “What’s it called?” Don looks worse than the day Momma died.

  “GoTalk something or other,” I say.

  “GoTalk Communicator 4,” Suzanne says. “I wrote it down.” She wipes one hand on a dish towel, digs in her sweatpants’ pocket, and gives Don a scrap of paper with a grocery list on the other side. “I bet you could get one online.”

  Don folds and puts it in his pocket. “Thanks.”

  “Are you going to order one?” I ask.

  Don shrugs. “It’s like sign language. If you make it easy for him to communicate in other ways, he’ll never talk. I want to hear him speak.” He presses his lips together for a moment. “Maybe hear him call me Daddy.”

  Dada was the first word Adam learned and, as well as I can remember, the last I heard him speak.

  Suds and steam rise from the sink. Suzanne turns off the water. “That’s what I thought, too, but the therapist said any form of communication lessens frustration and might speed up the process of learning to talk.”

  Don sighs.

  “Is something wrong?” Suzanne asks. “You look awful.”

  “I … I lost a patient this morning.”

  I glance at the clock on the oven; it’s a little after one. He was supposed to have a surgery at noon. “The one you were going to operate on?”

  He nods.

  “I’m sorry,” Suzanne and I say at the same time.

  “What happened?”

  He shakes his head. Don doesn’t talk about the patients he loses, or those he saves. The only way I know he’s lost one is when he goe
s out dressed in his only dark suit, the one he puts on for funerals.

  From down the hall, Adam begins to cry.

  Suzanne dries her hands and goes to get him.

  I don’t know how I know the patient who died was a child and a boy, but I do. “How old was he?”

  “Five.”

  I go stand beside Don. He doesn’t move, clear his throat, or anything, so I put my arm around his waist and lean my head against his shoulder.

  Suzanne made a big salad before she left for home. Don cooked two steaks on the grill. At dinner he says, “I went by to check on Nori today. She’s doing great. They are going to move her from that tank into a pond. It’s much nicer.”

  “So she’s cured?”

  “You never know with cancer.”

  “When will they release her back to her family?”

  “I want to leave all our options open, Lily.” He’s picking the green peppers out of his salad.

  “What does that mean? You’re not pulling Adam out of Cutler, are you?”

  “No. He can do both.”

  “Both?”

  “The Oceanarium used to have a dolphin-assisted therapy program, and they think Nori’s a good candidate for trying it again. The therapist is still in the area, and she’s interested in coming back to work.”

  Adam’s crazy happy around dolphins—as happy as he ever gets, so maybe a program like that could help him. But what Zoe said about Nori having a family nags me. “Don’t they have to release her if she’s cured?”

  “She’s not cured, Lily. Her cancer is in remission.” Don’s got all the peppers in a little pile on the side of his plate. “Want these?”

  “No. I don’t like them, either.”

  “Why don’t you tell Suzanne to stop putting them in?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I forget.”

  “So do I.”

  Don grins. “Shall I have my secretary send her a memo?”

  I don’t think of Don as having a sense of humor, but since he smiled, I’m going to assume he’s kidding. “That’s probably the only way it will get done.”

  “How about we go visit Nori again on Saturday? If she’s doing all right in her new home, Adam can swim with her. Zoe can come if you like. And Suzanne, if she wants.”

  I shrug. I’ve finally got the two things I wanted—a new friend and help for Adam. Too bad they’re not compatible. “Zoe warned me this would happen, so I’m not sure inviting her is a good idea.”

  Don gets that smirky look on his face that I hate. “What did Zoe warn you would happen?”

  “That the Oceanarium would keep Nori.”

  “Maybe she’ll feel differently when she sees how nice Nori’s new home is. But don’t invite her if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I want to. How does dolphin-assisted therapy work, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care. Seeing Adam happy is all that matters. Whatever benefit can be gained is—” He looks at the overcooked chunk of steak on his fork. “Gravy. Which this meat could also use.”

  It occurs to me that this will be all about Adam, and I may not even get to swim with Nori. Don must mistake the expression on my face for concern about Zoe.

  “Ask Zoe this: Which is more important, your brother or that dolphin?”

  The answer is Adam, of course, but I don’t think this is an either-or thing. I wish I knew more about it so I can get it settled in my mind.

  The last thing I do before turning out my light at night is check on Adam. I email Zoe to invite her to come with us on Saturday, then tiptoe down the hall to his room. His door’s open, and Don’s standing at the foot of his bed.

  I go in. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Watching him sleep.”

  “I do that, too, sometimes.”

  “He looks so normal.”

  “I know.”

  Don’s grief for the little boy he lost today and for Adam is etched on his face.

  “I’m sorry about your patient.”

  “He was such a little trouper.”

  “What kind of cancer did he have?”

  “Brain stem glioma. I removed the first tumor when he was three.”

  “And it came back?”

  “In his brain.”

  “How do you know when they’re cured for good?”

  “Never.”

  “You mean Zoe’s cancer could come back?”

  Don looks at me, and his expression changes to that mask he wears. “Highly unlikely.”

  “But it could.”

  “Lily, cancer can never be cured, but full remission can last a lifetime.”

  “And Nori?”

  “Same thing. Honestly, that’s the best reason to keep her. She’ll have better medical care than most humans, and if there’s a recurrence, she’ll be treated. In the wild, if it comes back, she’ll die.”

  Adam suddenly giggles, but he’s still asleep.

  I smile at Don. “Do you think his subconscious heard us say her name?”

  “Could be.”

  “I feel sorry for Nori.”

  “You shouldn’t. She’ll have a long, safe life.”

  “So you think it’s better to live no matter what, even if the way you have to live is not so great, than to live well and die when you’re supposed to?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve always got a dog in the fight.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a metaphor. It means I have a vested interest in my son, my patients, and now in Nori.”

  I come home from school on Tuesday to find Adam naked in the backyard, playing with his stuffed dolphins. There’s an empty tuna can leaning against the base of our palm tree, which shades the lawn chair where Suzanne sits watching him. Mrs. Walden’s at her kitchen window, holding her cat like she’s sharing an entertaining event. The hedge has some new growth, so I imagine she’s on her tiptoes trying not to miss a thing.

  “Why’s he naked?”

  Suzanne grins. “Stage one of housebreaking Adam.”

  “With a tuna can?”

  “It’s the target.”

  I sit down next to her. “How’s this supposed to work?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I mean, I know how to get started, but I need Dr. Don’s help.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you to come home.”

  “What can I do?”

  Suzanne glances at Mrs. Walden at her kitchen window. “Go ask him to come pee in that can.”

  I laugh. “You’re kidding?”

  Her expression is totally serious. “I am not. It’s how my husband—God rest his soul—toilet trained our son.”

  I grin, glance again in the direction of our neighbor, and run into the house. Don’s in his office. “Suzanne needs you.”

  “What for?”

  I shrug, and leave before he can see my big, fat grin.

  I hear him sigh, push his chair back, and follow me across the living room.

  The first thing Don does when he sees Adam’s naked little butt and the tuna can is glance at Mrs. Walden’s kitchen window. She’s put the cat down and must have pulled a stool over because she’s leaning over her sink with her nose practically pressed to the glass.

  “What going on here?”

  “Suzanne thinks she can house … toilet train Adam.”

  Suzanne seems a little less confident now that Don’s standing with his hands on his hips. “It’s how my husband potty trained our son.”

  “What’s the can for?”

  “Something to aim at,” Suzanne says.

  “Okay.” It hasn’t dawned on him what she wants.

  Suzanne looks at me. She saved us from getting tossed out of the Cutler Academy, so I owe her one. “He needs an example, someone to show him what to do.”

  Don looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Is this a joke?”

  “You need to pee in that can,” I say.

>   Don stares at the can, glances over at Mrs. Walden, then smiles. “A little privacy, please.” He waves us off.

  Suzanne gets up, and together we walk toward the house.

  “Adam, watch Daddy.”

  The next thing I hear is pee hitting the can like a downpour on a tin roof, then a lopped-off cry from Mrs. Walden’s house, followed by the clatter of a dish breaking.

  “Can you do that?” Don says to Adam.

  I have to peek.

  With his hands on Adam’s shoulders, Don has pulled him over to face the tuna can. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

  Adam pees on his own bare feet and the toes of Don’s flip-flops, then starts to hop up and down and giggle.

  Suzanne said yes to joining us on Saturday at the Oceanarium, and will take Adam to see the manatees until Don and the vet finish their meeting. That means Zoe and I are free to go watch the dolphin show.

  Don drops us at the front entrance, where we’re to wait for an escort to take us in. While we’re waiting, two school buses pull up and unload about a hundred screaming kids. Adam claps his hands over his ears and screws up his face. Before he has a chance to lose it, Suzanne picks him up and carries him away.

  One of the girls from the bus notices Zoe’s cane and grabs a friend’s arm to point her out. I glare at her even though I know Zoe doesn’t care that people stare. I did exactly the same thing the first time I saw her.

  I wonder if we’d get bored with staring at obvious differences if all our physical and emotional losses were in plain sight. I could get motherless tattooed on my forehead, or start a line of T-shirts.

  A sullen-looking Oceanarium employee comes out of the exit gate, looks at the crowd of teenagers, and rolls his eyes. The shirt I’d make for him would say, I hate this job.

  I take Zoe’s arm and signal Suzanne, then we follow him to the front of the line past all those kids. “They’re comps,” he says to the ticket-taker.

  She inspects us with a disapproving glare.

  Once inside, he walks away without a word, but stops about ten yards ahead and turns to stare at Zoe.