by Maureen Lang
The room was typical for a pediatrician’s office, decorated with bright colors and shapes that would appeal to any child who noticed his or her surroundings. One wall was lined with a cushioned bench seat, and in the corner a few playthings were neatly stacked. Talie had brought along Ben’s favorite toy, one that lit up and played music when he pushed large, colorful buttons. It was the first toy he’d played with appropriately, and Talie had chosen it to show he could do some things right, even though she knew the age recommendation for this particular toy was three to six months. Far younger than Ben at fifteen months.
“I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t already know,” the doctor began, placing the folder under her arm. She took a seat on a small, round stool as Luke placed Ben on the floor. Ben slipped his finger into his mouth, ignoring the toys.
Talie looked at Luke again as they took seats on the bench nearby. They’d talked about coming here today, about the possibility that something was really wrong with Ben. Luke had said all along he hadn’t been around enough babies to know much, but if Ben wasn’t doing things other babies his age were doing, it was logical to have him examined. And while Talie ignored the feeling that she’d put this examination off too long already, she reminded herself how easy it had been to be persuaded by a pediatrician who didn’t see anything drastically wrong. And by her own wish that Ben would catch up.
But facing a specialist who saw only kids with something more serious to consider than an ear infection or sore throat, it was all too easy to think she’d been wrong.
“Your son is well behind in development. Speech in particular, but also in general cognitive ability.” Dr. Cooper pulled out the folder and glanced again at some of her notes. She looked at it rather than at either of them. “And he doesn’t engage—by that I mean he isn’t interested in other people. He makes little or no eye contact, doesn’t interact even when invited to play.”
At last she looked up at them, but neither spoke. Talie waited, and so did Luke. The silence seemed to go on forever, like darkness during a sleepless night.
Finally the doctor spoke again. “He’s young yet, but old enough to be recognized, I believe, as autistic.”
Autistic. Talie felt Luke reach for her hand. She registered nothing except the physical sensations that came with hearing a specialist tell her there was something wrong with her son: Her head felt instantly light, almost dizzy. Her throat dried, and the heavy weight in her stomach wrenched at her. If she stood she would fall, so she stayed put, even though what she wanted most was to scoop up Ben and flee somewhere. Anywhere but here. Take Ben and the new baby far, far away.
Lord God, what is happening? Are You here? Can You hear me? Tell me what’s happening.
She’d heard about those with autism, about those who were described as living in their own world, like a bubble they didn’t want to penetrate—or have anyone invade.
“But Ben likes to be around us.” Perhaps Talie could convince the doctor she was wrong. “He doesn’t want to be alone. He smiles all of the time.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Mrs. Ingram,” said the doctor, not before glancing down at the paperwork in her lap. Perhaps she’d forgotten their names and had to check before addressing Talie. “But at this point you need to be aware you’re not imagining his delays. He needs speech therapy, occupational therapy, perhaps some sensory integration therapy, as well as physical therapy. . . .” She went on, describing successes made in one-on-one teaching with autistic children that followed an intensive schedule and routine.
But Talie couldn’t listen. Somewhere during the course of advice she felt herself slip away. She looked at her son, giving him the only toy he loved, the one meant for infants instead of toddlers. He pushed the buttons. . . . Couldn’t the doctor see he did that right?
But it didn’t matter that a fifteen-month-old child who couldn’t walk or talk could play appropriately with a toy meant for a three-month-old.
All Talie heard was that word. Autistic.
Then Luke was speaking in his normal, calm, intelligent voice, and she had to listen again.
“My wife is almost four months pregnant, Doctor. What are the chances of this baby being autistic too?”
The doctor looked at Talie. “You’re pregnant?”
Talie nodded. The loose cotton shirt she was wearing hid the slight protrusion in her middle. Talie felt the tingle of perspiration pop into her palms. She pulled away from Luke, unwilling for him to feel it.
Dr. Cooper jotted some notes, studied the other papers in the stack, and then looked at Talie again. “Are there any other kids in your family with learning disabilities? Or maybe an uncle somewhere along the way, one you thought was maybe a little slow, but otherwise okay?”
Talie couldn’t speak. Ellen Grayson came instantly to mind, a woman Talie had had no knowledge of before reading the family Bible. And Willie, Royboy, Percy . . . but they’d lived generations ago.
“I have an uncle who’s kind of strange,” Luke volunteered. He turned to Talie. “You know, my uncle Wade.” He addressed the doctor again. “He sold everything he owned to live in a van. Painted all the back windows black and is traveling the country somewhere, living out of that van.”
The doctor smiled, but the gesture looked shallow, polite. “At this point I’m more interested in Mrs. Ingram’s side of the family.” She looked back at Talie. “Is there anyone with delays or mental disabilities in your family?”
Talie knew what she should say. She should tell them. But the last known person in her family to suffer developmental delay had been dead for over sixty years. Talie had convinced herself Ellen’s condition could have nothing to do with Ben.
Talie shook her head. “Not in my immediate family. My sister and I are both fine.”
“Ben is the first grandchild born to your parents?”
She nodded.
“What about cousins or uncles?”
“I . . .” She started to tell her about Ellen Grayson, started to reveal everything. But her throat constricted, and she had to force out her words. “I have several cousins a little older than me and second cousins a bit younger. . . . They’re all fine. Just fine.”
The doctor scrawled a prescription and handed it to Talie. “This is an order for a blood test on Ben. I recommend that you stop by Dr. Benson’s office in the genetics department here at the hospital before you leave today.”
“Today?” Talie repeated, and her voice cracked. Hadn’t they been through enough already today?
“There are some disorders known to be genetic that can cause developmental delay. Since you’re pregnant, it would be best to eliminate all the worries.” She turned to Luke. “To answer your earlier question, Mr. Ingram . . .” She glanced again at the paperwork in her lap. “I should say, Dr. Ingram. I see the nurse wrote on your referral that you’re a PhD.”
“That’s right,” he said, “but I only use the title in business.”
“Well, at any rate,” Dr. Cooper went on, “they don’t know yet exactly what causes autism. Genetics might have something to do with it, and some families seem to have a somewhat higher risk of having multiple affected children, but it’s not dramatic in the occurrence of classic autism. My advice to both of you is to go home, engage your son as much as possible, love him, love him, love him, and don’t think about blood tests. I will add, Dr. Ingram, we have a lot of genes that we pass on to our children. Your son may not be able to present the level of intelligence you might hope for your offspring, but you’ll find he’s still your son. A diagnosis doesn’t change that.”
Though the doctor wasn’t speaking directly to her, Talie listened to every word, each spoken in a businesslike tone. Luke was smart; of course he expected to have smart children. What other genes meant as much as ones that had to do with the brain? What did this woman know about anything? It wasn’t her child who had just been given a life sentence.
Talie knew one thing. If Ben was autistic . . . or feebleminded . . . she
knew through whom he’d inherited it.
Her.
A few minutes later they left the multistory medical building that housed some of the leading children’s experts in the state. Luke held Ben, and when they reached the car in the attached garage, he placed him in the car seat before sliding behind the wheel. Talie was already seated on the passenger side.
Luke sat still. He had the keys in his hand but didn’t put one in the ignition.
Talie waited.
“Was it just my imagination, or is that woman about as cold as a fish?”
Talie leaped on his bandwagon. Feeling anger toward the messenger was easier than facing the message itself. “How anyone can say ‘love him, love him, love him’ so many times without any warmth is beyond me.”
Talie put from her mind every name in the old family Bible, refused to think of any one of them. She turned around to check on Ben. He was already leaning back in his car seat. He hadn’t slept well the night before and would probably be asleep before they left the parking garage.
Luke started the engine but glanced at Talie before pulling out. “She could be wrong, you know. It’s not like there was a blood test with some kind of evidence. Autism is just her opinion.”
But Luke wasn’t dealing with all the facts. Maybe autism was more genetic than they thought. Maybe it could last through generation after generation.
“We’ll have to look up some facts on autism before we buy what she’s trying to sell. The Internet, books, maybe a second opinion.”
“Right,” Talie said and tried to summon a courageous smile but didn’t think she succeeded. The smile felt almost like a sneer.
Luke reached over to her lap and took one of her hands. “It doesn’t change anything, you know. He’s still Ben.”
Her heart squeezed with love, and she pinched her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she looked at Ben in the backseat, sitting so contentedly. “I know.”
“We’ll definitely get another opinion. I didn’t like her much anyway.”
Talie wanted to agree, wanted to say something���anything—to concur, but she bit her lip instead. Her voice would tremble, and the sound might break the dam holding back her tears.
Luke glanced at his watch. “Ben was the only one who had lunch back there. Are you hungry?”
The thought of food made her stomach lurch, but she knew she had to eat. She had another baby to think of, and besides, it might help to settle her thoughts if they went about their normal activities.
At least that was what she told herself.
28
I have always been an early riser. When the sun brightens the horizon something in me wakes. Beryl and Christabelle, and even Lady Hamilton, have no such malady. They have told me when I become more accustomed to London society I shall put aside this habit, since so many of the parties we attend last well into the night.
So far, my awakening time remains fixed, whether I like it or not. I often read or write in my journal in the upstairs parlor, well before breakfast. But today I was joined unexpectedly early by Lord and Lady Hamilton, who arrived together. . . .
“Good morning,” Cosima greeted Lord and Lady Hamilton. Lady Hamilton often sat with her husband before he left for the day, only to return to her own bedroom once he was gone. To Cosima, knowing Lady Hamilton would rather stay abed yet shared his company at such an early hour was another sign of her devotion to him.
But the somber look on the faces of both warned Cosima that this was not a normal morning.
Cosima stood. “I don’t mean to be in the way. I shall come back later, when the girls are up and about.”
“No, Cosima, you may stay,” said Lord Hamilton. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t speak to you first about our plans, since they affect you as well.”
“Plans?”
Lady Hamilton approached, reaching for Cosima’s hand but then awkwardly pulling back before touching her. Instead she motioned Cosima back toward the settee she’d just abandoned.
“The parliamentary session doesn’t end for another week,” Lady Hamilton said. “Normally we don’t return to our country estate until after that, but Lord Hamilton has decided to send us to the country a bit early.”
Cosima looked from Lady to Lord Hamilton and then back again. “Is anything wrong?”
Lord Hamilton cleared his throat. “There’s been a rather nasty outbreak of cholera here in the city. Now there’s nothing unusual in the disease; it happens every year. But this year it’s especially prevalent, and I don’t want any of you exposed.”
“We should like to extend the invitation for you to accompany us, Cosima,” Lady Hamilton said, but her tone was hesitant, ambivalent. “Only we’re uncertain as to what is best for you. With Reginald here in London and your plans still undecided, we wondered if perhaps you would rather stay behind and transfer residence to your grandmother’s home.”
Thoughts clicked through Cosima’s mind one after another. Leave London or live with her dour grandmother? If she no longer lived with the Hamiltons, there would be no chance of seeing Peter again.
At Cosima’s lingering silence, Lady Hamilton spoke again. “We’re quite certain your grandmother would be pleased to have you spend time with her. She said as much to Lord Hamilton last night.”
Surprised, Cosima eyed Lady Hamilton’s face. Though she was smiling, there was something different about her today, as if for some reason she had a sense of sympathy in the reserved glances directed Cosima’s way.
“And they’re planning to stay in London until the end of sessions?”
“Lady Merit is, and the duke of course. I’m not sure if she’s sending any of the family home sooner than next week. Perhaps in that time you and Reginald can determine what your future will hold.”
Cosima clasped her hands together in an attempt to keep them steady upon her lap. “When will you be leaving?”
“As soon as the girls and I can be packed.”
Cosima raised her gaze to Lady Hamilton, trying to read meaning into the words and tone and expression. It seemed there was more, and yet Cosima had no idea what it could be. “You think it best for me to go to my grandmother’s then?”
Lady Hamilton exchanged glances with her husband, who remained silent. “Yes, dear, we do.”
To her own horror Cosima felt her eyes dampen and sting. Hurriedly she brushed away a fallen tear. “I shall miss Beryl.” She felt as if she were being sent away, even though she knew it was silly.
Lady Hamilton sat beside Cosima and drew her close. The simple gesture invoked more tears, for a moment ago it had seemed as if Lady Hamilton did not even want to touch her. “But you shall still see Beryl! I’ve seen your friendship grow, and it’s warmed my heart.” Her voice shook and Cosima looked up, wondering at the extent of Lady Hamilton’s distress.
Lord Hamilton cleared his throat, and Cosima felt Lady Hamilton stiffen and pull away. She stood beside Lord Hamilton.
Cosima gripped the lace of her gown, wishing she had a handkerchief. She forced herself to her feet. “I shall summon my maid and begin my own packing, then.” Another tear fell even as she offered a quavery smile. “My grandmother was expecting me this afternoon. Only I didn’t know my visit would be with bag and baggage as well.”
* * *
An hour later, with Millie beside her and her trunks half full, Cosima heard a loud tap at the door. Before Millie reached it, Beryl pushed the door wide, a look of alarm lighting her brown eyes.
“Mother told me,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and surveying the disarray in the room. “This is not acceptable, simply not acceptable.” She took two strides closer to Cosima, who stood beside a large trunk with a folded nightgown in her arms.
Beryl’s face was flushed. “You can’t mean to move in with that old . . . well, your grandmother! She’s . . . she’s . . . oh, I can’t say a word without sinning.” Taking the gown from Cosima and placing it carelessly on the bed, Beryl put her hands on the trunk as if to cl
ose it. “Why would you want to go and live with her when you could come to Hamilton Hall with us?”
Cosima retrieved the discarded nightgown and refolded it. She couldn’t look at Beryl. “It seemed the most logical option, as your mother presented it to me.”
“Mother is acting so strangely today, but I know her, Cosima. I know she cares for you like another daughter. I’m sure she doesn’t really want you to leave us. Perhaps she’s only following an order from the dowager.”
Cosima shrugged. “If that’s the case, all the more reason I should go to the Escotts. I’ve disappointed my grandmother enough without refusing to live there if she expects it of me.”
Beryl plopped down on the chaise longue near the unlit firebox. “This is unacceptable.”
“You’re leaving London only a week early, Beryl,” Cosima reminded her. “Things would have changed then anyway.”
“Yes, but only to the extent of where we were all living.” She leaned forward. “You’re like a sister to me now, Cosima. Closer than that, since Christabelle and I don’t see things half as similarly as you and I. And besides . . .”
Cosima faced Beryl. “Besides what? You had plans for me? With your brother?”
Beryl stood, nodding and looking thoroughly self-assured. “Yes, that’s right.” She glanced from Cosima to Millie in what looked like a brief moment of uncertainty, then back at Cosima. “And I’ll say it in front of your maid, too. I don’t care who knows. You and Peter are right for each other, Cosima. I knew it the first day I met you. And you know. So does Peter. If you leave our family now, how will that ever progress?”
Cosima grabbed Beryl’s hands and squeezed them in her own. “Oh, Beryl, Beryl, it isn’t meant to! There’s nothing between your brother and me except what your imagination has conjured.”
Impulsively, she gave Beryl a hug, knowing an added benefit of such closeness was that Beryl could no longer see into Cosima’s eyes. It wouldn’t do to have her friend suspect with one look that every word Cosima spoke was a lie. “It’s better this way, Berrie. I’m sure we’ll be able to visit back and forth, especially once Reginald and I wed . . . if we do. You shall be my favorite houseguest.”