More Than Words Volume 4

by Linda Lael Miller

  Instead, however, I found Laura Jean sitting at the kitchen table, obviously waiting for me. She stood, revealing a nightshirt imprinted with the image of a woman’s body in a bikini. I thought that she was far too pretty for such a tasteless shirt, whatever that says about me, who wears overalls day after day.

  “I thought, if you would want me to, I could give you a manicure,” she said. “I’d like to do something for you, after all you have done for us.”

  “Oh. That sounds quite nice.” I did not want to disappoint her, she seemed so eager to please.

  She suggested the table on the sunporch and went off with her bright purple case to get set up, while I made us both tea. I brought the pot and cups and sugar bowl in on a tray. Then she put out her hand, and I gave mine to her.

  As Laura Jean went to work with a nail file and studious frown, she began to talk. She chatted on about the lava lamp on top of the bureau in the guest room, how she had had one once, and of Cody’s fascination with it. “I think it might help him to go to sleep.”

  I had forgotten about the lamp, a gift from years ago that had never gone with anything in the house. I said this and added, “Most people do seem to like it. It’s a lot like a candle, isn’t it? Hypnotic.”

  “Well…you may have already noticed, but Cody isn’t exactly like most people.” She paused and looked at me. “I don’t like to talk about him when he can hear—” her eyes darted instinctively in the direction of the bedrooms “—so I couldn’t explain earlier. But I need to tell you, since we’re goin’ to be here a few days. Cody has some problems. You see, Cody is autistic.”

  Her eyes flitted intently over my face, and when I said that I had seen the books in her room, I detected a certain relief pass over her. Secrets come out in the open.

  She bent her head again over my fingernails and began to chat more easily. I suddenly knew the full reason why she had suggested giving me a manicure, and I had accepted. It gave us both, comparative strangers and private-natured women, an opportunity to talk deeply without seeming to need to do so.

  “It is sometimes called Pervasive Developmental Disorder,” Laura Jean said, her tone as if she were reading from the book, as she explained about her son’s condition. “It is a neurological disorder, but the cause is not known. Cody cannot help it.”

  “I understand that,” I said plainly. I told her that I was vaguely familiar with autism. “I was a teacher. It was a long time ago, though, and I really do not know much.”

  “Well, the doctor said it is like Cody’s brain misfires, and this produces a wide range of difficulties for him, and these produce a wide range of behaviors. Cody’s autism is moderate to severe.”

  “And aren’t we all?” I said.

  She looked up at me with a blank expression.

  “Moderate to severe in behavior, I mean.”

  It was a small attempt at some truthful humor, but there was no humor in her. She simply nodded blankly, then said, “Some people act like he’s crazy or a brat, or like what he has is catching. Just a couple weeks ago, I was talkin’ to these other mothers while I was waitin’ for Roline to get out of school. I was explaining that Cody went to a special preschool class where he got occupational therapy. One of them asked about this, and I went to tellin’ about it, and the next thing I knew, those women were just gone. They pretty much ran off. Then the other day somebody asked me why he didn’t answer when they spoke to him, and I said he was deaf.” She ducked her head in that manner of hers. “It just came out. I felt so ashamed, but it’s just easier.”

  “I thought maybe he did have a hearing problem at first,” I admitted.

  “Well, we all did, too.” She went on to tell of when she had first begun to suspect a problem. “I took him to the doctor to have his hearing checked. It seemed okay. I knew there was something wrong, though, but the doctor did not believe me. He said that children develop differently and that maybe Cody was slow and to give him time.

  “And Billy—that’s my husband—said I spoiled him. When you have two people tellin’ you this, well, it’s hard not to believe it. But you know, in my heart I knew.” She pressed her hand and nail file to her chest.

  I nodded in understanding. Not that I was a mother, but I was a woman, and there are just things we know, and right that minute I could have provided a list of such things the length of the table.

  She said, in a defensive manner, “Cody did not have a problem at birth. He’s one who started talkin’ early and he was the happiest baby, just smilin’, and he would reach for things, too. He said Dada and Mama.

  “But then that just faded. He would point to things, so we just didn’t notice at first. But then he got where he just howled when Billy picked him up, and he would not let the doctor touch him. They had to hold him down for any kind of examination. And it got so I could not take him in the Wal-Mart because he would have these awful meltdowns. He even beat his head on things. Well, you saw him today.”

  “Is that why he had the helmet on this afternoon?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. Sometimes he will just hit his head so hard. But right off I knew it was not that he was bein’ contrary. It was like he hurt somewhere.” She reached for my other hand. “Just relax…let me have your fingers.”

  I did my best. I was made aware of how hard it was for me to do something new. “What did the doctor say about it then?” I asked.

  “He said that maybe it was somethin’ I had done, like neglectin’ Cody and lettin’ him watch too much television or somethin’. Our television didn’t even work half the time. By then I had read up, and I knew somethin’ was not right. I found a pediatrician over in Amarillo. Billy did not want to take him over there, because our HMO would not cover it. But I insisted, so he took me, and well, that pediatrician said it right off after he looked at Cody for a few minutes—‘Your boy seems to have autistic disorder.’”

  She paused in her filing, sat back and breathed deeply.

  I said a few encouraging things about how Cody was a beautiful child and seemed quite bright, things of that nature that every mother wants to hear and which were all true, too.

  Laura Jean responded, “Oh, yes, he really is bright about a lot of things. Things you wouldn’t expect. Like he can work the television remote to get just what he wants. I can hardly do that. It’s his sensory ability that is out of whack, and his communication. He just can’t get his thoughts out.”

  She explained that he could talk on occasion, although he did so only to her and Roline, and the occupational therapist.

  “A lot of times when he speaks, it is what they call echolalia. He repeats what is said. He has good rote memory. Right hemisphere in his brain, the doctor says. But strangers and strange places upset him badly…and noise and commotion. It’s like he can feel noise. I knew this trip would upset him, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it, except try to drive it straight on through.”

  “Do you think you could do that?” I found the idea a little alarming.

  “Well, no, but I could pull over and sleep a few hours in the car. That’s what I did at that Wendy’s where we stopped for breakfast.”

  “What about your husband?” I asked, apparently all sense of prying having evaporated. That happens when you put your hands in someone else’s hands.

  “Billy? Well, it all just got too much for him,” she said. “Cody and the bills from the specialist…and me not bein’ able to work because I have to be there with Cody. It’s really sad. Billy loved Cody so much when he was born. My gosh, he loved him. He could not stand to think there was anything wrong with him.”

  I refrained from pointing out that such an attitude was more ownership and pride than love. I looked at her face, with the dark circles of fatigue and the reflection of earnest devotion to her children. I wanted to tell her to go look in the mirror to see the face of love.

  She went on to say that the previous week Billy had called to tell her that he was not coming home and for her to look in his sock drawer
for all the money he had saved. He told her to take the money and go home to her sister and mother.

  “My sister said I could come. Mama is well enough to take care of the kids durin’ the day, while I get set in a shop and build up clientele. And Billy will send money when he can. He’s good about that sort of thing.”

  She spoke totally without resentment. Perhaps she did not have time or energy left for resentment, but in any case, I was quite impressed with her.

  “What color would you like?” she asked, indicating a row of nail polish bottles.

  The colors were all too loud for me. I chose clear. Then I allowed her to do a French polish, as she called it. I did like it.

  I WAS JUST CLOSING MY NOVEL and was about to snuggle into the sheets when the phone rang. Patsy’s number shone on the caller ID. Catching sight of my fingernails, I was so fascinated for a moment that the phone rang again before I answered.

  Patsy said, “I thought I’d call to find out how everythin’ is goin’.”

  “What if I’d been asleep?”

  “If everything is fine, you are reading.”

  “I was.” I closed my mouth about mentioning having finished early from exhaustion. I did not want to give Patsy encouragement.

  “Well, I just want you to know that you can call us anytime you might need us, Ellie. I hope you know that. We would have been glad to help you out with this girl…and if there’s any problem, we can be there in five minutes.”

  I started to say: How would I call if I had been stabbed in my sleep, but I did not think I needed to egg Patsy on. “Thank you, hon. I know you are always there for me. I will call you in the mornin’, just to let you know I’m all right.”

  To this she replied, “Not too early. I don’t have to be to school until ten tomorrow.”

  People’s thought processes really are interesting.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I awoke before God and with a level of enthusiasm I had not experienced since Henry’s untimely demise. Had I looked closely at myself—and of course I did not, probably because I did not want to find any reason to be practical—I would have seen that my attitude revealed that I was feeling a little like God. I was determined to give Laura Jean some help that I felt she really needed in the way of mothering and living, no matter not asked for. The least I could do was give a good example of eating nutritious food and provide moral support at every turn. That was the least I could do, and I was quite thrilled to be doing it.

  I got dressed directly out of bed, mentally planning an elaborate breakfast of bacon, eggs, cinnamon toast, cantaloupe and fried tomatoes, too, which were a favorite of Monte’s. I had decided to include Monte for breakfast, since I intended to ask him to disconnect the fans in both bathrooms. I did something surprising, too. I spritzed on Chanel. When I realized what I had done, I refused to think of it.

  With early light still thin, I went out to the garden with my baskets and got myself knee-deep in bushes and vines and the sweet, pungent scent of the moist earth. The gelding, Bob, aging but still a pretty horse, came along to gaze over the fence at me, hoping for watermelon as a little boy does a cookie. When none was forthcoming, he wandered on to the water tank.

  A few minutes later, I looked over at the horse to see him stretching his neck over the fence. I could not see his nose, but I heard him snort.

  Curious, I edged forward, craning my neck.

  It was Cody on the other side of the fence.

  Ohmygoodness. My first reaction was a little panic. I started to run over and scoop him up. But then good sense spoke up. The boy was in no danger.

  He walked along the fence, in pajamas and bare feet. He was focused on his toy, the Magna Doodle. He was not working it, as he held it with both hands. He came toward the gate to the garden, and Bob followed along on his side but had to stop at the garden fence. Cody continued on past the garden gate, along the fence, and then he turned and retraced his steps. He did not appear to see where he was going, but he must have, because he avoided a bucket and a coiled hose. He reached the fence where Bob was again, and the two walked along together. Bob stretched over and blew, fluttering Cody’s hair.

  Cody kept focused on his toy and walking.

  I stood there watching, while mosquitos buzzed and bit where I could not get them, but I was reluctant to go swatting and scratching and possibly disturb what was going on. I was uncertain of what was going on, but something seemed to be.

  “Cody…Co-dyyy!” It was Laura Jean. Bare legs long and lean, she came flying out the screen door and down the steps, frantic as any madwoman. Her yell, in fact, caused me to jump, not to mention Bob, who jerked upward, snorted and pranced back several yards as Laura Jean raced across the driveway to scoop up Cody, who did not seem to even hear her. “What are you doin’ out here? Oh, Cody…I’ve looked all over.”

  Cody did yell then and squirmed to be put down.

  “He’s all right, hon,” I said, hurrying forward through the garden gate. “I was watchin’ him.”

  She pushed her hair from her face. “He wanders sometime. At home I had to put fasteners on the doors.”

  “I think he was just gettin’ acquainted with our Bob,” I said, reaching out to stroke the gelding, once more sticking his head over the fence.

  “He was?” Laura Jean looked from the horse to her son, who now sat on the very edge of the bottom step and appeared to be totally absorbed in drawing on his toy.

  Oddly enough, the horse seemed to be looking at the boy, as focused on him as the boy was on his toy.

  I had an idea. I went into the garden, retrieved a ripe watermelon, came back and cracked it open on the top rail of the fence. I fed a chunk to Bob, saying, “Cody…come feed the horse.”

  He did not even look up, of course. I suggested Laura Jean get him. She brought him, squirming and having a hissy fit about her taking his Magna Doodle away.

  “Cody…look at me feed the horse.”

  The boy looked at the horse. Juice ran out of Bob’s mouth. Laura Jean let Cody go, and he turned away but moved ever closer to the fence until he was walking alongside of it. Bob followed him. Cody stopped, although he still didn’t look at the horse. The horse extended his nose through the fence rail to sniff the boy.

  I stepped over and went to my knees beside Cody and in front of Bob. “Cody…Bob likes you. Bob likes watermelon, too. See.” I pushed a large chunk beneath the bottom rail. Bob sniffed it as he had sniffed Cody, then went to eating the sweet red flesh. The chomping and slurping was loud in the morning stillness. I turned to see Cody’s reaction and saw him gazing at the horse, right into Bob’s round, glossy black eye, which was almost level with his own.

  Then, Cody’s eyes, with their long silky lashes, came round to mine.

  “Here…” I said. “You can feed him.”

  I put a chunk of watermelon on the ground just this side of the bottom fence rail, where Bob had to strain to reach it with his lips. Cody squatted and pushed the watermelon several inches, where Bob got it. Then the boy stood, peering intently into the horse’s eye, which was watching the boy as intently as the boy watched him.

  Then Cody looked at me again, as if surprisingly pleased with himself.

  I sat right down on the ground and the two of us fed Bob the rest of that watermelon.

  I SAW MONTE’S TRUCK STOP in the driveway, and I stepped out on the porch. “Come on in. I made breakfast.”

  I saw his eyebrows go up and his mouth open, but I turned from the sight of him and went back inside to dish everything up. Silly as it was, I could hardly look at Monte the entire meal, although I did see his pure boyish grin when I served up the fried tomatoes.

  “I’m awful glad you all showed up,” he said to Laura Jean and the children. “You got me a darn good meal.”

  Men are really foolish about food, I thought. And I included Cody with the thought. Since feeding the gelding, Cody at least tried watermelon.

  I LEFT MONTE DISABLING the fans in the bathrooms and Laura Jean cleanin
g the kitchen, and headed out to the garden to gather fresh produce for the stand. I was running late and hurrying.

  As I was getting on my garden tractor, Roline came hollering after me.

  “Miss Ellie…can I come, too?” She regarded me earnestly. The golden rays of sunlight slanting through a few clouds shone on her dark hair. “Mama says I can, if you say I can. I will help and not bother you.”

  “Of course you will…you will be no bother, and I could use the help.” With this the child smiled, revealing the gap where a new tooth was growing in.

  She crawled up beside me on the garden tractor and off we went, the speed of the machine causing a breeze on our faces. I looked down at Roline, and she grinned up at me.

  I thought of the entire morning. I had not had so much fun in a long time.

  “THIS IS ROLINE. SHE’S MY helper today.” Again and again I introduced her to regular customers. Both the child and I were foolishly delighted.

  As I watched Roline fill bags and sweep the concrete floor and arrange the tomatoes and zucchini just so to suit her, I thought how it was the first time anyone besides Henry had worked with me at the stand. Oh, people had visited, but not actually worked in the way Roline was doing, which was watching everything I did and following along behind.

  There I was sitting on a stool and chatting with an eight-year-old child on another stool, discussing the prospect of closing up for the morning, when a siren sounded. I saw a police car approaching down the highway, lights flashing. Such interruptions were not unexpected on occasion, being as we were alongside the highway. I didn’t think much of it.

  But to my growing amazement, rather than pass, the police car turned in front of the produce stand and headed right into my own driveway, with siren blaring and lights flashing.