Revealing the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  She still harbored a niggling suspicion that the kids she’d seen the day before weren’t exactly representative of the spectrum, but Carolyn had said that there was no place for the more difficult ones at the school, because they would take away time and attention from the ones who could be helped. Still, it was a starting point, and she planned to gather as much information as she could in whatever time she had at the school, with whatever children she spent time with.

  Having an unusual skill—good or bad—could be difficult, she was coming to realize. It was not unlike the stories of the Salem witches that she’d studied: if you happened to be a woman who knew her herbs and tonics and had some common sense, and actually saved people from common illnesses, especially children, then you were labeled a witch and executed. That didn’t seem logical or fair, but people in general mistrusted anything or anyone they didn’t understand, and it was easier to eliminate them than to learn more about them. What made it sadder was that people with such useful skills most often wanted to use their power to help other people—and paid the price. If someone wanted to murder a string of people, they were less likely to be caught because they knew they had to hide their skill. What a sad commentary on humanity, Abby thought as she hauled herself out of bed.

  A trip to her closet confirmed her need for an expanded wardrobe of appropriate clothing, something that fell between corporate chic—for the job that Brad had insisted on—and DIY grubby, which she wore to paint the house. Something comfortable and easy to wear, and easy to wash as well. Just as soon as her new laundry room was ready to roll.

  “Can I make you breakfast before I send you off to school?” Ned said in a sleepy voice from the bed.

  “If you can do it fast. I’m going to grab a shower.”

  By the time Abby was dressed, Ned had laid the table with nice china and had a pot of coffee waiting on the dining room table. “Scrambled eggs coming up—you need protein today. Should I pack you a lunch too?”

  Abby laughed. “No, sit down and eat with me. I think I can find my own lunch. Who knows—they might have already booted me out by then.”

  “Never,” Ned said firmly. “You will be indispensable within days. I can’t wait to hear all about it when you get home.” He studied Abby’s face for a moment. “Are you still up for this?”

  Abby nodded. “Yes. I’ve just got first-day jitters. I want to help these kids, but I don’t want to tip our hand about the psychic thing, so I kind of feel like I’m walking through a mine field. Mostly it’s the adults I worry about—I think the kids won’t see anything unusual about it.”

  “You know, I’m hoping I’ll be able to help, somewhere down the line.”

  “Oh?”

  “From what I’ve learned, autism sounds like a lot of poor wiring in the brain. Mostly missing connections, the ones that so-called normal people are born with, or develop naturally during infancy and childhood. The right kind of education or treatment can improve some of those things, but there’s a whole lot scientists and doctors don’t know about how it all works, or how the pieces fit together. Even the classifications are kind of vague. You can’t expect a single answer or to develop a universal strategy.”

  “Ned, I know that. Heck, do we even know what parts of the brain are responsible for intelligence or lack of it? Or is it all acquired from birth onward? I’d say I’m conducting an experiment, and I’m starting with no preconceived ideas. I’ll be learning as much as the kids will.”

  “Be sure you keep good records, will you?”

  “Of course.” Abby smiled at him. “Oops, look at the time! I shouldn’t be late on my first day.”

  “Do you have everything? Your clean hankie, your new notebook, plenty of pens and pencils? Your cell phone?”

  “I think I’ve got it covered. Wish me luck!”

  After Abby had gathered up her things, Ned followed her to the front door. “It’ll be fine,” he said, then leaned over to kiss her.

  It was a sweet kiss, the passion muted, but Abby sensed a thread of worry coming from him. Was he concerned that she would struggle with the whole situation? Since they’d discovered their shared ability, Abby had been doing nothing but learning, because everything was new. Now she was supposed to put what she’d learned to good use, and she did feel kind of underprepared. But, she kept reminding herself, she knew so much more about all of it than most of the people in the world. “Yes, it will. See you at dinner!”

  Chapter 20

  Tuesday

  Abby had always liked the start of school in the fall. She loved collecting new pads and long pencils with perfect erasers. She loved seeing friends who had been somewhere else over the summer and telling each other what they’d been doing.

  Today was not like that. She was the new kid, and she had to be careful about what she told the people she met, to avoid giving any hint of her special abilities. Of course they’d be curious about her, dropping in out of nowhere, and she hadn’t really prepared a cover story. The best she had to offer was that she’d been away from teaching for a while and was looking to ease back into it with a part-time job, particularly one that would challenge her.

  She got out of the car, straightened her clothes and headed toward Carolyn’s office. Abby was early, but Carolyn was already there waiting for her.

  Carolyn greeted her with a warm smile. “Welcome, Abby. So I didn’t scare you off yesterday?”

  Abby returned her smile. “Not at all. It was really interesting to watch the kids here, to see how they interacted with each other, and how they responded to me.”

  Carolyn smiled. “As I think I mentioned, we don’t accept everyone who asks into the after-care program, because we can’t spare staff members. Those are the least troubled, or perhaps most socialized, kids, and we do recognize that to pay our fees the parents have to work full-time. But you still would have seen a range of deficits among that group. Please, sit down—you’ve got time.”

  Abby sat in a chair across from Carolyn’s desk. “Thank you. I can see there’s a lot I need to learn. Why on earth did you decide to give me a chance, when it’s clear that I lack experience in this area?”

  Carolyn tilted her head at Abby. “I probably shouldn’t say it, but I like you. Look, I see résumés cross my desk quite often, and many applicants have impressive credentials. But that doesn’t always translate to working well with challenged children. There are other qualifications that don’t show up on a résumé, like empathy, common sense, maybe even intuition. You can’t teach these kids by the book, because each child is different, and so are their combinations of deficits and abilities. We all learn from each one of them. Does it scare you, having no handy guidebook to rely on?”

  “Actually, no, not that I’ve thought of it in those terms. Your approach makes sense to me. I’d like to hope that I’m a good observer and can handle things. So, before we run out of time, what is it you want me to do today?”

  “Roam around, observe what we do, watch the teachers at work—just get to know the place. When you’re ready, come tell me what niche you see for yourself. We’re pretty flexible with staffing responsibilities here, so you might want to try something and tell a teacher that you’d like to help, and that teacher can try a different approach. You can work together. Or you can create your own niche, suggest something that we haven’t thought of before. There is no one right way. We look for results, but how you achieve those is up to you. And there’s no time limit. You don’t have to have the kids reciting Shakespeare and playing Mozart in two weeks.”

  “What about physical contact?” Abby asked suddenly. “I’ve read that some autistic children can have an extreme reaction to being touched or hugged.”

  “That can be true, although usually that happens when they’re not expecting it. If you build a relationship first, it shouldn’t be a problem, but take it slow And if you’re worried about the bad press about child abuse, don’t be. We don’t tolerate anything like that here, and we’re alert to it. I know, some
times it’s hard to know where the boundaries are, and we certainly don’t want any of our students going home and saying, ‘Teacher touched me!’ when it could be misinterpreted. It’s a sad commentary on the world, isn’t it, when a simple display of affection or encouragement can be so misinterpreted, but it is a reality. Just watch and listen for now, all right?”

  “Not a problem. What should they call me?”

  “Abby is okay, or Miss Abby—I forgot to ask if you’re married, but I’m not supposed to ask about personal information like that. Does using ‘Miss’ offend you?

  “Of course not. And I don’t care if they make up names for me, as long as they know who I am. But I hope I’m not a pushover—I don’t want them to trample all over me.” For a moment Abby flashed on her first day of teaching kindergarten, when the energetic youngsters had all but run rings around her—before crashing for their much-needed naps.

  “It all sounds good, Abby, but the proof is in the pudding, as they say. Let’s throw you in the deep end and see if you can swim.”

  “Where do we start?”

  Carolyn stood up. “We have a small auditorium on the lowest level, with a stage, and we meet there first thing in the morning, to start the day. It gives a sense of structure to the day. Then the students scatter to their various sessions. I say sessions because ‘classes’ sounds so formal, and it doesn’t really represent what goes on in the rooms. The sessions are usually an hour long, although some of the children would happily spend longer. But others can’t focus on one thing for that long, so it’s a constant trade-off. Walk with me.”

  Carolyn led the way down the hall and then opened a door to the lower level, down a short flight of stairs. It appeared that the student entrance was on that level, and the room was about half filled, with more kids entering from a side door as they were dropped off. A few teachers hovered around the edges of the room keeping some order. “I’m going to introduce you so the kids don’t get frightened by an unfamiliar face. Any idea which class you want to start with?”

  “I don’t even know what the curriculum is. Is there one that the kids prefer? Are they grouped by ages?”

  “They’re grouped by their intellectual ages rather than their chronological ages. You could easily have a four-year-old and an eight-year-old in the same group. Maybe you’d like to start with art? It’s a good mix of color and symbols and communication, in a nonverbal way.”

  “Sounds great,” Abby told her.

  “Come with me—it’s time to get started.” Carolyn marched to the stage at one end of the room and waited until the crowd quieted, which it did surprisingly quickly. Then she said, “Good morning, everyone. Before you go to your activities, I want to introduce Abigail Kimball. She wants to meet you all and see what our school is like. She lives right here in Lexington, and she’s taught children before—but never children like you.”

  “Like what?” a voice called out.

  Carolyn grinned. “Oh, you know—smart, talented, funny, interesting. That kind of stuff. If you see her in the hallway here, go ahead and talk to her if you want. But if you don’t have time, we hope she’ll be around for a while. Abby, do you want to say something?”

  Ulp. But she’d asked for it. “Hi, kids. I hope you’ll remember that I’m the new kid here, just like you were once. If you see me doing something wrong, tell me, will you?” Abby scanned the room: like the day before, some children weren’t even looking at her, some were looking but without expression, and a few were actually nodding. She hoped she’d gotten the message across: you can talk to me.

  Carolyn stepped forward again. “Thank you, Abby. Does anybody have any announcements before we start our day?” The teachers in the room started collecting their things, which Carolyn took to mean “no.” “Then have a wonderful day!”

  As the students scattered in a more or less orderly way, Carolyn called out, “Brenda? Hang on a second.”

  A middle-aged woman near one of the doors stepped aside and waited while Carolyn and Abby approached her. Carolyn said, “Abby, this is our art teacher, Brenda Johnson. Brenda, Abby’s here to see how we do things and whether she wants to join us. Please don’t terrify her.”

  Brenda laughed. “I need all the help I can get. But we’d better get to the art room before a riot breaks out.” She raised her hands quickly. “Just kidding! But the kids do like art, so I need to be there to oversee them. Come on, Abby—let’s go make pictures.”

  “Catch up with you at lunch!” Carolyn said as Brenda led Abby down the hall.

  Abby was not prepared for the impact of the art room. It was a bright, high-ceilinged space with windows along one wall overlooking a playground. Any remaining wall space was given over to paintings. But what was so striking was the incredible wealth of color everywhere she looked. “Wow,” Abby breathed. “Are these all student works?”

  “They are. Past and present. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “They are. Do you teach them what to do, or do you just step back and let it happen?”

  “Some of each. I start by telling them that they can’t throw paint at each other or paint the furniture, and then I try to tell them that they need to clean up at the end of the class, but for the rest, I let them do what they want to do. Do you believe there’s a right way and a wrong way to make art?” Brenda challenged her.

  “No! It has to come from inside you, not from a lecture or a book,” Abby said firmly.

  “Bravo,” Brenda said. “And that’s a good way to look at autistic children. There’s a lot of inside to them, but you can’t force it out from the outside.”

  Was Brenda an ally? Abby wondered. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to ask, but are these kids verbal? Can they read and write?”

  “The ones in this room? They’re the ones who chose to be here. And it depends. Some of these kids see their art as a way to communicate, I’m pretty sure, and some just paint because they like the pretty colors. You’re new at this, right?”

  “I am. I’ve taught young children, but not autistic ones. It must be challenging.”

  “It is,” Brenda said, “but look at what they can do!” she added, gesturing around the room.

  “I love it. I’d be happy to have any of these pictures in my own home. Mind if I walk around? I mean, are any of them particularly sensitive to someone watching them or talking to them?”

  “I think they’re pretty used to it now. But don’t hang over their shoulder staring at them, or their work.”

  “Got it,” Abby said, and began drifting around the room, trying to look and not look at the same time. She got a few curious stares from the students, but most of them ignored her. They were focused on their work, and that was as it should be.

  Halfway around the room she came upon a boy who looked like he was about ten. The painting in front of him only covered half of his large sheet of paper so far, but the colors he’d applied were carefully distributed, and oddly harmonious. He wasn’t just splashing paint on a page. It was conscious and deliberate—and beautiful. The colors were subtle and muted: it looked to her like a misty forest by moonlight. Was it gray? Silver?

  She leaned in closer to see it, and her hand happened to brush his shoulder.

  Blue.

  She heard it as a faint whisper inside her head. Abby stepped back abruptly, trying to figure out if she had actually heard the boy speak, or if she’d heard his thought. He appeared untroubled, still adding paint carefully, considering each brushstroke. As if that brief contact had never happened. But there certainly was a lot of blue in the picture.

  Brenda came up behind her. “Isn’t that great?”

  “It is,” Abby agreed. “I can see from looking around the room that some of the children make representational images—some of them very detailed. Others lean toward impressionism, wouldn’t you say? Is that because they like the colors, or do you think the images mean something to them?”

  “Like I said before, it depends. It’s hard for any of us to k
now what these children are ‘seeing.’ Or if that’s even relevant. Maybe they simply like the feeling of spreading paint on a flat surface—it can be soothing. Or maybe the first home they remember was painted red, so they find red a happy color. But it’s always their choice, and I don’t ask them to explain anything.”

  “That works for me.”

  Blue?

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday

  Brenda was gathering up the surprisingly few papers the students had left behind. “Hey—Abby, is it?—what do you want to try next?”

  “I still don’t know what there is, and I don’t want to disrupt anything or anyone. What do you recommend?”

  “Well, Carolyn started you off with an easy group. Maybe you need to see one that uses words instead of images.”

  “That makes sense. Do the kids tend to do one or the other, but not both?”

  “Maybe.” Watching Abby’s face, Brenda burst out laughing. “You really are new to this, aren’t you? You must know there’s a full spectrum of abilities and deficits, right?”

  “Yes, I looked up that much.”

  “Do you know how autistic children interpret the world? There’s no one answer. Some see it visually, like a series of images that they store away and use to interpret new experiences. And they keep adding to that database all their lives. Others see it—though ‘see’ is a term that makes little sense in this case—through sound. And that doesn’t mean words. They interpret inflection, noise, not always the words themselves. Some do read, but it’s like it’s an exercise on paper for them. They don’t associate what words they see with the sounds they hear coming out of people’s mouths. There are a lot of combinations, and it’s not always easy to find out which applies to a particular person. It takes time and patience. And even when you do figure out their mode of seeing, there’s not a lot of reason to lump all the kids with a single perspective into one group, because they may operate at different speeds, so one kid ‘gets it’ while the one next to him is still trying to put the pieces together.”