The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  “I’m sorry,” Craig said conspiratorially in my ear. “Sebastian has sensory issues. He craves touch and his tactile responses to soft things are difficult for him to resist. And he’s right, your hair is soft.” He pulled on strands in the back of my head, a teasing tug that had me breaking out in goosebumps.

  “Is Dane Perry your boyfriend?” Sebastian hollered.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw everyone in the room look toward us, except Julia, who still stared at her easel with the determination of someone on a different plane of existence. My face heated, and I opened my mouth to reply, but I honestly had no idea what to say to that.

  “Sebastian, what did we say about asking those kinds of questions?” Miss Lisa chided gently.

  “Miss Lisa, Mister Craig is whispering in Dane Perry’s ear, and my older sister Chloe says when a guy does that to her, he wants to get in her pants. Mister Craig, do you want in Dane Perry’s pants like my older sister Chloe’s boyfriends want in her pants?”

  As hard as I tried not to laugh, I failed, and it emerged in an inelegant snort. Craig, having had more practice with these kids, and particularly the loquacious Sebastian, was able to speak better than I was.

  “Sebastian, this is not the right place to talk about that subject.”

  “What’s happening in Dane Perry’s pants that you want to see?” Sebastian went on, heedless of the embarrassment staining my cheeks, or how Miss Lisa and Miss Angela had converged on him to end the line of questioning. Craig beat them to it.

  “If you must know, Sebastian,” Craig said, shooting me a wink. “Dane used to be my boyfriend, but we lost contact with each other. We’ve only been talking again for two months now.”

  “Exactly two months, or two months and a week and four days? My mom says not everyone counts time like I do, but do you count time, Mister Craig?”

  He smiled, and despite the awkwardness of the situation, I could see he was amused. “Sometimes I do, Sebastian. I’ve been talking to Dane again for two months and five days.”

  A bloom of warmth flowered in my chest at his knowing that, even as I checked by counting back to the day he’d stood in the hallway of his building and told me to come out of hiding. Two months and five days, yep.

  “How many hours?” Sebastian wanted to know, all the time flicking his paintbrush at his paper.

  Craig looked at his watch. “Two months, five days, twenty-two hours, and about fifty-three minutes.” I gave him a questioning look, but he shrugged. “I get home at almost the exact same time every day, unless I’m on a project at work. I wasn’t that day.”

  “I want to get home at the exact same time every day,” Duncan chimed in, tugging at his shirt. He was spotless, despite standing next to Sebastian, who flicked paint with abandon. I wondered how he did it, until I saw the plastic shield affixed to the side of his easel, which stopped much of the overspray. Upon closer inspection, I realized Duncan’s jeans were a little splattered. Sebastian raised his brush, and Duncan absently moved as far away as he could get without crowding Grace. “I want to work in a museum with dinosaur bones and come home every day at the same time.” He pulled something out of his pocket and held it up for us to see: a shark tooth. “See? I want to work on bones in museums. This is a Carcharodon carcharias tooth. Know what it came from? Most people call it a great white shark,” Duncan answered his own question, rubbing the flat surface of the tooth.

  “Impressive,” I said, glad to be talking about shark teeth now, rather than Craig’s and my relationship status.

  Craig peered at his watch. “Okay, your parents will be here to pick you up shortly. You need to clean your brushes and return them to their drying buckets until next class time, and no, Sebastian, you cannot take your paintbrush home with you. Your color cups need to be cleaned as well, and any open paints closed.”

  Sebastian pouted and was the slowest to gather his supplies to take to the low, trough-like stainless-steel sink at the back of the room. With the water running, the room filled with white noise and the kids were eerily silent while they went about their task. I raised my eyebrows at Craig, asking silently how I did, unwilling to break the peace. He winked again, so I assumed I’d been okay. Gingerly, I tested how messed up my hair was. I was well aware I needed a shower, but I liked the shirt I’d worn and didn’t want anything dripping onto it, even though I probably had a very obvious purple handprint on it from Sebastian’s hug. One side of my hair spiked stiffly. I was thankful to be a brunet so the purple wouldn’t be obvious when we left.

  One by one, the parents picked up their Picassos and assured Craig they’d be back next class. Sebastian insisted on giving us both hugs, as well as the two teachers. Julia still hadn’t said a word, and Duncan had needed to show me the shark tooth up close. I made appropriate impressed noises. Grace and Melissa each left with little fanfare, and as soon as the room was empty, Craig began moving Melissa’s station to the other side of the semi-circle, putting Julia between her and Grace just like he’d promised. The paints he left on her chair so she could arrange them to her liking, and he made signs, drawing funny little cartoon characters peeking around the letters of their names, labeling where each child was supposed to go.

  “What about Julia? Won’t she be upset to have gotten moved too? I know you asked her, but….”

  He looked up from where he’d affixed the last sign. He’d done one for each child so no one would feel left out. “Julia is non-verbal, which means she is very much in her own head. It takes a lot to rattle her cage, so if Melissa is going to trade with anyone, Julia is the best bet. She gave me an affirmative sound, and that’s usually all I can expect from her. She’s never spoken, so sound is actually really good feedback. Plus, she’s usually so intent on her work she doesn’t notice her surroundings. She becomes hyperfocused when the paints come out. Come here, and you’ll see the results.”

  I felt like an intruder, rounding to the working side of the easels to peer at the students’ art, but once I did, my jaw could have hit the floor and shattered with my astonishment. I hadn’t known the specifics of their lesson when I’d walked in, and I’d noticed no focal point to paint. I’d assumed they were using watercolors, which didn’t make sense, looking at the angles of their work surfaces. Instead, they appeared to be using acrylics.

  Julia’s was all sharp angles and intense perspectives, like running through trees or driving into a snowstorm at night, where flakes rushed straight at you. There was a feeling of speed to Julia’s painting, and it took my breath away.

  Melissa’s creation wasn’t as proficient and was an abstract, but her use of color was unique and satisfying. Grace’s was more deliberately messy, the defined edges of Julia’s or the pronounced contrast of Melissa’s absent, yet hers felt softer, somehow, more soothing. Duncan’s was very much about the patterns, stripes that seemed almost rib-like in their construction, as if the viewer of the painting were in the belly of a museum-assembled dinosaur exhibit and looking out at the world. Protection and safety were the predominant feelings Duncan’s conveyed.

  Sebastian’s was by far the most stunning, defined by a palette of colors that soothed the eye even as it drew attention to light contrast, as though the objects in his head that had inspired him were under a spotlight. Splashes of white dotted the paper, softening any shadows he’d put in. I got the impression of a block of buildings, whimsical in their pastel shades, like the row of Victorian houses in pictures of San Francisco.

  “Holy shit,” I said reverently, studying it, noting it had an almost reflective quality, like the buildings were mirrored windows reflecting the sunset in a world where purple was the sun’s color of choice.

  “Right?” Craig agreed, a note of pride creeping into his voice.

  “I would buy this and have it framed to hang on my wall. I’m not even kidding, Craig.”

  “So would I,” he said, moving to the sink to wipe out the splatters of colored water before they could dry. “Sebastian and Julia are both extrem
ely talented, and they both have very distinct styles. Julia’s parents sell her art as a way to supplement her care, considering she’s not quite as high functioning as the rest of the kids in the class. She needs a special tutor and specific therapies. They’re trying to work with her to talk, but she’s seven and has never said a word. I really hope one day she unlocks that door, but for now she communicates through her paintings. Julia is a special girl.”

  “They all seem to be,” I mused, walking the circle of easels again to peer more slowly at the work. “Sebastian is a pistol.”

  “Oh yes.” Craig grinned and bounced on his toes while he watched me move from one picture to the next. “He’s a handful, but he’s got a stunning soul. He sees beauty everywhere. Everyone is of endless interest to him, and he not only has to ask his questions, he has to feel if you’re a good person. It’s difficult to explain, but there’s something about how his system is wired, like he has a sixth sense through his nerves that requires he touch things. He feels certain things more deeply, which means he’s got some social quirks that aren’t exactly considered polite. I’m sorry if he made you uncomfortable.”

  I pointed to my hair. “I do need a shower, but I found them each fascinating.”

  Craig beamed at me. “So do I. They help me see the world from a different angle.” The parallel between that and what he told Melissa about moving her easel wasn’t lost on me. “When I first started volunteering, it was going to be for a six-week course and I was going to teach kids how to paint so I could think about someone other than myself or you for a little bit. It became apparent pretty quickly that my teaching would have to be both structured and flexible, because they just don’t process information the same. I could tell Julia would thrive with acrylic paints because she likes clean edges and the paint dries fast enough she can layer and layer and layer to her heart’s content without color blending. We’re not even going to work with oils this time around. Sebastian’s medium is watercolor, and if you think his acrylic is good, you should see him fly with watercolor. I think his artist’s eye has a portal to heaven. I’ve spoken with the school about possibly doing a gallery show for the kids to showcase their work and use that as advertising to get another class going, or at least start on a younger age group with a teacher who has more experience with autism than I do, but the funding just isn’t there right now, and they don’t want to come across as exploiting the kids’ work for the center’s gain.”

  I smiled indulgently as Craig went on, clearly enamored of the kids, finally realizing he’d gotten carried away and trailed off. It was wonderful to see him so enraptured.

  “They’re amazing, not despite their challenges, but almost because of them.”

  He snapped his fingers and pointed enthusiastically at me. “That’s what I think. Half their work wouldn’t be this good without the ability to look at common, everyday surroundings from a different point of view. I’ve spoken with the teachers in this class to get their opinions, and with the students themselves, and we’ve all decided every piece of art created in this six-week course will be donated to the center so they can use them for fundraising if they so choose.”

  “I hope it works out for you,” I said honestly. It would be a shame for the world not to see this.

  To my surprise, Craig approached me and encircled my waist, clasping his hands at the small of my back. I didn’t shy away, but the piercing gaze he leveled at me was a lot to withstand. I looked away, my focus flitting around the room until the silence stretched to unbearable.

  “What?” I asked finally.

  “I brought you here because I wanted you to see that there are parents who move mountains for their kids, no matter how difficult.”

  I stiffened. “I know that.” If my tone was defensive, I couldn’t quite help it. “I see that at the hospital all the time. Or I used to when I was a surgeon.” Ah, and there came the bitterness. I squirmed in his arms to try and turn away, but he held me fast.

  “When these parents received their child’s diagnosis, they were devastated. I’ve heard them take new parents under their wings as kids enroll in the different programs the center has to offer. When they talk about learning their kids have autism, they describe it as traumatic, ripping apart their worlds, demolishing. Autism batters people who have to cope with it. The parents are superheroes, and so are the brothers and sisters of these kids. They have to deal with so much and it’s relentless. They rarely get a break from these intense personalities. But without the uniqueness of how the kids’ brains are wired, they couldn’t do this.” He swept one arm out to indicate the art. “There’s inspiration in devastation.”

  I’d subsided somewhat as he’d continued talking, realizing he wasn’t trying to lecture me, merely share with me a profound truth he’d discovered: life wasn’t always easy, but sometimes in the difficulty, there was unequaled grace in the world. I could have told him that, but I’d found my grace wielding a scalpel. Watching someone sick get better because of my intervention had been my inspiration, but it was one I’d had to rework into a less stressful career, which leeched some of the vividness from the satisfaction. I missed saving lives. A swath of sadness licked up my skin to swallow me down. I pushed at it so it wouldn’t overtake me.

  “I appreciate you letting me see this today,” I murmured, trying to convey that truth while hiding from him. I knew the world was good, but I also knew the world was bad.

  Quit crying, ya little fucker, and bring me another beer.

  There was no rhyme or reason to it. These kids didn’t deserve their difficulties in life, and neither had I. But things weren’t always fair. At least with Craig’s class, I was glad they’d been given gifts of a different sort, to kind of balance the scales. But I didn’t want Craig to realize my personal balance had been found by landing on solid ground, not by soaring to great heights like these kids were able to do.

  He nuzzled my cheek, kissed the corner of my mouth, and let me go. “We should get you in the shower. The paint is already dry, but you’re looking decidedly windswept.”

  I patted the spikes. “You don’t think it should be a new trend?”

  “It already had its day, in the Eighties.” He chuckled and led me out of the building and onto the sidewalk. The sun had descended in its sleepy arc toward the horizon, the shadows of the surrounding buildings encroaching ever more. In a few minutes, there would be no more gold left to highlight the edges of the city, the days of winter becoming shorter and shorter. The holidays were around the corner, and while I hadn’t had the energy to pay attention to them, the city had exploded in a cheer of red and green. The air, milder this particular season than any I could remember before, smelled of snow this day, and in the distance, to the south, clouds were building. I vaguely remembered hearing something about an incoming storm that would drop possibly three to five inches of the white stuff overnight. It wouldn’t cripple the city, but it would make tomorrow’s commute painful. I grinned, remembering I had the next day off. Maybe I could talk Craig into spending a snow day with me.

  “So, are we going to my place?” he asked, beating me to the question of plans.

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I said, latching onto his arm as we walked toward the subway platform. “As long as I can use your shower.”

  “Of course.” He paused, clearly weighing how to say what he was thinking. “So, Sebastian,” he said awkwardly. “I do hope he didn’t make you super uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all,” I assured him. “Well, except I didn’t know what to say when he asked if we were boyfriends. And I noticed you avoided answering.”

  “I only avoided because I know from experience if you answer that stuff, he pushes for more details. He was already asking about what I want to do in your pants. Even I, who can let almost everything roll off my back, get uncomfortable when a ten-year-old talks about the things that go on inside anyone’s pants.”

  “Ah,” I said, understanding. “I’m not sure how he picked up on anything bet
ween us. It’s not like we were obvious about… being affectionate in front of him.” I took care with the words I chose.

  “Doesn’t matter. He sees someone close to anyone else, he assumes things, whether or not they’re appropriate. His parents have gotten him to the point where he doesn’t blurt out everything he’s thinking, but even with that in consideration, he’s far too fascinated by puberty and what goes on during it. I get that he’s probably scared, and it’s a really big change coming up for him, but not for another few years. They tried to mainstream him into a new school last year, and I think some kid there got Sebastian’s head worked up about sex as a way to tease him. I do not approve.”

  I studied him, letting my amusement show. “You’re all growly about it. You sure it’s not his sister? He said she’s the one who told him about guys getting in her pants.”

  He shrugged. “Could have been Chloe, but that girl protects him more than anyone else I’ve met of his family. If she said it, it was before they realized how fixated he gets on things to do with sex.”

  “I don’t think she’s the only protective one.”

  “Yeah, well, what can I say? I volunteered a little more than a year ago thinking I’d teach one session and move on to another organization who might hold a class I could teach. My plan was to go to a bunch of different kids’ places and spread the love of acrylic across the city. I started there because autism starts with an A and I went alphabetically. I didn’t get very far.”

  “I think you’ve gotten spectacularly far,” I said meaningfully. We walked the next block in silence, approaching the train station. Suddenly, I knew I had to say something before we got on the train. “You could have answered Sebastian, you know. Told him I’m not your boyfriend. It wouldn’t have hurt my feelings.” Well, it wouldn’t have been fun to hear, but it was the truth, and saying we weren’t didn’t mean we’d never be again. I had hope.