Like No Other Boy

by Larry Center

  “But you should have seen him, Cheryl,” I said. “He was really talking. Words were pouring out of his mouth, well, for him they were pouring anyway, and he was expressing himself so much better. He wasn’t just imitating chimps. He was coming out of his shell. He was so alive there today. His smile was fantastic. He was actually speaking like I’ve never heard him before.”

  “Oh, Chris. Let’s be real. The doctors told me that when he does that, he’s probably just mimicking.”

  “Mimicking?”

  “Yes. Who cares if he talks to a chimp anyway? Isn’t he still shrieking and making all kinds of noises and signs too? We need real quantifiable research behind what we do with him. And there’s absolutely no research from the chimp perspective. I couldn’t find a single article that looked into chimps helping children with autism. Nothing. What if this chimp business actually regresses him? How do we know for sure it won’t? Besides,” she went on, “chimps are dangerous. They seem cuddly and cute, but the fact is, they’ve mauled people when they’re in captivity, torn their faces right off. I do not want my son hanging around dangerous animals.”

  “The scientists at Weller don’t think it’s dangerous for him. Rachel, I mean Dr. Simmons explained that to me completely.”

  But it was as if she didn’t hear me. “Look, Chris.” Cheryl took a breath. “The truth is I need our son to be in a real school that has real specialists where he interacts with real human children. That’s why Acorn’s the perfect place for him. They have the best teachers and everything.”

  “But even if he’s improving his speech when he’s with them? Even if he’s opening up and becoming more alive?” I asked.

  “The other day I took him to the park and he actually seemed to be enjoying himself on the swings, and he said a few words too. So, should we start initiating swing therapy as well now?”

  “So, you don’t see it then,” I said, realizing the futility of trying to convince her.

  “No. I’m sorry. And I’m not here to make you angry or to cut you down or anything. I’m really not. I just want what’s best for Tommy.”

  “Sure, Cheryl,” I said. “I guess we just have a disagreement, that’s all. Let’s just think about this, okay? There’s no rush to make any kind of decisions.”

  “Well, for me there’s no need to think about anything else. Acorn’s what I want.”

  Those last words, before we hung up, really got at me. The more I thought about her responses, the more my nerves started buzzing, my heart thumping. I poured myself a glass of water just to try to settle down. Her mind was made up. There was no doubt.

  We’d been through all kinds of “professional” therapies, and not one of them had been able to create the kind of result I’d seen at Weller. Maybe she was the better parent in some ways, the more detail-oriented one, for sure, the one who did most of the interfacing with teachers and therapists, but in this case, I really believed that I was the one who had the answers. I just knew it. We’d always been a team when it came to Tommy, but now . . .

  The realization hit me hard in my gut. The truth was clear enough: I wasn’t going to be able to convince her that Weller was the right way. Not when she had Acorn on her mind as her primary goal. If I wanted Tommy to continue with his chimp exposure, I was going to have to fight for what I believed in, for that bright look on his face when he was with the chimps, for that eager smile when he was around them, for the stream of words that had poured out of him, fight for his unique ability, fight to make sure that it grew and blossomed. I felt like calling Dr. Simmons and telling what Cheryl was thinking, but decided not to. No reason to bring up a negativity so soon.

  Still, after what I’d seen at Weller, there was no way I could let this go. No way at all. I didn’t care what Cheryl said. She loved Tommy just as much as I did. But this was more than about that. This was about results. Thinking over what she’d said and the undertone of defiance in her words, my heart hammered and my hands grew slick. It was time to stand up for what I believed in. A new sense of resolve resounded inside me. It was time to grow a set of balls.

  After checking on Tommy, who was still lost in TV Land, I phoned an attorney named Mark Hyman, who I’d met through Sam. When I got him on the line, I explained my entire story, how Cheryl was thinking about taking Tommy to Houston for educational opportunities, while I needed him to stay in San Diego because of a new therapy I’d found for him involving chimpanzees.

  Then the very next day, I arrived at Mark’s office with a pile of notes I’d made and the videos of Tommy interacting with the chimps, and handed them over. Mark rented space downtown in one of those combined office suites. He shared a secretary with other lawyers and, from the twelfth floor, had a window looking out on the water. Mark looked my notes over as I sat across from him, staring out the window. A big ship cruised in the distance. We viewed the video I took of Tommy and the chimps at the zoo.

  I liked the way Mark’s rigid jaw was set firm as he watched the video. This was a man who knew how to stand his ground, I decided.

  “Chimpanzees, huh?” he said with a grin after viewing the video.

  “That’s right.” I knew it sounded crazy, but what could I do?

  “Are you saying you have proof your son receives benefit from being with chimps?”

  “Well, not exactly proof-proof. Not yet, anyway. But I have other videos showing how he communicates with the chimps, how he’s so excited around them, and how he expresses himself better. And this Weller Institute’s on the verge of getting a research grant to study him and everything. Carly Yates herself is the donor. There’s an amazing amount of potential.”

  He stroked his smooth chin. “Carly Yates, huh? Interesting. But your ex feels the Acorn School’s the best option.”

  “That’s about it.” I crossed my legs. “It’s this private school in Houston that specializes in children with autism.”

  “Perhaps you could get an independent psychologist to verify this benefit with the chimps?” Mark asked as he wrote down some notes.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve got research scientists from all over the world studying my son. I’m going to have data out the wazoo. You may be reading about this in the news. It’s that big.”

  “Okay. Got you. Sounds impressive.” He leaned forward and adjusted his blue tie. I noticed the wedding band on his left hand. This was good. Married. Stable. I wondered if he was a dad. That would be even better. “At any rate, if your ex does decide to go against you and take him to Houston for this Acorn School, you’ll be able to block her as the shared custodian. She won’t be able to take him to Houston or anywhere else out of state without your consent.”

  “Do you think she’ll try to sue for sole custody so that she won’t need my consent?”

  The thought of losing my custodial rights made me shiver inside.

  “That’s the question. If she sues for sole custody, she’d have to prove that you were a terrible father, or that this Acorn School offers an exceptional opportunity for your son that could be found nowhere else, or most likely, both. But I must say, separating your son from you, the father, is not in your son’s best interest right off the bat. At any rate,” Mark paused, “you’re looking at five thousand dollars for my retainer, one-half up front. If this goes to an actual hearing, there’ll be additional fees.”

  “It won’t be a problem at all.” I spoke confidently. I would find the money somehow or die trying.

  “So, let me explain how this would go down.” Mark prattled on about petitions and briefs and how the courts consider a variety of factors when adjudicating relocation of a child of divorced parents—reasons for the move, reasons given for your opposition, past histories between the parties insofar as it bears on motives and so forth.

  I could hardly concentrate on the somber beat of his legalese.

  “The main thing to remember,” he concluded, “is that the court always, and I mean always, goes with what’s in the best interests of the child. And an autistic chil
d, well, that’s a special consideration, for sure. But taking your son away from his father really does strain things unnecessarily, as far as I can see, especially with his autism. If he’s getting good and reasonable services at Hillwood . . .”

  “So, would the court see it my way?” I asked, my stomach suddenly roiling.

  “That, I’m afraid, is not an answerable question. You never know what’s going to happen, sorry to say. I’ve seen petitions denied that I was sure would be granted and vice versa.”

  “Well, I have no choice. Let’s get on with it. I know Cheryl too well. I bet a million bucks she’s already got Gloria Beaman filing with the clerk so that she can take him to Acorn. Once she has her mind set on something she goes after it all the way until she—”

  “Wait a minute. Did you say Gloria Beaman?” Mark’s brown eyes looked suddenly dark.

  “Yes.”

  He frowned. “Well then, that puts a whole new light on the subject. She’s one of the best divorce attorneys in California, represents movie stars, producers. And she’s representing your ex?”

  “Yep. I’m sure her father’s paying for it. He’s got the bucks to do it. She used Beaman in our divorce two years ago.”

  Mark played with his wedding band. “Interesting. She’s quite the big shot attorney. Anyway,” he shook his head, “let’s hope for the best. I’ll contact you the very minute I receive her petition.”

  I was screwed.

  Chapter 5

  Life takes strange twists and unexpected turns, does it not?

  Through the sheer force of Cheryl’s insistence, I found myself in Houston. Go figure. But if she was going to visit Weller and consider it, I would have to visit Acorn. Fair was fair. That’s how Cheryl put it, anyway, demanded it, put her foot down and everything. Besides, Mark had persuaded me that any case I had would only be bolstered by seeing Acorn with my own eyes. I relented.

  On a Friday morning one week later, with Max on vacation at the kennel, we left Tommy with Cheryl’s parents—her mother and father standing there at the foyer of their house in La Jolla with sad, tentative faces. It was an awkward moment for us all in many ways. Thoughts of our wedding streamed through me, how Cheryl’s father had proudly welcomed me into the family, joking about my vocal skills. A multitude of feelings crossed my heart; regret, sadness; longing for the way it was once upon a time. A song on the radio actually came to mind, one that I heard when I was in my teens, and the words hit home: If I could do it over, I would do it all again, giving you all the love inside of me, all my love within, if I could turn the wheels of destiny, or turn back the hands of time, I’d travel to the days we love and laughed, and all those starry nights, once upon a time, you were mine. My hands grew slick. It was all just plain sad.

  As if to compensate for our marital dysfunction, we provided Cheryl’s parents with gobs of toys and coloring books, way too many.

  “Be good, Tom-Tom,” Cheryl said. She moved close to Tommy for a hug, kneeling to his level, but he only backed away and looked down. Cheryl frowned as she stood back up. “Well, call us if you need us,” she said to her parents.

  “Brrrrrr . . . Mommy . . .” Tommy hardly seemed to notice us leaving as he put his fingers in his mouth and studied an area of square light that beamed in through a window. We launched our expedition by taking an Uber from her parents’ house to the airport.

  The flight was as turbulent as expected, not with the aircraft, but with the emotional winds that blew between Cheryl and me. I wondered what Rachel would think of all this, our going to see this school. Would she approve? We discussed Tommy, we argued over Tommy, and finally, we agreed to disagree and just read magazines. Thoughts of Dr. Simmons ran through me creating a warm sensation inside, the way she lit up with Tommy and the chimps, how Tommy had taken her hand so readily.

  We landed in Houston just after 10 a.m. Cheryl and I decided to take a rental car out to the school, which was located on its own campus near an affluent suburb on the opposite side of the city.

  Driving past downtown on the interstate, the Houston skyline rose on our right—square and tubular-shaped buildings boasting capitalistic confidence rising to the sky—and I caught a glimpse of the Minute Maid Stadium, home of the Astros. It was all so big and bloated and so un-San Diego. Not my kind of city at all.

  “Your Dad’s looking well,” I said as we drove along. I was searching for something to talk about that we could agree on. The woman I’d once loved, the one whose scarred eyebrow I used to gently kiss, that woman was obviously dead and gone. Yes, I missed our Garden of Eden era, but I had to move on.

  “He does.” She nodded, realizing, I thought, that we needed to at least stay amicable for Tommy’s sake, if not for our own mental health. “He’s heading to Peru for another job soon. He won’t stop working. I don’t think he can. Oh, Chris. Let’s not argue about this, all right?” Cheryl said, and she reached over and touched my hand, which was resting on the gear shift. “Let’s just do what’s right for Tommy. We need to think of Tommy first and foremost.”

  “Exactly.” My chin trembled with sadness, with the history of all that we’d done and undone for Tommy’s sake. All that we’d seen and gone through, the doctor’s visits, the therapies, one after the other, the hopes and frustrations, seeing Tommy progress for a while, only to disappointingly regress. Autism was such a vicious opponent. Still, her words hit the mark; I couldn’t have put it any better myself.

  We finally made it to the Acorn School and followed the signs until we reached the visitor’s parking lot. We got out and walked around the campus, heading for the main office. I had to smile. No chimps here. The humid heat was oppressive while the clacking sounds of a helicopter above disturbed what looked like a tranquil setting. Anyone would be impressed by the facilities: Brand new red-brick buildings and a tree-shaded quad where children on the spectrum were sitting in circles and actually playing games together—at least some of them.

  We entered the main office, a high-ceiling building and stepped into the principal’s office. Everything smelled new and fresh. Clean. A tall woman, probably in her fifties, wearing a blue dress greeted us and gave us the proper privacy forms to sign.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m Sara Rice, Ms. Rosengaarden’s assistant. Ms. Rosengaarden should be a long any minute to show you around.”

  “Thank you,” Cheryl said as we took a seat next to her desk. Our appointment was for eleven and we were a bit early. Cheryl picked up a brochure that was on the table next to us. I checked my email.

  A few minutes later, Ms. Rosengaarden, the principal, entered, a petite lady wearing a black dress with pearls and long, dangling earrings. She was probably in her early forties.

  “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, as we stood. She shook our hands vigorously, radiating with energy. A great big smile flashed across her face. “Thank you so much for coming. I hope your flight wasn’t too bad. It’s quite a drive from the airport. Anyway, I want to give you a tour first of all, and then we can sit down and talk.”

  “Fine,” Cheryl said.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets.

  We visited a few classes and observed students rigorously engaged in their lessons. The spacious classrooms were stocked with computers, and colorful artwork of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls, along with daily schedules with all kinds of stickers. Class sizes were small, with no more than eight children in each class.

  The classrooms were equipped with large TV monitors on the walls and the name of each child was pictured on the screen along with a running count of pluses and minuses accruing in real time. In one class, there was the same day of the week lesson that I’d seen in Tommy’s school. I was struck by the orderliness in the rooms and the way the teachers and assistants appeared to have all things under control. It was so different from Hillwood, where a certain chaos seemed to reign, and the special ed teachers had an easily recognized fatigue written in their eyes, though they did their best to maintain a po
sitive outlook.

  Acorn, I learned, took students from kindergarten all the way through high school, all affected by varying degrees of autism. Ms. Rosengaarden boasted that sixty-eight percent of the students attended college after graduating from the program. That was definitely impressive—if it was true. How could I find out for sure? I kept my natural suspicions to myself.

  The school specialized in a technique called “static exercise,” she explained, in which a virtual reality 3-D headset or visor was placed over a student’s eyes and the student had to track a dynamically moving series of balls across the screen while sitting still. They had half-hour sessions once a day.

  “It improves focus and mental clarity,” Ms. Rosengarden said. “The exercises link eye movements with neurological events in the brain, thereby accelerating neuronal connections. The results have been overwhelmingly positive. A software program keeps track of the students’ progress on a daily basis.”

  “Is it available at other schools?” I asked.

  “No. We have a patent,” Ms. Rosengaarden said. She spoke stiffly. “Only Acorn offers it.”

  “Interesting,” Cheryl said. “Don’t you think so, Chris?”

  “Sure.” My lack of enthusiasm was obvious. A patent on a potential method to help autistic children? It seemed kind of selfish to me. If it was so good, why didn’t they give it out to the world?

  After touring the grounds, we sat in the principal’s spacious office in smooth leather chairs. A colorful Chagall print hung on one wall, a goat with two horns and big, soulful brown eyes, flying through a green and tangerine-orange sky. Why did Ms. Rosengaarden pick that particular print to hang in her office? The painting made me feel even more uncomfortable than I already was. What was she trying to say? For some reason, it bothered me. The one large window in the room overlooked a duck pond and a play yard where children scampered around on a jungle gym and played on swings, pushing each other higher and higher. I noticed that there were hardly any rocking or hand-flapping behaviors with these kids. It looked almost too good to be true. I had to admit it. The place looked downright efficient and result-driven for children with autism.