2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 1

She enters and I half–turn toward the noise, following her with my eyes. She is wearing her robe, light green fuzz going swish–swish as she moves. So soon she stands next to me, and I keep my eyes on her hands until one is on my forehead, soft and cool. "Fever's down," she says, and her words seem tired. She looks out the window.

She watches the dark and the rain. Her hand stays on my head, and where her fingers are I am getting too warm. I don't want to be warm anymore, and I turn my head to the side a little but her fingers stay where they are. I make my neck straight and turn again, but her hand is heavy, and I am so hot. Under the blankets, my legs are moving so much and I can't make them stop. She is not seeing it. She sees it every day. I want them to stop so I won't be so hot, but they won't. I'm sweating under her hands and when I try to move away she thinks it's by accident. Then she stands up. She doesn't look at me and I want her to look into my face because I'm watching her so close. She takes a step away, looking out into the hall, but I want her to stay here, just to be in the room with me.

I'm hot. "Aye ah." It's not right.

"What?" She stands so still, facing the doorway of my bedroom, the way out.

"Aye  .  .  .  ah," I say again slowly, hoping she'll listen. I can't make a better sound.

"What do you want?" Finally she is watching my eyes — a weight is gone from on top of my chest.

"Aye ah."

"What do you mean? What am I supposed to do with that, huh? How am I.  .  .  .  " She stops, then her cheeks puff out and she is letting out air slow. "I'll get you some more Tylenol." Then she's gone.

She comes back with a little glass bottle. She pulls me up, almost into a sit, putting her arm behind me. The medicine drips onto my tongue and down my throat from a dropper and I cough hard.

"Jesus. Don't do that." Her voice is getting higher. "Did it go down?"

I am too tired to make a sound. She heard me already. She doesn't want to hear any more.

"Jeremy. Did  .  .  .  it  .  .  .  go  .  .  .  down?" Sometimes she thinks she needs to slow everything down for me. My throat is burned up from the coughing and I don't want to talk. I watch her. "'Yes, mama,' that's what you say. 'Yes.' You don't even try. You're not even trying. Are you even — there?" she laughs, but it is a sad sound. "Christ. You won't answer me."

I am blinking hard as the room gets blurry.

"What about if I stopped trying, huh? Would you notice? What about if I hadn't stayed up all night with you because of this fever? I can't ignore you."

Air rushes up in my sore throat and I let it out, loud. "Oh. Oh, no. Don't you cry." She brings her hands to the sides of her head. If she curled her fingers she could pull her hair out. "Don't you start. No more — no more, all right?"

But I cry anyway. It sounds almost like hiccups because my throat hurts so much.

"Stop it! Do you know who cries? Little babies. Little, little babies. Boys have words. Boys talk."

* * *

It is Tuesday, and this is the day that Yvette comes in and does the filing at the law office. Every Tuesday I sleep for an extra hour, then fortify myself with two cups of coffee before I wake Jeremy, dress him and put him in the stroller. He has a big behemoth of a chair that he got last year, but I can't get it down the stairs to the subway, so on Tuesdays I unfold the big stroller — not one for babies, but something to fit his five–year–old frame, with enough room to spare that I know I can push him this way when he is ten, maybe fifteen. Twelve, definitely, if it lasts. I push him five blocks to the station. Sometimes I bounce the stroller, front wheels up, slowly down the stairs, twenty bumps. On other days I wait at the top, wishing there had been more coffee in the pot, until a man with a heart notices and I show him how to hold it and tip it back. If he is particularly burly or seems overzealous, I'll unbuckle Jeremy from the seat and hold him against me, following behind the stranger. I keep Jeremy's feet in socks, no shoes, because he is always kicking and the last thing I need is a sneaker against a rib. Sometimes when he's spasming a lot there are looks from the people who are thinking of stopping to help. They don't want a bruise for their troubles. I keep waiting.

Once inside the station I sit him back down and board the subway, one hand to a pole and one gripping the stroller handle tight. I have to think of something to sing because he at least listens to that and it keeps him from crying at the noise. Into Manhattan and then there is the long walk to the hospital. Jeremy's kicks make the stroller shake just a little as I move it over the uneven sidewalk. Finally we're inside, and the wheels slip easily along the even, sterile floor of the hospital. Up to the second floor, carpeted in green. I nod to the women at the front desk in front of the physical, occupational, and speech therapy rooms — Meredith and Gwendolyn. They smile. "Hi, Jeremy. We were just talking, wondering how you're doing today. Good?" I look over the top of the stroller and watch as he smiles a little and moves his right hand up into something like a wave.

"He has Carol first this morning, then Pat, then.  .  .  .  "

"Mary?"

"Right. Right."

"All right, well Carol should be free in about five minutes." She is the speech therapist. Most of the time I see her, she's trying to get Jeremy to blow bubbles, and I can't really understand what that has to do with anything, but I'm not the one with the training. She sends him home with little letters — "These are the words we practiced today on his picture board. If he's not too tired at the end of his school day, you can go over these with him. Ask him questions and have him practice pointing the pictures out to you." They practice words like "milk," "water," "juice." Expressions of his needs.

"Sheila?" Carol calls familiarly as she pokes her head out of her workroom. I look up, then stand and wheel Jeremy into the room. He brightens again and extends his arm, attempting another wave. This time his arm moves jerkily in a spasm, but Carol doesn't comment.

"Hi, Jeremy," she smiles. "Are you ready to blow some bubbles?"

She looks him over, then looks at me, seeming to be missing something as she watches us. Then she asks me, "Where's his picture board?"

"What?"

"The picture board."

"Oh. I don't know. It's — somewhere, you know, in the apartment. I mean, it might be on the kitchen table, because I — "

"Mrs. Rhodes.  .  .  .  "

"Yes?"

"One moment." Carol ducks out of the room. I can hear Gwendolyn's heavy, warm voice saying, "Of course, honey," and then Carol is back. She steps up to take the handles of Jeremy's stroller and wheels him out of the room, presumably to the front desk. When she comes back, she closes the door.

"Mrs. Rhodes, when you don't bring the board, this makes all of our jobs difficult to do," Carol began. "I'm becoming concerned because—"

I let my eyes drift around the room. It is bright, with the alphabet going around the room like trim — like a kindergarten classroom. There are blocks and photos and toy replicas or cutouts of everyday objects and animals. Carol had given me a board with drawings on it of a stop sign, a green light, a sad face, a happy face, a milk carton, a water jug.  .  .  .  It is actually in a corner of the living room, against a wall, beside the sofa. I put it there one day after vacuuming and—

"—he's not getting much quicker with finding the answers to my questions on the board. Now, I know it may seem like something he should just know how to do, but since he has limited motor control it just takes him more practice to be quicker about these things. And the quicker he is to point out his needs, the less frustration you will have. But the same is true for anyone who works with Jeremy. You may be so familiar with his signals that you forget we cannot be as aware as you—"

Signals? How am I supposed to catch any when he's always moving? "I thought," I cut in, "that the point of these sessions is to make him able to vocalize."

"Well, yes, you're right, but the board is important to minimize frustration for both your son and anyone working with him in the process of helping him to acquire skills."

"Oh, don't give me that. You want to think your forty–five minutes a week is teaching him anything? You don't know one tenth of it. Forty–five minutes a week, then you're done, you—"

"I certainly can't do much if you refuse to cooperate and supplement my work. Are you working with the board at all?"

"Of course I am. I just don't see the point of allowing him to get away without at least trying to speak. I don't see how you can condone that."

Carol lets out a breath. "At the moment, Jeremy has relatively little to work with for speech production. But there's a lot rattling around up there — he's a very intelligent five–year–old boy. He very much wants to gain the skills he needs. But right now they are not there, and your son needs other means to feel like he's connecting with other people."

I close my eyes, lean against the closed door. I hate the way these people act as if I hardly know my own son.

"And that's why I supplied you with the board."

"Yes, all right," I say stiffly.

"The board needs to go where Jeremy goes so that he is always able to ask for what he needs, and so that he's confident in his abilities with words. And, I am being honest here, the quicker he's able to use the board, the happier everyone will be."

I nod. "But I don't see how this is to help him with learning to speak."

"When that skill comes to him, he will have the vocabulary he needs if you keep practicing with him. But right now we are at an intermediary step in the process."

Intermediary. As much as her canned responses are getting to me, at least she has said "intermediary." And "intelligent." Those are important words. They imply that something more is coming.

"But we don't know when he'll be able to hold his own without something like the board. And it's possible he may always need some form of— "

"Well that can't be." My voice is louder than I intended. I lower it. "Um. I mean, you said he was intelligent, and he is, isn't he? So he can.  .  .  .  "

"He is doing relatively well, and at the rate he is progressing it's possible that he will speak unassisted. But for this to happen I need your complete cooperation. Please, Mrs. Rhodes."

"Yes, well I, I need to  .  .  .  get going, I.  .  .  .  "

"When you get home, please find the board."

"I know where it is."

"And give it to him."

"All right."

"Sheila, I promise this will make your life easier."

"Yes," I say dimly and open the door behind me, moving out into the hall. Carol follows me, and as I move toward the elevator I hear her greeting Jeremy again, pushing him into her room and speaking brightly. "Hi, again, kiddo. Listen, I'm sorry we don't have as much time today as we would—" I don't hear her finish the sentence, but I feel the words hitting me in the stomach and I move a little quicker away from them all.

* * *

All the way home she is quiet and a little sad. Sometimes when we're leaving the hospital she tells me about what she did while I was in therapy or she makes a joke but today she doesn't say anything. Today I got to use a different kind of picture board and at first it was confusing but by the end of the day I could remember all the new pictures and where they were. Carol let me take it with me until I had to go home. I don't know why it was like that today and not last time.

Sometimes I wish we didn't have to ride the subway because it's so loud the noise makes me jump until my muscles hurt. Usually she sings for me but today she doesn't sing. I want to cry but I don't, even though the noise makes me hurt so much, because she is already sad. Even though I hate the ride home and I don't know why she won't sing, I feel better when she picks me up to carry me to the top of the stairs because it is soft against her clothes and I know we are done with the subway.

Today when we get home she sits me in my chair and hooks up the lap tray where she puts things so I can reach them. She goes away for a minute and comes back with the real picture board. She looks at the pictures for a minute and then puts it in front of me and I wonder if we are going to practice, but she just asks, "Hungry?" and smiles a little. I find the green circle. It is almost like a green light for go. Under it are three letters. One is E, I forget the others, but it spells YES. "Me too," she says. Her eyes are a little wet but she is smiling. "Okay, well I'll just, um.  .  .  .  " She moves away, into the kitchen, opens the fridge. Closes it. After a little while she comes back into the main room, where I am. "You know what? I'm tired. What about pizza?"

Green light.

When the pizza comes, she picks up the board, and I think it's going to go back away in a corner, but she just turns it a little on the tray to move it out of the way while I eat. Then she thinks for a little bit and asks me, "Can you see them sideways?" We've never had the board out for dinner before, but I am glad and I hope she doesn't take it away again. Green light for yes, because I can see everything.

Thank you. Mom.

Carol taught me which things to point to for that and she said they are magic words. One place shows a picture of her and the other is words, and I can't read it but I know what it says and so does she, because she looks really happy. Then I'm happy, too. She rips the pizza into little pieces for me and pours me a little Sprite, too, in a cup with a straw. She doesn't even get mad when I blow some bubbles in it, so I blow more. When she starts to laugh it makes me jump, but soon I am laughing too because I catch hers and I know something happened to make today really good.

Friday, when she comes to the door of my classroom to pick me up, I am happier than ever to see her. I drive my chair over to her so fast she is really surprised and laughs a little. All the way home I want to tell her about today, but I can't because I have to leave the board that I use at preschool in my cubby. Every day since the last therapy day, she has been giving me our picture board when we get home. So when we get there and she puts it on my tray I look at her and I point to the stick lady for Mom. I want to tell her about Carter. Carter is big, with mean brown eyes, and today he said I was stupid because I'm the oldest in class and he tried to take away my board. He didn't get it, he just got a time–out, but I don't want to go back there. I want to tell her. So I point to where the stick woman is and she says, "Yes?"

Then I don't know where to point. There are not enough words on the board and I point to C for Carter but that's not enough. Carter called me stupid. There's nothing here for stupid. I know what it means, but I can't tell her. I look at everything on the board and I look at her. Then I look at everything on the board again.

"What?" she says. "Point. I'm watching. Point."

I know how to do it, there's just nothing for stupid. There's not the right words here. I know how to do it. But my arm is getting tired because I'm holding it up so long so she knows I'm trying to find something. It's not there. My face is getting really hot and then I know I am going to cry and she will be mad. I point to the stick woman.

Mom.

"Jeremy, what? No. You know, I just don't have time for this," she says, loud. "Tell me later."

She goes fast into the kitchen and runs the water in the sink. I follow her in my chair and touch her back. Look at me. She turns around and I point to the stick woman and she is about to turn back to the sink when I point to the picture of the ear.

Mom. Listen.

She sighs. "Later, Jeremy," she says, and turns. She is clinking things together in the sink and I don't want to wait for later, I think what she's doing should wait for later. I start to cry and she doesn't turn and I know she will be mad now but I don't care. I don't care and I don't know how to tell her about Carter and there aren't enough words on the board and I don't know what to do and the next thing I know I hit her right on the back because she isn't looking at me. Then she is looking at me and she's so mad, she tells me to go into my room and I have to because she's following me. When we get there she unbuckles me and puts me into the stroller and she rolls it out into the main room and faces me against the wall. Time–out.

I stay there until dinner but I'm still mad when she puts me back in my chair and tells me to go to the table and puts the food in front of me. There are green beans on the plate and I hate green beans and she doesn't care that Carter called me stupid, so I don't care if she's mad or not. She has the board back on my tray sideways and I point to the red light for no. Then I point to the picture of a plate with a fork and spoon on it.

Food. No food.

I point again.

"Don't you say that. You're going to eat this."

No food.

"Do you want to go back in time–out?"

No food.

"You're going to eat it."

No.

"You know what? I don't have to listen to that. I don't think I like what's gotten into you lately, Jeremy. You think you're so special you're too good for my food now that I've been letting you use these goddamn pictures? Huh? Well, we can change that."

Then I know what's going to happen next because she never wants to listen to me. She picks up the board and I watch her as she goes through the doorway and across the big, main room. She stands next to the coffee table and then she leans down and slides the board right underneath it 'til I can't see it anymore. It's gone. I watch until she sits back down at the table but then I don't want to look at her anymore.

* * *

When I come into Jeremy's room Saturday morning, he is awake and watching me closely but he doesn't make a sound. "Morning," I say, "No school today." Nothing. "We can do whatever we want." He still doesn't react, and there's nothing for me to do but lift him and put him into his chair and start going about the day as usual. The board is sitting on the kitchen table waiting for him when he drives into the room and he picks it up himself, shakily, in both hands. It looks like he is about to drop it so I reach out and steady the board as he moves it onto his tray but he pulls it away from me and is holding it over his tray when he loses his grip and it lands, teetering, half–on, half–off the tray. This time when I reach for the board he is merely tense, watchful. "I'm just moving it. That's all," I say quietly. I turn the board until it's right–side–up in front of him and then I move to touch his arm gently. "Hey," I say, but he is already shifting away from me. "Okay, I get it. I get it." I back off, then leave him sitting there, keeping myself busy getting out the things for breakfast — Raisin Bran for me and Honey Nut Cheerios for him. I put the bowl in front of him and we eat in silence, thicker than usual. His shoulders are slumped and I can't stand the look on his face. I wish I could find something to say, but there isn't anything. Then I do the only thing I can think of.

"Want to watch something with me?"

He is uninterested, meeting my question with a blank look.

"No? Not even Star Wars, huh?" I say, and I feel the tension easing inside because that gets a smile. "Ah ha! Gotcha." He is embarrassed, but still smiling, and then he turns and I follow him out of the room without another thought.

On Tuesday, all the way into the city on the subway I am thinking about what I will say to Carol. Carrying the picture board means I have another thing in my hands going down the steps to the station and I wonder a little bitterly if Carol rides the subway. She certainly doesn't have a five–year–old who needs carrying around. I bite my lip and squeeze Jeremy a little tighter. The last thing I will do is let a professional think that I am a bad parent. I have promised myself that today I will cooperate. So I'm thinking about the things I'll say to Carol, but I'm still undecided when we wheel up to the front desk and Gwendolyn greets Jeremy. Finally I settle for standing awkwardly in the doorway of Carol's room, after she's got Jeremy settled with the board in front of him. "Would it be okay if I stayed to watch this week?" I say, quick but uncertain.

"Oh, I don't know," she says, but her tone is light, and she's smiling at Jeremy. "Think you can behave, young sir?" she asks him, and he is grinning. I sit gingerly in a chair just the right size for a four or five–year–old child pushed to one side to allow room for Jeremy's oversized seat.

"Okay, Jeremy, let's start with the board — just a few minutes' worth. I'll try think of some good questions today."

He smiles almost indulgently, waits.

"I know. What's your favorite thing to drink?"

I lean closer, expecting to watch him move his hand over one of the pictures but instead he is holding it over the top right corner, where the alphabet has been added, black letters on a bright yellow square. His hand moves from the S to the P to the R and keeps moving until he's spelled out the word SPRITE.

"Ah ha. What's your least favorite?" Carol keeps going without missing a beat, as if she sees this every day and I am suddenly hot with shame for the surprise I'm sure is clear on my face. Jeremy is finding the answer to her next question and I am tempted to stop them and ask Carol if she's taught him to spell but I can't, not with this lump in my throat.

To answer her this time, he does point to a picture of a carton for MILK. Carol shoots me a conspiratory glance as she responds, "I'm not really surprised."

SORRY is printed under a yellow frowning face, and he points to this and then looks over at me, amused. "That's okay," I say. "I could tell." I laugh a little nervously. "But I've never seen you use the letters before." To that, he just grins.

Carol smiles. "He does have a very good visual memory, doesn't he?"

"Oh. Yes," I say simply, feeling flushed again, but she doesn't see. She's already turned back to him.

"You're going faster," Carol says, "A little bit. Good job. I bet you've been using the board more at home."

YES.

"Good! Well, let's get to the boring stuff, huh?" Jeremy makes a face but he's ready. "We want to practice our "M" sounds today. You remember how that goes, don't you? Press down all the way, make sure your lips are all the way closed . . . good. Then you want to push them apart like you're making a kiss, and let out the air. Like this. 'Mah.' See?"

They practice this for the next thirty minutes and I wonder how Carol is able to keep track of anything he's doing, as I'm definitely losing count of how many times he's practiced this sound, let alone how well he's doing it. From time to time he lets out a whimper, and I am able to focus, but I keep myself seated in the tiny chair.

"I know," Carol says quietly. "But just one more." One more turns into five and I want to tell her not to try tricking my son, my son who can spell, but I bite my tongue. Maybe he is getting a little clearer, a little quicker, each time. I can't hear a difference. I'm beginning to wonder how far past this he will get, how important it is for him to perfect just this one sound, when suddenly Carol is saying "Good! Well, we're done for today.  .  .  .  "

"Um," I jump up, "Can I talk to you?" I sound so eager, so childish.

"Sure. Let me take him over to Pat really quick first."

I stand shifting from foot to foot nervously while I wait for her to come back, and when she does the first thing out of my mouth is, "Earlier, he spelled 'Sprite.'" I am a rocket scientist.

"You were impressed." Carol is completely calm, matter–of–fact.

"I've never seen him  .  .  .  I mean  .  .  .  Does he do that often? What else does he know how to spell?"

"We haven't worked much on spelling or sounding things out, so he hasn't learned to spell any words with me. But he does have the basics, the alphabet, of course. He must have memorized the letters on the bottle. He could probably start learning to spell more words anytime."

"Goodness."

"Actually, Pat had asked me to ask you something, since you're usually not here when he starts with her. She was wondering if you have a typewriter."

"Well, yes."

"She thinks you may want to set it up where he can get to it."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. He can start by practicing the alphabet, of course, and she think he will really enjoy knowing how relatively easy it is to make letters that way, since writing is so hard for him right now. I suspect that if you practice them with him he can listen to you sounding things out and that would really help him in learning."

"You know, he's just turned five, I.  .  .  .  "

"He's very bright. He's looking for a challenge."

"It would seem so."

"You can start with the words on the picture board. He's already been seeing them for about a year and a half, so he can probably copy them — slowly, mind you, and it will still be tiring."

"Of course."

"But I think he'll be glad to have a new project, don't you?"

I can't stop smiling.

* * *

I thought she was going to stay for the whole day at the hospital, but she's not usually there when I practice writing or throwing with Pat or when I stretch with Mary, so soon I forget about it. When she picks me up at the end of therapy, the first thing she says is, "Boy, do I have a surprise for you." She is really excited and I am wondering about it all the way home. While we ride the subway, she is singing 'You say goodbye, and I say hello,' just to me, and I forget that the other noises hurt my ears.

Soon we're home and upstairs and when she puts me into my chair she goes away. I hear a bang and some other noises but soon she asks me to come over near her desk and I do. She winds something and some paper goes into a big box with all the letters in capitals on it and then she says "There. Try." I put my fingers over the keys and then look up at her, curious and a little shy. She presses down on my thumb where it covers the letter B. Then I hit B again by myself. It comes out like 'b' but I know my lowercases too. She puts the picture board down next to me and says "It's neat, huh?"

Green light.

It's easy to make letters, a lot easier than with the pencils. The clicks are loud and make me jump sometimes but I don't even care. I make some more Bs, then I look close at the keys and I see the J and I make some of those too. She just watches me for a while and then she says something really quiet.

"Carol said  .  .  .  maybe you'd want to copy the words off the picture board." For some reason this makes her a little sad. "But maybe we should start with something else. Do you want to find all the letters first? They're mixed up. We could make a game."

Red light.

"Okay. I guess that's boring, huh?"

I try to move my hand for so–so.

She laughs. "Only a little?"

Green light.

"Okay, we'll just try some words. Where do you want to start?" I point to the very first word, on the top and to the left. It's a stick–picture of me waving and it has two letters, for "Hi."

"Oh yeah? And where do you want to finish?" she asks. The last things on the bottom of the board are the colors of the rainbow and I point to the last color: purple.

"Are you sure you want to go all the way to the end?"

Green light.

"You don't want to save some for tomorrow?"

Red light.

She laughs. "Okay, we'll see how far we get."

She teaches me "hi," and then she says that "hello" is a big word, and it is, five letters, but I learn to copy it. Next she teaches me "goodbye." It's long, too, but it has some repeats in it. Then she says we will do the colors next since I like them, even though they're at the end of the board, but then that's it. It's okay because "orange" is confusing. It sounds wrong. I'm still not done learning it when I am getting really tired, and she can tell. She promises we'll practice it tomorrow and says I ain't seen nothin' yet because when people talk about the rainbow purple is really violet, and that's a really hard word. I just hope I can learn "orange" by the time I'm six.

As she lifts me into the bed she says, "Not bad for a boy who's five and one quarter. I bet you there are going to be boys in second grade who are confused about 'orange,' you know." She must be kidding. Second grade is so far away I might not even get that far. But I don't tell her anything because I am too happy about the typewriter and the smile on her face. I can tell I'll learn more tomorrow.