Read Online Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes by Carol Lea Benjamin - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol Lea Benjamin
Ads: Link
square, his round face flat. Charlotte was there, too, sharpening a stack of colored pencils, watching the curl of wood as it emerged from the sharpener, smelling each new point carefully before she laid the pencil down and picked up the next one. I gave her shoulder a quick squeeze in passing, but she never looked up. Touch is considered pretty much of a no-no with autistics, but I hadn’t found that to be the case. If I didn’t believe the people I worked with had the same need for contact as everyone else, what on earth was I doing here? Maybe it was because of Dashiell that I could get away with touching. I didn’t know. But hadn’t Venus done it, too, a quick touch on David’s shoulder in passing, over and done with before he even knew it was happening?
When I’d first worked with Emily, a touch would start her trembling, her arms jerking violently up and down, her head shaking from side to side. I’d wait until she stopped, then touch her again, patting her arm and putting a hand on her shoulder for just a second. Each time, her reaction was less violent and shorter-lived until, near the end, before she was to move to a larger institution closer to where her parents lived, she would hug me if I requested it, though never on her own.
By the time we’d gotten to the far comer of the dining room, Jackson had stopped painting. He had wiped his hands carefully on some paper towels and was sitting there, staring straight ahead, a man of about sixty, tall, thin, elegant looking in his collarless shirt, even though he had paint all over his cuffs and on his cheek where he’d forgotten and touched himself before wiping his hands. I took the chair next to his, leaving room for Dashiell to come in between us and place his head on Jackson’s leg.
“How are you today?”
I waited for a response, then when none came, I waited for an inspiration.
“I like your painting,” I told him, looking at it rather than at him. “What do you call it?”
That went over in a big way. Jackson didn’t even blink. I told him my name, then Dashiell’s. He never moved.
I waited some more. I didn’t mind the waiting. Having done this work for years, I was used to it. Sometimes you could sit with someone for a long time, and nothing discernible would happen. But the dog was there, and somehow, sometimes—no one knew quite how—that helped them forge a path from their shut-off world to the larger world they didn’t trust, didn’t quite understand. If I was patient, even if I didn’t see anything change, sometimes it did. Then next time, or the time after, there might be some communication, or some action. They might pet Dashiell. Or they might just be less tense, less fearful.
This time, with the case on my mind and so little to go on, I was too antsy to sit around as if I, too, were in a semi-catatonic state.
“How about if you turn your chair around,” I said, figuring, what the hell, it was worth a try, “and I’ll show you some neat stuff Dashiell can do. Would you like that, Jackson?”
To my utter surprise, Jackson turned his chair, and keeping my promise, I showed him how Dashiell works on voice commands, hand signals, and whistle signals. I did mostly ordinary stuff—sit, stay, lie down, come, some silent distance work, the seek-back—no big thing for me and Dashiell, but for someone whose life was contained year after year in one building—the world going by without him, hemlines going up and down, sitcoms appearing and getting canceled, books making the list or being remaindered—for this man who lived as if he were being punished for some wrongdoing he could no longer remember, who was virtually in jail, if he were able to concentrate on what was before him, Dashiell’s demonstration of basic obedience might have seemed as thrilling as the first time you see fireworks, your father saying, That one’s called spaghetti, or Look, goldfish, your mother’s favorite, the sky lit up gold and white, your hand
When I’d first worked with Emily, a touch would start her trembling, her arms jerking violently up and down, her head shaking from side to side. I’d wait until she stopped, then touch her again, patting her arm and putting a hand on her shoulder for just a second. Each time, her reaction was less violent and shorter-lived until, near the end, before she was to move to a larger institution closer to where her parents lived, she would hug me if I requested it, though never on her own.
By the time we’d gotten to the far comer of the dining room, Jackson had stopped painting. He had wiped his hands carefully on some paper towels and was sitting there, staring straight ahead, a man of about sixty, tall, thin, elegant looking in his collarless shirt, even though he had paint all over his cuffs and on his cheek where he’d forgotten and touched himself before wiping his hands. I took the chair next to his, leaving room for Dashiell to come in between us and place his head on Jackson’s leg.
“How are you today?”
I waited for a response, then when none came, I waited for an inspiration.
“I like your painting,” I told him, looking at it rather than at him. “What do you call it?”
That went over in a big way. Jackson didn’t even blink. I told him my name, then Dashiell’s. He never moved.
I waited some more. I didn’t mind the waiting. Having done this work for years, I was used to it. Sometimes you could sit with someone for a long time, and nothing discernible would happen. But the dog was there, and somehow, sometimes—no one knew quite how—that helped them forge a path from their shut-off world to the larger world they didn’t trust, didn’t quite understand. If I was patient, even if I didn’t see anything change, sometimes it did. Then next time, or the time after, there might be some communication, or some action. They might pet Dashiell. Or they might just be less tense, less fearful.
This time, with the case on my mind and so little to go on, I was too antsy to sit around as if I, too, were in a semi-catatonic state.
“How about if you turn your chair around,” I said, figuring, what the hell, it was worth a try, “and I’ll show you some neat stuff Dashiell can do. Would you like that, Jackson?”
To my utter surprise, Jackson turned his chair, and keeping my promise, I showed him how Dashiell works on voice commands, hand signals, and whistle signals. I did mostly ordinary stuff—sit, stay, lie down, come, some silent distance work, the seek-back—no big thing for me and Dashiell, but for someone whose life was contained year after year in one building—the world going by without him, hemlines going up and down, sitcoms appearing and getting canceled, books making the list or being remaindered—for this man who lived as if he were being punished for some wrongdoing he could no longer remember, who was virtually in jail, if he were able to concentrate on what was before him, Dashiell’s demonstration of basic obedience might have seemed as thrilling as the first time you see fireworks, your father saying, That one’s called spaghetti, or Look, goldfish, your mother’s favorite, the sky lit up gold and white, your hand
Similar Books
