Читать книгу A Thunderous Silence. Raising an Autistic child. My True Story - Anna Visloukh - Страница 9

He has been staring at this wall for a whole good hour, running his fingers down it and whispering something. I wonder what he finds so interesting there in this chipping wall that hasn’t been painted for a very long time. I want to ask him about it, but instead I walk away and continue to pace the strangely silent and empty school corridor.

We are waiting to be invited into the office where the Psychological, Medical and Educational Commission are meeting. They have kept us waiting for almost an hour. My irritation is reaching a boiling point.

«What do you see there, Tim?»

I stop next to my son and touch his arm. He winces, raises his eyes, and I realize that his mind has been somewhere else, not here in this echoing school corridor with worn linoleum on the floor and peeling paint on the walls.

«Mom… Shhh… Be quiet…» My son presses a finger to his lips. «You might scare him.»

«Oh my God, who is he?»

«He is here… You see this crack?» Tim runs his hand over the intricate winding path formed after the paint has peeled off. It has probably fallen off from age. I guess the last time the school was renovated was in the 70’s, and we are already in the 90’s. These days there is no funding for renovation when teachers don’t get their salaries for six months in a row. I don’t know either when I will get paid next… My thoughts turn to everyday problems, but my son’s voice brings me back to the school corridor.

«Can you see him, Mom?»

«Yes, I see it, Tim, I see it! It’s just a crack in the wall. It’s time the wall was repainted…»

«What are you talking about? If they do that then they will lock him in, and he won’t be able to come out again!»

«Who is he, Timmy?»

«A little man.» Tim indicates the size by showing a tiny distance between his thumb and forefinger. «He’s been living here for a long time. I saw him and even talked to him.»

«Tim, I understand that you have made this up. It’s all very interesting, but…»

«Mom! I did not make it up! You have no idea how interesting it is to watch him! Just stand close for a little while and you will see for yourself, but he might be scared of you.»

I am about to give him a lecture on fantasy: it is useful indeed but this is not the proper time and the proper place for it, when the door to the classroom finally opens. A woman looking stressed and her unhappy child leave the room, and we are invited to enter. I grab Tim by the hand, and we rush into the room. Just tell me quickly what you’ve made up about my child, and then we can go home.

In the classroom there are several women sitting behind a long table, looking very serious. One of them is wearing a doctor’s white gown.

«Boy, come here to us,» she says in a surprisingly gentle and kindly manner. «And you, mother, just take a seat over there.»

Well, at least they don’t throw me out. I sit behind a school desk and prepare for the worst; I am so tense I hear ringing in my ears. I am suspicious about the woman with the kindly voice.

The ladies ask my son his name and what class he studies in. What do they take him for, an idiot? I am about to protest, but the woman with the kindly voice stops me.

«Don’t worry, it’s a standard procedure.»

Yes, right. I know all about your standard procedures. My boy might get stage fright, make mistakes and end up in the remedial class straight away. Meanwhile, a lively debate is already taking place at the table. The psychologists ask Tim questions, and I must say that he responds quite well. They only need to remind him a few times now and then that everyone is waiting for him to answer.

Well, that is nothing new to me, and I don’t see anything terrible about that. Yes, my boy’s mind would stray, that’s all. He’s just like the absent-minded character from a children’s book, the poem written by Samuel Marshak. I remember the picture from the book where the main personage walks along the street with a colander on his head and with gloves on his feet, and it makes me smile.

«I see you find all this amusing, mother,» the one with the kindly voice reproaches me, drilling through me with her eyes.

I was right. She is about as kindly as an Amazonian crocodile.

«There is nothing here for you to laugh about. He doesn’t understand basic things! He can’t tell his right hand from his left hand! He doesn’t know the months, or even what week day it is today. Just take a look at his workbooks!»

To my horror, somebody produces his workbooks totally bleeding in the teacher’s red ink.

«This is truly dreadful! This is a clear case of disorphography (a persistent inability to apply spelling rules when writing). Also he can’t pronounce half of the alphabet. Does he attend a speech therapist?»