Chapter 11
As we entered the fifth week in
our program, Robertito not only permitted more physical
contact but initiated play with blocks and puzzles
as well as indicated, in a primitive fashion, a desire
for tumbling with his father. He still viewed the
world from the corners of his eyes. He still hand-flapped,
finger-twirled, babbled and paced the room. While
I plotted his growth, I knew he felt no rush to learn,
no temporal deadline to meet. This child moved through
a time zone few of us ever experienced. Even his face
displayed an ageless quality. He had all the time
in the world, but we didn't.
"Here, Robertito," Francisca
said, putting the block in his hand, during a late
afternoon session with her son. "Put it on top
of this one here," she said, pointing. He watched
her hand, then turned away. He rubbed his fingers
against the side of his face, bent his head downward
and smiled to himself.
"You can do it. Here, Robertito.
Put it here." Slowly, he moved his hand and placed
the block on top of the other. Francisca burst into
applause and shouts, then lavished him with stroking.
She trusted herself more now, giving him another block.
Robertito looked at the wood cube and flapped it only
for a few seconds. Since the intensive daily massages,
his hand "isms" had decreased noticeably.
Moving at a snail's pace, the little boy put the third
block on top of the small pile. Francisca dared the
procedure again. They continued working together until
the tower had grown to the height of eighteen blocks.
After this massive concentration,
Robertito jumped in place, flapped his hand and laughed.
Francisca mimicked him and also laughed. Later, he
ambled over to the radiator, grabbed a drumstick,
hit one of the keys on the xylophone. Laura and Suzi
had worked weeks with him without results. Now, somewhere
in the privacy of his own mind, he plugged a circuit
together and made a connection in an act self-motivated
and self-directed.
When she finished feeding him dinner,
Francisca placed the remaining food behind her. Robertito
darted for it. She grabbed for the glass but missed
it as her son squeezed a handful of lettuce and tomatoes
between his fingers. She removed the food from his
tight grip. He threw himself toward the glass again.
This time, anticipating his action, she swooped it
off the floor and put it outside the room. Robertito
Soto began to cry. His face cringed, his larynx wailed
a noisy protest ... yet his eyes remained oddly passive.
Francisca bit her lip and ground
her teeth. Although she had realized that her actions
often supported and encouraged his crying, she found
it difficult to be loving and neutral at the same
time. "If you want to cry, that's okay,"
she said. "When you're finished, we can play
again. I'll be here."
She contemplated imitating his cry,
but short-circuited the impulse. She repeated a scenario
in her head. "He's trying to get what he wants.
If he decides to cry, that's his choice." When
she touched him, he pulled away, "If you want
food, say 'co.' Or point your finger like this."
She demonstrated, but her son seemed oblivious to
her commentary. "Okay, my love. I'll be here."
The screeching bellowed in her ears.
She wished for some of her son's skills, envying his
ability to shut off his sensory intake at will. She
tapped her fingers together and tried to concentrate
on the movement. Then Francisca looked up at her son
and gasped. A single tear dripped down Robertito's
cheek, then a second one and a third one until a small
river ran along the bridge of his nose and down the
sides of his chin. In all the tantrums in Mexico,
he always cried a dry cry. She watched her son cry
real tears for the very first time. A battle ensued
within her. He had to be unhappy. The other times
didn't count. How could she just sit by? He was unhappy,
genuinely unhappy and she wanted to comfort him. When
she embraced her son, he pulled away and screamed
angrily. Disoriented, Francisca propped herself against
the wall. "Okay, Mama will wait." Robertito
continued crying real tears for the next forty-five
minutes. Finally Francisca scrambled out the door
and returned with the food. Robertito stopped immediately
upon seeing the glass in his mother's hand. His smooth,
wet face seemed curiously devoid of any expression
of sadness.
Before putting him to bed, Francisca
decided to give her son a bath. Once completely nude,
Robertito pulled away from his mother and ran through
the halls. He laughed, giggled and cooed. He touched
himself freely, exploring with his fingers. Francisca
watched her son, awed and slightly embarrassed by
his apparent pleasure. For his entire life, major
portions of his body had been unavailable to him,
wrapped in the seclusion of diapers and pins. As he
became more willing to pause from his "isms"
and explore, he found himself in a way that he had
never done before. Even as she lowered him into the
warm bath, he still smiled enthusiastically, kicking
his feet in the water and exploring his hidden parts.
He climbed out of the tub very relaxed.
Francisca wiped him as he collapsed into a heap on
the floor. She dried his arms and legs carefully,
having made an art of the few motherly duties he permitted
her to perform. Then, quite suddenly, Robertito sat
up, looked at his mother and, in a gesture so natural
yet unfamiliar, he rested his head on her lap. Although
Francisca was filled with emotion, she didn't let
herself cry as she gently stroked her son's back.
She had had more concrete opportunities
to love her child during the past five weeks than
during the previous five years of his life.
*****
Each moment brought a special pleasure
to Suzi, nurturing Robertito as she had once nurtured
her own son. After she guided him to his chair, he
waited impatiently, alert to her movements. He had
seen the cereal. A moment before, even as his stomach
gurgled, the idea of eating never occurred to him.
Most of his pursuits resulted only after something
concrete stimulated his eyes or ears.
Food no longer came to Robertito
as a disconnected item amid a jungle of noise and
activity surrounding him. Food no longer suddenly
appeared in a cup or bowl sitting solo on a table.
People gave him food. Suzi gave him food. She circled
her student like a matador. He turned in his chair,
not wanting to lose visual contact with the item she
carried. Suzi positioned herself on the floor in front
of him so their eyes met on the same level. She dug
deep into the cup, filled the spoon, brought it up
to a point right between her eyes and said "co"
three times. Then, she lowered the spoon into his
opened mouth. "The best," she said each
time those big brown eyes met hers. "Yes. It's
me, Suzi. Here you go again. Co. Co. This is co."
He did not flap once. Although he made infant sounds
as he chewed, Robertito appeared almost normal to
her. She noted sixteen different incidents of eye
contact.
For the remainder of the session,
his interest waned. He began to rock. She joined him,
but he did not appear attentive to her parallel motion.
He slid within himself. She had lost him in a matter
of minutes. As she followed Robertito across the room,
flapping and babbling with him, she couldn't help
but wonder what she had done. Did she miss a cue?
Was she pushing too much? Had she been insensitive
to his fatigue?
The session lingered with her. She
kept thinking about Robertito all through the rest
of the day. In the evening, we talked about her questions.
But even as she settled back into bed, our little
Mexican friend haunted her.
Exhaustion enveloped her quickly
as she fell asleep. Within seconds, she experienced
herself airborne. The buoyancy allowed her to float
to the ceiling. A warm sensation enshrouded her body.
When she looked down, she was no longer in our bedroom.
She watched Francisca work with Robertito in his room.
The little boy followed directions quite well, surprisingly
more efficient than her memory of him that afternoon.
She loved to watch Francisca teach him, tickle him,
caress him. Though she loved to work with Robertito,
she knew, from her own past, the special exhilaration
for a mother helping her own child. In the midst of
completing an unusually complex puzzle, Robertito
tapped Francisca's shoulder and asked for food. He
didn't say "co." He didn't say comida. He
spoke clearly, using a very simple, short sentence.
Suzi gasped. Francisca gave her son a spoonful of
shrimp and rice without any particular expression
of surprise. Robertito then asked her to massage big
hand. "He's talking," Suzi screamed, "He's
talking, Francisca. Don't you know how fantastic this
is? Robertito is talking." She heard her own
voice as she jumped up in the bed. Her face felt flushed.
"It was real," she whispered in the darkness
as she grabbed my arm and related the dream. She exhaled
deeply, then fell back against the pillow. Suzi remembered
Nancy's dreams about Raun... all of which, ultimately,
came true. If it could only be, she murmured to herself
as her eyelids closed. If it could only be. Sleep
grabbed her and another door opened.
Robertito stood in the kitchen by
the sink. Suzi greeted him with surprise.
"Why aren't you in your room?"
she said, then chuckled to herself. Very gently, she
took his hand and led him back to the staircase. At
the first step, he bolted and ran back into the kitchen.
Suzi called to Francisca and Roby. No one answered.
She called to Charlotte, then Laura. Still no reply.
How could it be possible? Who's working with him?
Then she realized it had been her turn.
"Let's go, Robertito,"
she said in Spanish.
The little boy looked directly at
her and said: "I want some food, please."
Suzi gasped. "Did you talk,
Robertito?"
He smiled at her and repeated his
sentence. She swung the door open and let him take
whatever he wanted. Rather than charge for the food,
he removed some bread and butter. Using a knife expertly,
he spread the soft creamy substance. "Can I please
have some juice?" he said casually. She started
to cheer and woke herself up. Suzi stared at the ceiling,
confused by the bombardment of dreams. "Wow,"
she said to herself as she performed a circular breathing
exercise. The darkness enveloped her again.
The noise in the room created a strange
cacophony of sound. A group of well-dressed men and
women conversed in Spanish. Two guitarists played
subdued flamenco music. Five animated teenagers talked
together near the couch. One voice sounded familiar.
As Suzi side-stepped closer to the cluster of children,
she recognized the back of Robertito's head. She pushed
a small table aside in order to improve her view.
She gasped when she positively identified him. Words
tumbled from his mouth. Although she listened carefully,
the sophistication of his language exceeded her knowledge.
"He talks better than me," she mumbled.
"Robertito," she called. He turned toward
her, but did not seem to recognize her. "Wait,
don't look away. It's me. Suzi. You remember. You
must remember." Her eyes burst open. The voices
had disappeared. Her pulse thumped in her throat.
She rolled out of bed and reviewed each dream. She
loved them, but she wanted to stop them. Again, the
thought of Nancy. But Raun was different, she argued
to herself. Raun had been one and a half. Robertito
was almost six. She placed an image of Robertito pacing
and flapping before her mind's eye and then smiled.
Suzi did not want to create fantasies which might
never be fulfilled. "One day at a time,"
she whispered to the night.
*****
Robertito sat by himself against
the wall. Though he flapped, he watched Raun out of
the corner of his eye. His immediate awareness of
Raun's presence had been enhanced by Raun's performance.
Suzi observed from the side of the room. Under her
direction, our son jumped on the mattress, did somersaults
and played flamboyantly with the blocks and pegboard.
"Okay, sweet boy, I want you
to be with him," she said. "Do what he does
like we showed you."
Raun grinned from ear to ear. He
squatted in front of Robertito enthusiastically and
flapped his hands. After several seconds, he laughed.
Each time he tried to stop himself, he giggled more.
"This is funny," he whispered, not wanting
to insult his companion. The two children moved as
one for several minutes. Then Robertito paced the
room. Raun followed. Robertito grunted sounds. Raun
imitated him.
"Mommy, can I squeeze his cheeks?
You think he'd like that?"
"I don't know, Raunchy,"
she answered. "Why don't we wait till later.
Right now, concentrate on being with him."
As they walked beside one another,
Robertito watched Raun's feet carefully, though he
did not look directly at him. From time to time, Raun
giggled, excited to participate a second time and
thoroughly amused by his friend's antics.
When the boys sat together in the
center of the room, Suzi supplied them with cardboard
blocks decorated with cartoons. Raun began building
a bridge. Robertito babbled. With a natural ease,
Raun repeated the exact sound and cadence. He turned
to Suzi. "I'm talking to him in autistic talk."
He thought a moment. "It's different than Spanish."
Suzi was amazed at the frequency
of Robertito's smiles during Raun's sessions with
him.
Robertito put his hand over his mouth.
Each time Raun mimicked him, he pulled it off. Then
he peered at Raun's hands assembling the blocks. Robertito
picked up one cube and turned it around in front of
his eyes. Although he had been presented with them
many times, for the first time, he noticed the cartoons.
"You see them, don't you?"
Suzi bubbled in Spanish. "That's Daffy Duck.
And Pluto." She squished her nose, chuckling
several oink-oink sounds. "Of course, that's
my friend Porky Pig." She laughed at the facial
contortions on Robertito's face. "You're a wonderful
boy."
Then Suzi turned and smiled at our
son. She spoke in English. "You're a wonderful
boy, too." She stared at Raun and remembered
vividly when he, too, lived in a world dominated by
self-stimulating behaviors ... when he, too, was mute
and unresponsive. The eyes of both children had a
strikingly similar intensity. Although Robertito was
large and slightly plump while Raun was petite and
delicate, the two shared a certain brotherhood.
As they faced each other, Raun touched
Robertito's cheeks. Suzi guided Robertito's limp hands
along Raun's face. He allowed the contact, giving
Raun several quick glances. Then, on his own initiative,
the little boy stroked our son's face. Raun's eyes
enlarged. "Look. He's doing it by himself. Isn't
that great?" He also pushed his fingers into
Raun's mouth and played with his tongue.
Later, Suzi invited Francisca to
participate. She put the tape recorder on and had
Francisca dance with Raun. Robertito watched intently,
still relying on his peripheral vision. He began to
rock to the rhythm on his own. Suzi took his hands
and followed his lead. When the music stopped, Robertito
continued his surveillance of Raun and his mother.
Suzi asked Francisca to solo. She moved across the
room using the loose two-step she had taught her son.
He watched her for five minutes and then broke away
from the wall in order to approach her. Suzi felt
her pulse rate jump. Very slowly, Robertito began
the two-step and extended his hands until they touched
his mother's waist. I cheered from the sidelines.
Francisca poked her chin out, her every movement oozing
with pride. She straightened her hair.
After Francisca left, Suzi continued
following the cues of her student as well as trying
to stimulate his interest in stringing beads. When
Robertito began scratching his pants near his genitals,
Suzi whisked him toward the bathroom. We had noticed
that he touched himself either just after or when
he was about to urinate. After Suzi removed his diapers,
she stood him at the toilet bowl.
"Raun. Show Robertito how you
go to the bathroom," she suggested.
Our son giggled, "Hey, look
at me, Robertito."
"Mira, Robertito, mira,"
Suzi said, pointing to the stream of liquid. Robertito
focused on the point where the stream hit the water
rather than at the point of origin. Suzi modeled him
in the same position as her son. Robertito looked,
down at the water, then made a repetitious sucking
sound with his mouth. Suzi waited several minutes
before seating him on the toilet. He jumped up several
times, but then returned to the seat. Ten more minutes
passed. Robertito never utilized the bowl for its
intended function. She diapered him again. Before
she left the room, she placed his right hand on the
faucet. He turned the knob slowly, demonstrating growing
strength in his limbs, especially on his right side.
The week before, he could not turn it.
Back in the room, Raun leaned over
and kissed his young friend. Suzi felt the unstated
communion. The energy between them devastated her.
As they left the Soto house, she
questioned Raun. "Did you have fun?"
"It was great," Raun declared,
rubbing his stomach as if that had been where he felt
it. "He was so good that I thought he was about
to talk ... you know, in English." He smiled
to himself. "I like rocking with him and dancing.
I like everything else, but I like that part the best."
"Raunchy, were you happy when
you were autistic?" Suzi asked.
He thought for a moment. "Yes,"
he answered, "but I like it better now."
Chapter
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