Revealing the Dead Read online

  Abby sighed inwardly. “You weren’t kidding about the patience part. Tell me, how did you get into this?”

  “My younger sister was autistic. And our mother wasn’t the best person to deal with a problem like that. She wasn’t exactly educated, and she wasn’t a particularly loving person. My sister was just smart enough to be a problem and get in her face, so there were a lot of fights. A lot of screaming, on both sides. Once I was old enough to understand, I thought there must be a better way to handle things. You know, in the bad old days kids like that would have been locked up in an asylum, and I bet a lot of parents were happy to get them off their hands, whether or not they’d admit it. That’s just not right. Whatever their problems, these kids are people. They just see and react to the world differently than most people.”

  Abby smiled. “That’s about what I thought. There’s someone there inside, and they need help to understand and to get out.”

  “Yeah, but don’t think you can save the world. There’s always research going on, but there’s no magic switch or potion that will help them open up. But that doesn’t mean people shouldn’t keep trying, and boy, does it feel good when you make that connection, no matter how small.”

  Then I should fit just fine—if things work out. “I hope so. Thanks, Brenda. Now, point me toward the next room, please.”

  “Up the stairs you came down, turn right, and third door on the left.”

  Most of the students seemed to have made their way to their next—what was she supposed to call them? activity?—so Abby was one of the last to slip into the room. The teacher nodded at her but kept on talking to the students. Abby found a seat at the back corner and settled down to listen. She deliberately had not brought anything to write on, because she had worried that it might upset or distract the children if they noticed her scribbling. Besides, now she could focus on other things—facial expressions, interactions between the children, how the teacher handled the class, and what materials she was covering. The students in this room appeared a bit older than the ones in the last room, and the boys outnumbered the girls about two to one. Abby wondered what gender ratio the school tried to achieve, and whether that was even a criterion for selection. And, she added with a dash of guilt, did how did the size of the parents’ wallets factor into that equation?

  It took her a few minutes to understand what level these children were operating on. They seemed to understand the concepts of words and spelling, but that was only one part of reading. How much did they understand meaning? This was beyond simple sentences, but what about the concepts? Again, she acknowledged that she’d only skimmed the surface of available literature, but did autistic persons—child or adult—understand what friendship was? Romantic relationships? Would the teacher include books with such themes in the usual syllabus, or try to avoid them—which would severely limit the available literature? Or could she or he use those books as models for mainstream emotional relationships for the children?

  Maybe she should have brought a notepad, because she was coming up with more and more questions. How do you teach children when they don’t speak your language, in multiple senses of the word? Is the goal to make them functional members of society, able to use their often unusual intelligence to make a real contribution, even if it was achieved in an unorthodox way? Or was it enough to make them happy with their lives, able to cope with ordinary day-to-day living?

  And why on earth did she think she could help? How presumptuous of her. A dialogue began in her head. Abby, why do you think you can do anything for these children?

  Well, I have a unique skill that might—just might—open up a new way of communicating with them. And it hasn’t been tried before.

  Sure, if it’s real. You could be crazy, you know.

  No, I don’t believe that. I’ve met other people who share this, and we communicate with each other in nontypical ways.

  But why do you think this will work with kids whose brains aren’t wired the way most people’s are?

  Ned can bring in science—we’ve already started that.

  But will it fix the kids?

  We aren’t even thinking of fixing them—we want to understand them first. It makes my heart ache to think of all that intelligence and capability being locked away inside them forever. And some of the kids are miserable because they’re pretty much out of step with the world around them.

  So why is that your problem?

  Because I think I can help. That’s all I want to do! Not make money, not write important papers, just let these kids find a bigger niche in the world.

  Good luck with that, Abby.

  Abby dragged herself away from the naysaying voice in her head and tried to focus on what was happening in front of her. The kids were well behaved and quiet. Maybe too quiet. Were they paying attention? Or were they lost in whatever they saw in their heads? Or were they completely confused by the abstract concepts the teacher was trying to convey, even on a simple level? Did “abstract” even apply to autistic people? They absorbed what they saw and heard or even smelled and interpreted it in a way that made sense, but maybe only to them.

  Abby was ashamed to admit that she was relieved when the class finally ended. She hadn’t contributed anything, but she’d listened hard. And succeeded in depressing herself. Was this foolish experiment of hers going to work at all?

  The teacher was the last to leave. “So, you’re Abby. I’m Sandra. What did you think?”

  “I think I’ll stick to the younger kids. I can’t begin to imagine how you can teach reading to children with learning disabilities, coupled with the absence of any sort of emotional connection with the words they’re reading.”

  The teacher took a step back and studied Abby critically. “What did you think this would be? Butterflies and bluebirds? It’s hard work.”

  “I know that. Or I thought I did. But reading descriptions on a page is not the same as seeing it. Tell me, how do you talk about books—any books—if you leave the human relationships out? What do these children make of emotional attachments or even love stories?”

  “Abby, that’s a difficult question. We know they are capable of love and friendship, but it’s the expression of those feelings that they struggle with. At least reading about them in literature helps them to recognize the signals that other people expect. They have to recognize human actions and reactions and understand them, in order to show them. A lot of these kids are really smart, and they can find a niche of their own in the sciences or computer programming and the like. But first they have to get the jobs, and to do that they have to learn how to interact and to read expressions. Most of us do that simply by growing up and observing. These kids have to make a conscious effort to learn to do that. And many of them don’t even want to, because it’s scary.”

  “I can understand that—it’s scary enough even if you’re not autistic, putting yourself out there to be judged. And dealing with rejection too.”

  “Not your typical kindergarten, eh?” Sandra said, not without sympathy. “Look, don’t be ashamed if you decide you can’t handle this. Nobody pretends it’s easy to reach these kids, and in a way, it’s like they never grow up. On the plus side, they keep learning all the time, throughout their lives. On the minus side, it’s an endless job.”

  “Do you think it makes a difference if you start working with them when they’re young?”

  “I do, although I don’t know what all the experts have to say. But think about it—most children with autism don’t show any symptoms until they’re two or three, and at that point things can change significantly. But maybe if you can reach them early, the lines of communication will stay open as they get older. Maybe. We always have hope, but you also have to be prepared to be disappointed.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your honesty. Is there another class now that I should go to?”

  Sandra checked the clock on the wall. “They’ve got a break now. They’re still kids, and they need to burn off some energy. Why not wa
tch them on the playground for a bit, then track down Carolyn? She can tell you the afternoon schedule.”

  “I’ll do that. Oh, how do I get to the playground?”

  “Behind the building.”

  “Thanks.” Abby left the room and wandered down the hall until she came to a set of doors that led outside. There was a short flight of stairs that led down to what she guessed must be the playground. Once outside, she found a bench near the door and sat down to watch the children—and to think.

  Okay, maybe she’d been naïve. She’d been so excited when she’d felt something on touching Danny, but maybe she hadn’t exactly thought through what to do with that discovery. Yes, she still believed it could be a conduit to communicating with these children in a new way. No, she hadn’t assumed she would stroll through a group patting each one on the head and thereby liberating their true inner selves. And everybody would live happily ever after. Right.

  But what was the standard for success? Was making a significant connection to one child enough? Or how many? Was she just grasping at straws because she was bored and restless and she wanted something important to do?

  Oh, shut up, Abby. That annoying inner voice was back. You haven’t even made it through one day and you’re ready to give up?

  She sat up straighter on the bench. No, I’m not a quitter. I have a rare talent, and I want to use it to do something good.

  Yeah, the voice sneered, and you want to be a superheroine and save the world. This would be hard work, you know.

  I get that. But it’s worth trying, isn’t it?

  Inner voice did not reply. Abby told herself it was just first-day jitters, and she shouldn’t judge on so little information. She took a few deep breaths and started watching the children and how they interacted.

  Or didn’t. The scene was so quiet. Some kids just sat and rocked. Others appeared to have brought a toy along—was that a Rubik’s cube she saw? Some marched purposefully around the perimeter of the playground, without talking to anyone. She thought about her own school days, when she and her friends would create complicated stories and act them out together. Was there a theater class here at this school? And she hadn’t visited a music class yet. Wasn’t music just a different expression of mathematical functions—pitches, intervals and such? Would a group of students hear the same pitch, follow the same beat? That could be interesting.

  She stood up and went back inside to look for Carolyn, to report on her morning.

  Chapter 22

  Tuesday

  Ned was already home when Abby arrived, feeling both exhilarated and exhausted. He greeted her with a glass of white wine. “So, how’d it go?”

  “I don’t even know where to start! I’m not sure what I expected, but it was kind of fascinating to watch the kids both singly and as a group. I think I told you that I’ve never spent any time with an autistic child, and whatever research I did barely scratched the surface. And dealing with a group of children, all of whom had different needs and abilities, isn’t easy.” She took a sip of wine. “I’m beat. And all I did was watch, and talk to people.”

  Ned’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Yeah, using your brain is tiring. Sit down and tell me about it.”

  “First I’m taking my shoes off.” She sat at the kitchen table and pulled off her shoes, then sat back with a happy sigh. “Better. So, from the top. Arrived on time, but Carolyn was already there waiting for me. We talked for a while, about why she even agreed to consider me at all, given my total lack of relevant credentials, and what her philosophy for the school is, and how students are chosen, and then how they’re grouped, and what she hopes to accomplish. I really like her—she seems well grounded.”

  “Any surprises?”

  “Not from her. But when I spent time with the kids I realized I hadn’t given enough thought to the challenges of teaching such a diverse group who don’t think like most of us do. I mean the day-to-day stuff, not the big picture. There are things that a lot of them understand, but in completely different ways. Math is easy for a lot of them. But music? Art? How do you put that into words? Or do you even try? By the way, some of the art the kids make is amazing—colors, structure, a full spectrum.”

  “They’re not just copying an image?”

  “Not at all. Well, in some cases, but they’re copying what they see in their minds, not a piece of paper in front of them. And some of the pictures are both abstract and structured at the same time, if you can understand that.”

  “I think so, but it might be easier if I see what you’re talking about. Did you . . . connect with any of the kids?”

  “Maybe. I was so wired, and I was trying to watch so many things at once, that it was hard to tell. But there was this one boy in the art group . . .” Abby shut her eyes to better recall what she thought had happened. “He was working on an unfinished painting, very focused, you know, and I was watching and trying to decide what color it was, like gray or silver. I guess I got closer to him than I meant to, and I brushed his shoulder, and I heard the word ‘blue.’ And I think it came from him. He didn’t turn around to look at me, or even flinch, and he didn’t say anything out loud. It was like he was answering the question in my head. I know, that’s not enough to build on, but it’s a start. Maybe.”

  “Will you be going back?” Ned asked cautiously.

  “Of course I will. I’ve barely gotten started, and I need to digest what I’ve seen and learned. And I have to let the children recognize me and get to know me before I even think about snooping around in their heads. And I don’t even know which ones might connect with me, so I kind of have to get to know everybody. Or at least the younger ones. I think that might be a good group to work with, and it would reduce the numbers—I can’t deal with everybody, at least not at first. Unless you have any better suggestions?”

  “I can probably do a summary for you about how a child’s brain develops over the first few years,” he said. “I mean the physiological changes, not whatever they’re receiving or storing in there. And then correlate that with what little we know about which parts do what, and how these psychic phenomena fit, which is even murkier.”

  “Oh, good, I’ve found something to keep you busy. We should have some really interesting dinner conversations. Speaking of which, what’s for dinner?”

  “Take-out.”

  “Works for me,” Abby told him.

  Ned placed a phone order for Chinese food and then said, “You’re watching Ellie on Friday, right?”

  “Yes, and you’re talking to Japanese investors. Maybe I can bounce some ideas about the kids off of Ellie. We’re still on with your mother for Turkey Day?”

  “Of course. She calls it honoring our ancestors, and she wouldn’t miss it unless there was a plague or maybe an earthquake.”

  “Are we bringing anything? I’d say Ellie and I could make something tomorrow afternoon, but it seems kind of cruel to expect Ellie to bake something that she won’t get a chance to eat. Think we’ll ever be able to let her get to know Sarah? She is her grandmother, after all.”

  “I know, but Leslie would skin me alive if I opened that can of worms. We agreed to let her call the shots.”

  “Nicely mangled metaphor,” Abby said, smiling.

  “Thank you—I try. What I think Leslie doesn’t realize, or doesn’t want to realize, is that Ellie sees and understands far more than an ordinary kid her age. And there are so many mixed couples these days, I don’t think anything would surprise her.”

  “You’re probably right, but I’ll let you navigate all that. Unless or until Ellie asks flat out what the real story is. Has her class visited Plymouth, or the Plantation, do you know?”

  “Uh, not that I recall, and the school budget for field trips, even educational ones, keeps getting cut. I’m sure she knows what it is, though. I know I went as a kid, but I dragged you through it at top speed, when we were hunting for ancestors, so I don’t suppose you saw much.”

  “We didn’t see the Plantation anywa
y, just the town. And before you and I got together, it was clear that living history parks were not Brad’s thing.”

  “Then we should plan an excursion. Although I think the place closes after their big Thanksgiving feast, and won’t open again until spring.”

  “It’s been there this long—I think I can wait.”

  The doorbell rang, and Ned went to collect their food, and its aromas wafted into the kitchen before he reappeared. “Can we eat now?” Abby said plaintively.

  • • •

  They went to bed shortly after they finished eating, and Ned fell asleep quickly. Abby was tired, but her mind kept spinning with what she’d seen and what she’d like to be able to do. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit she hadn’t fully understood how “different” autistic children were. Her experience lay with dealing with small children. Not that they weren’t all different too, but they were all marching along the same path toward growing up and learning. They might not all be at the same point of development, but it was close enough that a teacher could handle a group without too much conflict. With autistic children, it was almost a three-dimensional problem. The were moving in different directions, at different rates, and it was almost as though they were speaking different languages—if they spoke at all. There was no simple way to classify and sort them into groups. No wonder this kind of school had so many teachers! A teacher there had to know her, or his, students and work out the best strategies to benefit the largest number.

  Abby wondered why she thought she could integrate the psychic component into the whole scene? There was no systematic way to do it. She almost laughed when she tried to picture lining up all the children in a row, then walking along it and touching each one to see if there was a spark. She’d need an assistant to accompany her and record who responded and how. The teachers would think she was crazy, if they even let her do it. And assuming the students would even put up with it. She knew she couldn’t push too hard, and she couldn’t explain what she was trying to do. And it was hard to be patient.