For other sets of behaviors, the decision of whether or not to use physical punishment may seem less clear-cut, although these behaviors may be just as damaging to the child. For example, there is a group of behaviors, such as endless rocking, spinning, eye rolling, arm flapping, gazing, etc., that seem quite “addictive” to many children … You may attempt to suppress such behaviors by using punishment.
Of course, he recommended using non-physical punishment before resorting to causing pain, but if nothing else worked, “painful electric shock” was offered as an option.
It was almost morning when Zachary finished working his way through the book and closed his computer. His eyes were itchy and aching. After an emotionally challenging day, he’d spent the night working through the text, fighting to stay focused and to push his way through the anger and nausea it engendered. Even with chemical aids, it was a hard-fought battle, and he fell into his blankets on the couch thoroughly exhausted.
For once, sleep came easily. His brain had been trying to shut down for hours, assaulted by the images brought on by the book and Zachary’s past. When he finally let go, he spun quickly into darkness.
The images that came to his dreams this time were not of Annie at Bonnie Brown. Instead, Quentin’s face stuck in his mind. And Ray-Ray’s. And those of others he had seen at Summit just in passing. He saw a menacing Dr. Abato with a cattle prod. Children who were crying or afraid.
Zachary himself had been silenced. He couldn’t speak to Dr. Abato. Couldn’t protest the treatment of the children the institute was supposed to be helping and protecting. Abato and Sophie and the other staff he’d been introduced to talked as if he weren’t there, yelled at him, pushed him from place to place and forced him to perform menial tasks; gluing pages, washing floors, putting toys into a bin, just to have them dumped out again and to repeat the job again. They gave him terse commands, like an animal. Like Lovaas instructed in his book.
Sit! Good sitting.
Quiet hands!
Touch your nose.
Touch your ear.
Give me a hug.
Any time he hesitated, someone grabbed his hands and forced him to perform the task. He felt demeaned. Humiliated. When he did well, and they tried to put a gummy bear in his mouth, he spat it out, disgusted.
And then he was watching as Quentin fought and fought against their commands. He tried to escape Sophie’s strong hands as Dr. Abato stood by, brandishing the cattle prod, getting closer and threatening to shock him.
Ray-Ray was there, in the other direction, crying about something. He was alone, his face pressed against the observation window, babbling something incomprehensible to Quentin. Dr. Abato was there and grabbed Ray-Ray by the arm to pull him into the room. Quentin and Ray-Ray gravitated toward each other. Quentin held the smaller boy against himself protectively, sheltering him from Abato and Sophie. Quentin’s eyes were hidden by his fringe of hair.
“Leave them alone!” Zachary tried to shout. He couldn’t get the words out. Nothing would come out of his mouth. He tried to move between the boys and Abato. Dr. Abato just laughed and shoved the cattle prod toward Zachary, hitting him in the shoulder with it.
Zachary let out a shout, trying to pull away from the jolt of pain.
And he was on the couch. Or half-on, half-off the couch, hands raised defensively against Bowman, his shoulder still buzzing with the charge he had only dreamed.
“Chill out,” Bowman said. “It’s okay. Relax. You were just dreaming. Hell, I thought we were under attack the way you were screaming.”
Zachary tried to catch his breath.
“Are you okay?” Bowman asked.
“Yeah.” Zachary blew out a stream of air and looked up at the ceiling, trying to banish the dream. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I just… I guess it was all just a dream.” He shook his head and shuddered. It had felt real. He felt like he had been there. Like he had been one of them. It made perfect sense that he would identify with the residents at Summit, after all the times he had been institutionalized, all of the times that he had been silenced and prevented from making his own choices. From being his own person.
“That must have been some nightmare.”
Zachary pushed himself into a sitting position on the couch, rather than sprawling like a spider across it. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, trying to get reoriented.
It was getting light out. Bowman sighed and sat down on the couch next to Zachary. He had on pajama bottoms and a robe, not done up, so that Zachary could see his hairy belly and drooping physique. Bowman’s hair was mussed and he smelled sweaty and garlicky.
“Look, Zach,” he said slowly. “You know it’s time for you to move on. You’ve got your check for the fire from the insurance company. That means you have the money to put down a deposit on a place of your own. You need a place where you have the room to move around as much as you like, your own bed, to keep whatever hours you want. You need all those things. You can’t just stay here forever.”
Zachary rubbed his forehead, his face hot and uncomfortable. He hadn’t even been the one who had asked Bowman if he could stay there. That had been Kenzie. And it had been for ‘a few days’ while Zachary sorted out his problems and got back on his feet again. Zachary had long since outstayed his ‘few days.’ Bowman had been remarkably patient about having someone around the place. He even seemed to like it sometimes. But it had to be wearing for him to have someone underfoot all the time. For him not to be able to use the living room whenever he wanted to, or to come and go without worrying about disturbing Zachary, or to bring a lady friend home.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed sheepishly. “I should have been out of here ages ago. I’ll find something and get out of your way. I’m sorry.”
“No, no need to be sorry. I’m happy to help out someone down on his luck. What were you supposed to do with no home, or car, or even a wallet? I was glad when Kenzie said you needed something. It’s just time now.”
No one has the right to be taken care of.
The phrase echoed in Zachary’s head. He was a grown man. Not a teenager. Not like the residents at Summit. He had the ability to take care of himself, and he needed to do it instead of relying on Bowman or someone else. It didn’t matter how anxious it made him to think about living on his own again. About how he had already burned two homes to the ground. That wasn’t going to happen again. He had lived on his own for twenty years. It was wrong to go on taking advantage of his friend. Before he had moved in with Bowman, they had barely been nodding acquaintances. They certainly hadn’t known all of the intimate details of each other’s lives. Bowman had known about Bridget and the disastrous end of their relationship, but he didn’t know the details, only the broad strokes.
“You don’t have to be gone tomorrow,” Bowman said, putting his hand on Zachary’s knee. “But it’s time to start finding alternative arrangements.”
“Yeah. For sure. I’m sorry to have put you out for so long.”
Bowman nodded. He pushed himself back up from the couch. He stood looking down at Zachary.
“You’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. Just a dream.”
“You’re still seeing that new therapist…? And going to your group…?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Though Zachary had skipped both that week, deeming the homicide case to be more important than sessions where they would just tell him the same things they had been telling him the past few weeks. He knew that they were supposed to be helping him, but he couldn’t help but feel like they just stirred things up that were better left alone.
“Good. Try to get back to sleep.”
Bowman returned to his bedroom. Zachary wondered whether Bowman would be able to go back to sleep again. The faint light of the rising sun meant that it wasn’t long before Bowman would have to be up and getting ready for his Saturday morning shift.
Zachary knew that if he tried to go back to sleep again, he would only keep on dreaming. And Bowman would not be able to
get any more sleep if Zachary kept waking him up with nightmares.
Zachary opened up his computer and started searching for a new apartment.
As much as he was learning to hate Summit Living Center, Zachary knew that he had to go back again. He had spent the weekend focused on finding a new living arrangement, pretending that he didn’t have anything else pressing to do. But when Monday rolled around, he knew he had to leave the house-hunting alone and head back to Summit. He hadn’t learned everything he could from the witnesses. He hadn’t fully investigated the circumstances surrounding Quentin’s death. Before he could decide whether Quentin had killed himself or had had a little help in that direction, Zachary needed to better understand what Quentin had been going through.
“We don’t have a lot of people who want to know all of the details of Electric Shock Devices and how they fit into a therapeutic program,” Dr. Abato told him, after having Zachary sit down in one of the big cushioned chairs of his spacious office. “A few reporters. Every now and then, someone else from the outside who wants to see how it works.”
Zachary nodded. So far, he had been surprised that Abato was willing to talk about the shocks and hadn’t told him to stay away and just drop the case. He kept waiting for Dr. Abato to say no, he couldn’t see anything else. But Abato had instead said that Zachary could observe shocks being administered and be shown how ABA worked using shocks as an aversive.
“I understand that it all sounds rather barbaric,” Dr. Abato said with a reassuring smile. “But it really isn’t any different than what regular parents do with regular kids in need of discipline every day. A spank or a slapped hand or arm to deter a child from reaching for a hot stove or to put an end to a tantrum. We’re doing the same thing, just on a larger scale. And by using the skin shocks, we can ensure that the discipline is always consistently applied and there is no risk of injury.”
Zachary was reserving judgment on that one.
“I’ve arranged for you to observe a training session with one of our residents and his parents. Parents need to be trained in how to control their children properly so that when they are able to return home, they don’t lose the progress that they have made in the program. The parents can keep applying the program consistently so that the child can continue to learn and grow and become more normal and independent.”
“But you can’t really make them normal,” Zachary said. “I mean, there’s no cure for autism, right? What you’re doing here is trying to make them act more normal, to develop better skills and functioning… not to cure them.”
“If we can make them indistinguishable from their peers, then what do you call that? Do you call that a cure? Autism is a developmental delay, so even if they develop to their full potential, it is going to take longer for them to get there. But having taken longer to get there, are they then cured? It’s all a matter of semantics, Mr. Goldman, and I’m not sure it matters. Our goal here is to push them as far as we possibly can, to become as normal as they possibly can be.”
“Okay,” Zachary agreed uncomfortably, not sure what to make of Dr. Abato’s answer.
“Come with me.”
Dr. Abato once again escorted Zachary to his destination. But this time, their destination wasn’t the reward rooms or even the therapy rooms. It wasn’t the living quarters that Quentin had been housed in. Instead, Abato took him to another unit. Though it had the same layout as Quentin’s unit, it was obvious as soon as they arrived that it was different. Zachary could hear yelling and banging going on behind the doors. He caught glimpses of residents who looked wild or furious. Young children, older adults, but mostly teens, and mostly boys. Zachary believed without being told that the cell doors were all locked.
Dr. Abato was watching Zachary for his reaction. “A little different, isn’t it?” he asked indulgently, seeming to enjoy Zachary’s discomfort. “It’s one thing to philosophize about what is best for children with autism; it’s quite another to see the sort of war zone they can cause.”
“Yes,” Zachary agreed.
They went past the individual bedrooms to a larger room that Zachary was reluctant to call a meeting room, even though that was what the plaque beside the door said. Meeting Room B.
It was a large, empty room. No table and chairs. No rug or bean bag chairs. It was completely bare. But it wasn’t unoccupied. There was a boy who appeared to be fifteen or so, a stocky boy with brown hair curling down over his ears and into his eyes, a round, cheeky face that had probably made him a cute baby and little boy. But cute wasn’t what he was anymore. A woman and a man were focused on him. The woman had blond and gray hair pulled back into a half bun, and the man was husky, with shaved-short hair and stubble on his face. They both looked irritated and angry. There was also a therapist standing nearby, with smooth red hair and a white smock, and a slim, blond female aide with a heavy utility belt hung with shock remotes. One of which was bound to have the stocky boy’s picture on it.
Dr. Abato took Zachary to an observation window, where they sat down to watch like it was a movie being played for their own entertainment.
“This is Angel Salk,” Dr. Abato told Zachary. “And his parents, of course. We won’t go in, as it looks like the room is quite crowded enough already. We’ll just observe for a while.”
Zachary nodded, his stomach tight with anticipation.
“Angel is violent, a danger to both himself and others. We are having some success in teaching him, but his parents need to learn how to control him. They are here to see how it all works.”
They seemed to have caught Angel and his parents mid-confrontation. Angel had his back up against the wall, both parents in his face. The man grabbed Angel’s wrists in one hand and his shoulder in the other and shoved him violently into the wall.
“You need to listen!” he said to Angel in a furious tone.
Zachary was ready to jump right through the window to save the boy from the assault. But neither of the professionals seemed to find it the least bit disturbing.
“Mom, you need to get in there too,” the therapist directed. “You need to show him that you are both united. He can’t play one of you against the others like he might have done in the past.”
The mother moved in closer, but was clearly reluctant to touch her son.
“Put your hand on his chin,” the therapist said. “Open his mouth. Tell him he needs to use his words.”
When she reached her hand out, Angel tried to pull away, thrashing his head back and forth. But the father had a tight grip on him and kept pressing him against the wall. The mother eventually managed to grasp Angel’s chin, and she pulled it down, squeezing her fingers into his cheeks between his teeth to separate his jaws farther.
“Use words,” she said, her voice quiet, catching in her throat.
“Louder, Mom,” the therapist instructed. “He needs to hear your directions clearly, or this doesn’t work.”
“Use words!” the woman said in a near-shout.
Angel was wincing and trying to pull away. Then he suddenly went rigid and cried out. Both parents looked at the therapist in surprise. It was the aide who had pressed the shock button, but the therapist nodded that this was the correct action.
“Tell him again,” she said. “Don’t let go. Give him the same instruction again.”
“Use words.” The woman’s voice was quieter this time, but still clear.
Angel yelled something incomprehensible around his mother’s fingers.
Again, the same reaction as Angel suddenly went rigid again, his arms splayed out.
Zachary looked at Abato, who apparently saw nothing to be concerned about. Zachary studied Angel, seeing the cuffs around his arms and legs, wires leading under his clothes, and then out of his clothes and into the black backpack he had on. The same black backpack that Zachary had seen so many of the other residents wearing. He had thought they were schoolbags, but they were apparently part of the shock device.
“Tell him again,” the therapis
t said.
“Use words,” the mother said. Her voice dropped slightly. “Come on, Angel. Be a good boy. You can use your words.”
“Don’t coddle him. Don’t use more words than are necessary for him to understand what you expect of him.”
“Use words,” she said again.
“No!” The sound burst from Angel’s throat in protest.
“Good talking,” the mother said immediately, looking over at the therapist for approval. “That’s good talking, Angel.” She stuffed something into his partially-open mouth.
Angel gagged and struggled, breaking free of his father. He bounced to the other side of the room, hands up defensively like an animal ready to claw someone’s eyes out. He was closer to the observation window, so Zachary could see him better.
Angel’s arms were pitted with scars and scabs. He had a bruise on his forehead, mostly hidden by his messy brown locks. His parents had apparently not read Lovaas’s instructions on keeping their son’s hair properly cut so that he wouldn’t look different from his peers.
Angel went rigid again and let out an animal-like cry. He reached for one of the armbands and slid his fingers underneath the shocking device. There was another shock from the aide.
“Leave the electrodes,” the aide snapped. “Don’t touch the electrodes.”
Angel tried again, then flailed his arms and tried to shake off the pain of the shock.
“You need to control him again,” the therapist instructed. “Hold him in one place and give him the instruction again.”
“But he did it,” Angel’s mother protested. “He spoke.”
“Once. He needs to do it every time. Without fighting.”
The father circled, trying to get ahold of him again. Angel evaded capture and was shocked again. His father managed to get ahold of him during the couple of seconds he was being shocked and shoved him into the wall again.
“Use words,” the mother instructed, her voice high and tight, not holding on to his jaw this time.
Angel’s father grabbed his jaw and squeezed until Angel was forced to open his mouth. “Use words,” he growled.
His Hands were Quiet Page 11
