by Nan Rossiter
“Here’s my little helper,” Linden said with a smile.
“I’m coming,” Callie hollered from the bathroom. She took one last look in the mirror and sighed. It was the best she could do.
She joined them in the kitchen wearing white shorts and a light blue sleeveless T-shirt. Linden looked at her outfit. “Hmmm, I liked the towel better.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head at the same time.
“You’re pretty good at that,” he teased.
She grinned. “Would you like to see it again?”
“Sure.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait.”
Linden handed one of the coffees to her, and Callie took it, breathed in its fresh aroma, and sighed, “Thank you.” She took a sip and nodded to Henry, and Linden looked over and realized he was gazing longingly at the pink and orange box on the table.
“Do you like Munchkins?” Linden asked. Henry nodded shyly, and Linden said, “Well, you can help yourself.” Henry just stood there, and Linden shook his head. “I’m sorry, Henry. What I mean is: ‘Come over and pick out the ones you like.’ ” He held the box out, and Henry peered inside and carefully took out one chocolate and one coconut. “You’re a man after my own heart,” he said, but as soon as he said it, he knew it probably didn’t make any sense to Henry either. He looked back at Callie. “Do you have to be careful how you word things?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve noticed Henry seems to take everything literally. Last night, I said Kat and Springer were probably hungry, and he looked around the kitchen to see if they were here.” At these words, Henry glanced around the kitchen again, and Linden shook his head. “Henry, Kat and Springer are not here.” He looked back at Callie. “Did you notice, a moment ago, when I said he could help himself to Munchkins, he didn’t move, but when I said he could pick out the ones he likes, he came right over?” Linden looked at Henry. “If you think about it, Cal, the phrase ‘you can help yourself’ is sort of abstract.”
Callie nodded. “I guess I never really paid attention.”
Linden smiled. “Well, how do you pay attention? Do you give him a check?”
“I see what you mean. It’s as if he only understands exact meaning.”
“It’s just an observation,” Linden said. He nodded toward the book. “This book looks interesting. Is that what Henry has? Autism?”
“The doctor seems to think so, but I haven’t had a chance to find out very much about it. I only have the brochures she gave me, and Dr. Franklin gave that book to me last night.” She glanced at the clock on the stove. “I should go.”
Linden nodded and stood up. “Yup, we’re going too.” He looked at Henry and held out the box of Munchkins. “Can you carry these?” Henry took the box, and Callie picked up the book, slipped it into her bag, and slung the bag over her shoulder. Then she balanced her cup of coffee in her other hand and started to push open the door, but stopped. “I forgot to make a lunch for Henry!”
“Don’t worry, I have plenty.”
“Are you sure? Do you want to take some muffins?”
Linden shook his head. “No, but you should. I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything.”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “I have coffee. That’s all I need.”
“Okay, well, make sure you tell your dad I’m praying for him.”
Callie smiled. “I will.” But then she stopped again. “You need the car seat.”
They went outside and Linden lifted the car seat into the truck, and Callie showed him how to secure it. “You are definitely getting a crash course in parenting,” she said as Linden helped Henry climb in. “I’ll pick him up as soon as I can.” She studied Linden’s face. “I hope everything goes okay, and I hope he’s no trouble.” She kissed Henry’s cheek and whispered, “Be good.” Henry was contentedly munching another Munchkin, though, and swinging his feet at the same time, so she couldn’t tell if he nodded.
As she walked to her car, she looked back. “Don’t forget that he takes off.”
“I won’t forget.”
Callie waved and, as she drove away, prayed they’d be okay.
Twenty minutes later she was hurrying down the hospital corridor, feeling as if she lived there. She stopped in front of the nurses’ station. Jess looked up and smiled. “They just wheeled your daddy into surgery. Dr. Franklin is the best. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Callie’s heart sank. “Is it too late to see him?”
Jess nodded. “I’m afraid so, honey. But he’ll be done in a couple of hours, although he might not be awake that soon.”
Callie felt like kicking herself. How can I be late today, of all days? How did I miss letting him know I was there? Why am I always such a screwup? Tears filled her eyes as she went to find a quiet place to wait. Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry I missed you. Please know I’m here... .
30
As the morning passed, Linden worked steadily. Henry watched him and then began a project of his own. Linden looked over to see what he was up to and realized he was building a miniature wall. He shook his head, amazed that this quiet little boy was able to contentedly entertain himself with a pastime most kids would find boring. He walked over to take a closer look. “Hey, that looks great.”
Henry nodded and continued to pile the small stones.
“Hellooo!” a friendly voice called. Linden turned and saw Fairbanks coming up the hill.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning to you! It’s going to be another hot one.” Henry glanced up and then shyly looked away. Fairbanks smiled. “Who’s this little fellow?”
“This is Henry,” Linden replied. “Henry, this is Mr. Thompson.”
“Nice to meet you, Henry. Please, though, call me Fairbanks. Everyone does.” Henry glanced sideways and then quickly looked away again, and Fairbanks gave Linden a puzzled look.
“You’ll have to excuse Henry,” he said. “He’s a man of few ... actually no words.”
Fairbanks leaned against the wall, took off his glasses, wiped his brow with a handkerchief that he pulled from his back pocket, and crossed his arms. “I was once a man of few words.” He paused thoughtfully. “No words at all?”
Linden shook his head. “He nods sometimes, but mostly he likes to give his mom a hard time, tantrums and such.”
Fairbanks nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s his only way of communicating. I struggled with the same thing when I was a youngster. I wasn’t able to vocalize the way I was feeling. It was very frustrating for me and my parents. In fact, it’s only by the grace of God and my mother’s love and patience that I didn’t end up in an institution. That’s what people did with kids with autism back then. Regular folks just couldn’t understand our world. Most still don’t.”
“You had autism?” Linden sounded incredulous.
Fairbanks glanced sideways and smiled mischievously. “I still do.”
“But you’ve had so much success. I never would have guessed ...”
Fairbanks wiped his glasses on his shirt. “I wasn’t always ‘a success,’ as you call it. I struggled tremendously. We all do.” He watched Henry working intently. “I bet Henry’s mom will eventually discover that he’s good at a great many things. She just needs to be patient and help him figure out what they are.” He knelt down next to Henry and gently touched his arm. Henry looked up and Fairbanks smiled. “That is a very nice stone wall, Henry.” Henry nodded and continued to work, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Fairbanks looked back at Linden. “Do sounds bother him?”
Linden shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Children with autism are usually very sensitive to light and sound. Stop at the house on your way home. I may have something that will help.” With that, he stood. “Well, I’m off for a hike. Hopefully it will get the creative juices flowing!” He looked back and waved and Henry, who was watching him go, made a slight gesture with his hand. Linden raised his eyebro
ws in surprise.
After Fairbanks had gone, Linden lifted his cooler out of the truck and looked over at Henry. “Ready for lunch?” Henry got up and trundled over to see what was for lunch, and Linden took out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, unwrapped it, and handed him half. Henry took a big bite and sat down on the grass, but when Linden found a seat on a nearby rock, Henry got up and sat down near him. Linden leaned forward with his elbows on his knees while he ate and looked out across the pasture. Henry watched him out of the corner of his eye and then leaned forward too, resting his tan arms on his small round knees. Linden smiled, unwrapped another sandwich, and held out another half. Henry stood up, took it, and sat back down.
Late in the afternoon, Linden pulled up in front of the old white farmhouse and Fairbanks came to the door wearing a green headset over his ears. “My father was a pilot!” he explained loudly. “When I was little, he figured out that I didn’t like noise, so one day, he brought these home.” Fairbanks reached up and touched where the wires had been cut off and continued loudly, “I wore them when we went to restaurants.” He smiled. “Everyone gave us funny looks, but my parents didn’t care.” He took the headset off and continued to explain in the same loud voice but then realized he was speaking too loudly. In a softer voice he continued, “My parents were just happy because I was better able to tolerate outings and they enjoyed going out to dinner.” He looked at Henry. “If noise bothers him, they might prove helpful. You can have them. I haven’t used them in years.”
“Thanks,” Linden said. “I’ll pass them along to his mom.”
“I forgot all about them until I started writing this memoir. I’ve been thinking back, trying to explain how I, as a boy, perceived the world and how I learned to live in it.”
Linden nodded thoughtfully. “I’d like to read it someday.”
Fairbanks smiled, took off his glasses, and wiped them on his shirt. He suddenly looked a bit distracted. “Someday ...” he murmured.
Linden put the headset on his head and climbed in the truck. Henry looked at him curiously, furrowed his brow, and then looked away, but when Linden took the headset off and reached over to put them on Henry, he didn’t resist.
Linden looked back at Fairbanks, raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
Fairbanks nodded. “We sometimes mimic what people do. That’s how we get our clues.” Linden listened to Fairbanks refer to himself and others who have autism as “we,” almost as if they were a separate class of people. It sounded odd.
“Thank you again,” Linden said as he started the truck. He began to pull away but then stopped to call back. “I may not be here the next couple of days. I have a cow that’s about to calve, and I need to keep an eye on her.”
Fairbanks nodded and waved. “No hurry!”
31
Callie had been sitting in the waiting room, staring at the same print for what seemed like hours. She had noticed it as soon as she sat down, and she’d immediately stood back up to walk over and look at the title. The gold plate read, A VIEW OF THE MOUNTAIN PASS CALLED THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, 1839. Below the title was the name of the artist: THOMAS COLE (1801–1848). It doesn’t look like Franconia, she thought, so it must be Crawford. She took a sip of her coffee and did the math: Thomas Cole was only thirty-eight when he painted it and he died nine years later. She wondered why he had died so young. She opened the book on her lap and tried to read but soon found herself gazing at the painting again.
It was beautiful. The sun-dappled trees were swept with red and orange brushstrokes, and although it seemed like a tranquil autumn scene at first, the viewer soon realized that a storm was imminent. To the west, a threatening cloud, bursting with rain, was coming over the mountain, and a man on a black horse was racing through the pass, trying to reach the safety of a white house tucked at the base of the mountain. The clear blue autumn sky and sun-filled valley were contrasted ominously against the black clouds and shadows of the storm sweeping over the mountain. Callie gazed at it, her eyes taking in every detail. She felt the urgency the painter was trying to express and she understood all too well the feeling of racing, running, and longing for safety.
Callie’s mind wandered back to the art history class she’d taken in college. She’d dreaded that class! Slide after slide flashing across a tremendous screen in an impersonal lecture hall while the art professor droned on and on. Callie had tried to remember each artist and date by finding a part of the painting that looked like a letter or number to trigger a clue, but it had all seemed so pointless. What mattered in art was how the painting made you feel. She sighed. So few of those paintings made her feel the way this one did. It was how she felt all the time!
She looked at the clock. It was twelve-thirty. She took a sip of her now cold coffee and wondered if there was a microwave nearby. Maybe she should get something to eat too, although she still wasn’t very hungry. Her stomach was too tied up in knots of worry. She stood to stretch her legs, stepped closer to the painting, and thought of the time she and her parents had hiked from Crawford Notch to Ethan Pond. It had been on her tenth birthday and, when they finally got there, she’d been so hot she’d jumped in the pond with all her clothes on. Somewhere in the house there was a picture of her standing next to her dad, wet and grinning. Oh, how I’d love to go back to the carefree simplicity of that day, she thought longingly.
Callie turned from the painting and went to look for a microwave. As she rounded the corner, she saw Jess standing outside one of the rooms, looking at the open notebook on her medicine cart. “Hey, Jess,” Callie said.
Jess looked up and smiled. “Hey, honey, any news yet?” Callie shook her head and Jess looked at her watch. “Anytime, now, don’t you worry. Dr. Franklin is the best.”
Callie nodded. “Do you guys have a place I can nuke this?” she asked, holding up her coffee cup.
“I can do better than that. There’s a fresh pot in that little room right there, and there’s a plate of homemade brownies one of the nurses brought in. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you eaten anything today?”
Callie shook her head.
“Do you want somethin’ more than brownies? They’re goin’ ’round with the food cart and there’s always extra. It’s not your typical hospital food either. Not like when your mama worked here. It’s all fresh local produce and everythin’. You should try it.”
“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry.”
“You should eat, girl! You’re too skinny! You need to put some meat on those bones.” She patted her own round arm. “Have one of those brownies. They are yum-mee!”
“Okay, I will.” Callie disappeared into the nurses’ room. She warmed up the little bit of coffee left in her cup with some from the fresh pot and then took a small brownie and retreated to the waiting area. A middle-aged couple and a doctor were standing in the hall, talking quietly. The woman was crying and the man had his arm around her shoulders. Callie looked at the painting and tried not to eavesdrop, but she quickly realized that the couple’s teenage son had just been diagnosed with cancer. Listening to their hushed anguish, Callie’s eyes filled with tears. Oh, God, why do You let these things happen? What lesson can his parents learn from this ... besides grief and despair?
Out of the blue an answer filled Callie’s mind. They can learn to trust me! Callie shook her head in wonder and glanced at the couple. The woman’s sobbing was easing, and the man was nodding resolutely. Callie could tell, from the change in their demeanor, that they were not giving up. They were determined to win this fight and, like it or not, they would learn to trust. She looked at the painting again and wondered if the man on the horse ever reached the safety of the house. It was a question that the artist had purposely left unanswered.
Callie reached for the book beside her and thought of Henry and Linden. She closed her eyes and prayed that everyone she loved would be okay. What more could she do? She needed to learn to trust too and she wondered if this wa
s her lesson.
Moments later, Dr. Franklin appeared, and Callie stood up, her heart pounding. He smiled. “Everything went well. Your dad’s in recovery. He’s still a bit groggy, but you can see him.”
A ray of sunshine spilled into the corner of her dad’s room as Callie sat near his bed and watched his chest rise and fall. He was sound asleep ... but he was alive and his prognosis was good. She held his hand and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving.
32
Henry traipsed along after Linden, still wearing the pilot’s headset. Behind him trailed Springer, and moseying along on her own was Kat. Henry had helped Linden feed the animals, but Linden had quickly discovered that, with the headset on, Henry didn’t hear anything and he’d had to motion with his hands to communicate with him. He’d begun to wonder if the headset was a bad idea. He hoped Callie wouldn’t be upset about it and, if she didn’t approve, he hoped Henry didn’t give her a hard time. He suddenly had a funny feeling about the whole thing, which was never a good sign.
Callie raised her eyebrows when she saw the oversized headphones covering her son’s ears and Linden quickly explained. “It turns out Fairbanks has autism too, but you’d never know it ... except for a couple of quirky little things he does.” Callie listened as Linden went on. “Why don’t we give ’em a try? Fairbanks said he used to wear them when he was little. It made it easier for his parents to go out to dinner, and you said Henry wasn’t fond of restaurants, so I thought we could go to Harlow’s tonight and see if it helps.”
“I don’t know,” Callie said slowly. “What if they don’t help? Besides, I thought you wanted spaghetti.”
“We can have spaghetti another time, and if Henry’s not happy, we’ll get dinner to go.”
Callie hesitated. “All right,” she said finally.
“I just need to take a quick shower,” Linden said.
“Need help?” Callie teased. Linden raised his eyebrows, and she laughed, suddenly embarrassed. “Just kidding.”
