How to Speak Dolphin

  I put the doll’s head next to my computer and its body parts in the bottom drawer of my bureau. I’m about to close it when I see the corner of a little square book. It’s the Little Dolphin finger puppet book Mom bought for Adam after one of our trips to see the dolphins at Ocean Reef, a club Don used to belong to. The book has a hole in the center where the fuzzy blue head of a dolphin sticks through the six thick cardboard pages. I remember her reading it to him over and over. I bring the book to my nose and sniff it like it might still hold a trace of my mother. It smells moldy.

  There were times, especially when I was mad at Don, that I’d go to Mom’s side of their closet and stand under the hangers, surrounded by her clothes, and smell her all around me. That was a long time ago. He’s given all her clothes away and there is nothing left in this house that smells like her.

  I carry the book to the kitchen, where Adam is still shrieking.

  “Adam.”

  Suzanne’s doing dishes with her back to me.

  “Adam. Look at this.” I hold the book up, catch his chin, and force him to look at it. He stops screaming and reaches for it.

  “Whoa.” Suzanne turns and removes her earplugs. “What’d you do?”

  “It’s a book Mom used to read to him. I don’t think I’ve seen it since she died.”

  Her eyes soften. “How long ago was that?”

  I look at my feet. “Twenty-two months.”

  Suzanne walks over and hugs me. I’m tempted to melt into her arms, but I stiffen. What if she gets her fill of us and leaves like all the others?

  Adam holds the book out in our general direction.

  Suzanne releases me. “I’ll read it to him, toots.” She takes off her apron and pulls over the stool we sit on to feed him. “You finish getting ready for school.”

  This morning, Don told me he’s had his office manager research programs for autistic children and we’re going to visit one after my school lets out this afternoon. He doesn’t tell me why, after all this time, he’s suddenly willing to consider a real program for Adam, but coming so soon after his encounter with the guy who washed his windshield, I think that may be the reason. I want to ask, but I’m afraid if I get too nosy, he’ll change his mind. Whatever the reason, I’m excited.

  The first thing I notice when we walk into the Cutler Academy’s program for preschoolers with autism is how quiet it is. Carpeted partitions form small rooms within the neat and orderly larger room, and I hear women behind each partition giving instructions in low voices. There’s no screaming.

  At the only table not behind a partition, two boys a little older than Adam sit opposite a teacher. She glances up and smiles, but neither of the boys turns to look at us. They are following her example and using glue sticks and precut shapes of stems, leaves, and petals made from construction paper to copy a picture of a flower.

  I glance at Don, afraid he’ll bolt at the sight of boys making flowers, but even if he wanted to, he doesn’t get a chance. An office door opens and a youngish woman steps out and closes the door behind her. She’s pretty and tall—almost as tall as Don. I’m glad. He’s going to have to meet her eye to eye, which will take away his surgeon-in-charge edge.

  “Dr. Moran. You’re early,” the woman says. “I’m Elisa.” She puts her hand out, shakes his, then mine. Her grip is strong and firm.

  The older of the two boys at the flower-making table begins to sway from side to side and shake his head back and forth. “Daniel,” the teacher says, “look at me.” She catches him by the chin. “The leaves are next.” She hands him a leaf and shows him on her picture where it goes.

  “Please make yourselves at home, observe, ask questions,” Elisa says when we turn back to her. “I’ve got a student in my office, but I’ll be done soon.”

  “What’s the point of having those boys make flowers?” Don says.

  I have a feeling Elisa instantly gets where he’s coming from. She smiles slightly. “It teaches them to focus and, in the end, to see what they’ve accomplished.” She steps into her office and closes the door.

  People respect Don, or at least his skill as a doctor, but I don’t know anyone who likes him. And I bet Elisa’s the first woman ever to do to Don what he does to everyone else. She finished with him before he finished with her.

  I want Don to forget about boys making flowers and notice how quiet things are. There’s a feeling of control here we never have at home. “Can you imagine Adam sitting still that long?” I whisper.

  He’s looking at the closed door, and doesn’t answer.

  The teacher says, “Now we need to put your flower in a vase.” She holds up a piece of purple paper cut into the shape of a vase. “Look, Daniel. What is this?”

  Daniel sways from side to side. “Paper.”

  “Is it a vase for your flower?”

  “Purple.” He begins to turn his head rapidly from side to side. The momentum of his head reaches his shoulders and soon he is whipping back and forth. A shock runs through me. Adam does this, too, when he’s tired and frustrated.

  The teacher reaches across and catches Daniel’s chin. “Yes, it’s purple paper cut into the shape of a vase.”

  “Purple.”

  Don looks at the ceiling.

  “What are you trying to accomplish?” I ask, hoping whatever she says will keep Don from leaving.

  “Autistic children can’t generalize. I’m trying to get him to recognize that the paper is a symbol for a vase.”

  Don leans close to my ear. “Let’s go.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re done here.” He opens the door and steps outside.

  I follow, but glance back. The teacher is watching us. “Please tell Elisa we couldn’t wait. We’ll be back.” Like I have any say in this.

  I get in the passenger seat and slam my door. “Why’d you do that? Adam needs help and that place is supposed to be the best.”

  “I don’t see how it would benefit him.”

  “Of course you didn’t see. You didn’t look. You didn’t give it a chance.” I feel desperate—like if Don doesn’t agree to allow Adam to go here, he’ll never get the help he needs.

  “This is my decision, Lily. I don’t think that’s the place for him.”

  “What kind of place are you looking for?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not paying that kind of money for Adam to make paper flowers.”

  “You’re not being—Watch out!”

  Don pulls away from the curb without looking and into the path of an oncoming car. We’re in a school zone, so the car isn’t moving fast, but the driver still feels the need to blast her horn. I glance back, and she gives me the finger. Whatever. I look at my stepfather. “You’re not being fair to me, or to Adam.”

  “He’s my son, Lily.”

  “He’s my brother, and the decisions you make affect us both.” I suddenly wonder if I’m upset because I think he’s doing wrong by Adam, or wrong by me. Do I want Adam to go to this school for his sake, or do I want him to go because it would give me a break?

  Like he’s read my mind, Don looks at me and says, “Are you thinking about Adam, or yourself?”

  Since I don’t know, I don’t answer.

  “Suzanne is working out,” Don says. “And Adam seems to like her and is doing better. Let’s leave well enough alone.”

  I pick my cuticle and want to scream, You think Suzanne can get him to let you touch him, teach him to talk? but as usual I wimp out and don’t say anything.

  On Saturday, Adam wakes shrieking like he’s been stabbed with a dull pencil. Nothing we try—the bathtub, his dolphin DVD, offering him a ripe avocado that he likes to eat with his fingers—works. After an hour of sirenlike shrieks, Don carries him screaming and kicking to the car. Driving sometimes works, but is always a last resort since it’s like being sealed in a tin can with a train whistle.

  Don learned the hard way not to put the windows down when Adam’s having a meltdown. A cop pulled him over once and he had a tou
gh time convincing him that Adam was autistic and not a victim of child abuse, especially since he’s always got cuts and bruises.

  I get in the back with Adam to keep him from escaping his car seat. “Where are we going?” I shout to be heard over Adam’s screams.

  “I don’t know.” Don looks at me in the rearview mirror with hollow eyes.

  He drives south on the turnpike to Highway 1, then turns left onto to the Card Sound Road. Casuarinas and Florida holly grow densely on both sides of the narrow, two-lane road that goes to the resort of Ocean Reef and nowhere else, really. The sameness of the view and the hum of the tires finally lull Adam into quiet. Don sighs, but neither of us speaks. We’re too grateful for the silence to risk talking.

  Before Mom died, when Don was a still a member of Ocean Reef, we used to go down on weekends. As we reach the wonderfully high Card Sound Bridge, I remember how much I loved crossing it, swimming in the club’s saltwater lagoon, and standing outside the clubhouse office, watching their two dolphins do tricks. Don pays the dollar toll and we start up.

  “Look at the big bridge, Adam,” I say. “We’re going as high as the birds fly.”

  The car windows are tinted, which brings out all the different colors of the water: turquoise, green, and dark blue where it’s the deepest. Adam lifts his arms like he’s flying and rolls his head to look out. Not in time to warn Don, I see Adam’s eyes widen with terror, and he shrieks.

  “What the heck happened?” Don glares at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Maybe it’s the height.”

  “Okay, buddy.” Don looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be over the top and headed down in a second.” He speeds up, and we crest the top, where the spectacular view is lost on Adam.

  We start down the other side. “Here we go, Adam. Whee.” I spread my arms.

  Adam continues to scream until we pass a patch of open water filled with a hundred birds: wood storks, spoonbills, egrets, and herons. He quiets and stares.

  To keep from upsetting Adam by going over the high bridge again, we have to take a long detour to get home. By the time we link up with Highway 1 in Key Largo, it’s twelve thirty. Adam is rocking from side to side in his booster seat, and twice I see him put the tips of his fingers to his lips, which is American Sign Language for eat.

  Last year I decided that if I could teach Adam the signs for eat, drink, and toilet, we might get out ahead of his frustration at not being understood and avoid a few tantrums. It took forever, but by holding his chin to make him look at me, I managed to teach him the signs for drink and eat. He never got the concept of using the sign for toilet before peeing or pooping his pants.

  “How long is the drive home? Adam’s hungry and so am I.”

  “About an hour and a half.”

  We can’t stop at a real restaurant—the clatter of plates, tableware, and people talking would be too much for Adam—so when I spot a Wendy’s, we order from the drive-through.

  After we eat, Adam doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything except the fingers he’s wiggling in front of his face until we’re alongside a sign for a swim-with-dolphins place called Dolphin Inlet. There’s a pod of bronze dolphins leading out from the sign. Adam turns in his seat as we pass, then starts to scream and kick his feet.

  “Now what?” Don shouts.

  “He saw the dolphins on that sign.”

  “Would you like to see the dolphins?” Don says.

  I hate it when Don asks Adam questions he knows he can’t answer, then, as usual, I feel sorry. I stay mad at Don most of the time because I don’t think he’s being fair to me, taking over my life to fill in for Mom. But then, I’m not fair to him, either. He’s hoping as much as I do that the urge for Adam to make himself understood will win over his refusal to speak. What if, just this once, he said yes, or even nodded?

  As Don makes the U-turn, Adam quiets and leans forward, watching for the dolphins. His legs are now scissor-kicking, like he’s swimming—but is he, or is it just a change in the rhythm of his constant motion? I look at the back of Don’s head and decide to say nothing.

  We come back past the sign and Adam squeezes his lips together and out comes a sound so much like the squeak a dolphin makes, Don nearly runs off the road. His head whips around to look at me accusingly. “Did you do that?”

  I say no, just as Adam does it again.

  The Dolphin Inlet driveway is gravel and crunches beneath our tires. Don pulls into an empty space under a palm tree, gets out, and goes to the back for the stroller.

  Adam can’t take his eyes off the sign and is doubled over looking at the leaping pod of dolphins, making it hard for me to get his seat belt and harness off. In the split second between getting him unhooked and leaning in to get his diaper bag, he squeezes past me and runs toward the sign.

  “Grab him,” I scream.

  Don reaches for him, but Adam dodges him, runs toward the road, and disappears behind the board fence. I reach him a moment after Don does. He’s looking up at the bronze dolphins and making the squeaking sound through compressed lips.

  When Don picks him up, Adam screams and kicks, and delivers a blow to Don’s stomach that almost knocks the wind out of him.

  “Adam. Look at me.” I grab his feet. “Look at me. If you stop, we’ll go see the real dolphins. Okay?” His legs relax. “For that to happen, you have to stop screaming. Screaming will scare the dolphins.” I hold my hand out to him. “You have to take my hand and walk slowly. Do you understand?” Of course he doesn’t take my hand, but he doesn’t pull away when I take his. Don puts him down and rubs the spot where Adam kicked him.

  The parking lot stretches down to the bay, where another tall fence blocks the view of the water. I hear a whistle and turn in time to see two dolphins leap into the air, somersault, then splash back into the water. The sight gives me gooseflesh. Dolphins have become so much Adam’s thing that I’d forgotten how much I used to love seeing them at Ocean Reef. I never missed a show, and once, on a rainy Saturday when no one else was around, I crawled under the wooden bridge that crossed one end of their lagoon, and sat on the coral rocks to watch them until I heard Mom calling. Before that day, I thought they chose to live in that lagoon, but under the bridge was a net that kept them from swimming out into ocean.

  The girl behind the desk in the Dolphin Inlet office glances up when we come in, then at the clock. “You’re early. The next swim is at two.”

  Don and I both turn toward the clock. It’s one fifteen.

  “We were driving by and saw the sign. My son … my son loves dolphins. Could we just take him down to look at them?”

  “You can at two. This is their break time.”

  Adam pulls free of my hand and runs over to a display of stuffed toy dolphins. He starts taking them out and lining them up on the floor. The girl stands so she can see over the counter to watch him.

  “I’ll put them back,” I say.

  “And we’d like to buy one.” Don takes out his wallet. “Look, could we pay a little extra to walk down and let him see them? He’s a little restless and won’t last forty-five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that.”

  I can tell Don is about to turn surgeon-in-charge on her. “Young lady—”

  Adam has all the stuffed dolphins lined up and is squeaking at them.

  “My brother is … autistic. He won’t be calm much longer,” I say as nicely as I can. “Could we please take him down to look at the dolphins?”

  “Autistic! You’re at the wrong place. You want the Largo Center. I can show you on a map. It’s very close.”

  “Why is that better than here?” Don says.

  The girl’s face softens even though his tone was brusque. “This is just a swim-with opportunity. Largo has a dolphin-assisted therapy program for disabled children.”

  The word disabled hangs in the air. I glance up at Don. Only his eyes have changed, crinkling in the corners like he’s been punched. He turns to watch Adam r
ealigning the row of stuffed dolphins, then exchanges the twenty he’d taken from his wallet for a hundred-dollar bill. “We’ll take them all.”

  Back in the broiling hot car, I give Adam one of the dolphins and toss the bag with the others into the back of the SUV. “Are we going to the other place?”

  Adam shakes the dolphin back and forth, squeaks, and rocks his own head side to side.

  “Don?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to try the other place?”

  “No.”

  I’m disappointed. I know this isn’t a happy family road trip, but it’s nice being out of the house, and I would like to see the dolphins. “How come? She said it wasn’t far.”

  “He’s happy enough with the stuffed ones.” Don starts the engine, throws it in reverse, glances in the rearview mirror, and steps on the gas. Gravel pelts the underside of the car as he peels out of the parking lot.

  I’m at my desk the following Saturday morning when Don appears in the doorway and raps on the frame. “You busy?”

  I’m surprised he asked. “Not really.”

  He walks over. “What are you doing?”

  I hold out my left hand. “Putting on polish.”

  “Black?”

  “Yeah. A lot of kids wear black nail polish.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Too bad. I do.” My heart goes flub, flub. I never sass him.

  He watches me paint my thumb, then says, “I was thinking maybe we’d go down to that dolphin place.”

  “Which one?”

  “The therapeutic one.”

  “Really? What made you change your mind?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m pretty sure the therapy is a gimmick, but it can’t hurt to check it out. I cut a deal with the owner. She’s going to let Adam swim with the dolphins whenever we get there.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  He smiles, holds his hand up and rubs his thumb back and forth across his fingertips.

  “You gave her money?”

  “A donation.”