Another beautiful morning in early September
They tumbled from his hands, a torrent of colors twisting and turning, catching the light in a way only his eyes could see.
A few feet and a million miles away, we sat. The urge to do anything but was almost unbearable. I wanted - with a terrible, deep-set desperation - to fly across the room. To pull them from the air, to take his hands in mine, to hold them still and calm whatever compulsions that drove him. That had driven us all here.
He watched them fall. Listened to the syncopation, the impact, as they struck the carpet like hard pellets of rain. And then swiftly gathered them once more into his small hands. He lifted them up, and for a moment he held them high. They pointed out between his fingers, waxy shards of colored glass. And then, again, he opened his fists and watched gravity take hold.
Four pairs of eyes watched him carefully. Analyzed, agonized, watched him watching the crayons tumble to the floor. Notes were taken. Frantic, silent prayers held tongues unused to prayer.
It felt like forever.
A voice I did not recognize: "Let's draw a picture." Her eyes were kind, and deeply focused, as she searched his face. Trying to capture his gaze. To make contact. But in that moment, there was no world other than that of crayons falling through the air. A gentle half-smile on his lips. His grey-blue eyes lost in wonder and fascination. Whether or not he heard his name in her voice, her invitations to play, to draw, to engage and react, his eyes did not waver. There was no other world.
She reached forward and began to gather them from his lap and the floor before him. He raised his voice in protest, a cry that did not find words but resonated across the room, unmistakable in intent and message. "It's okay, buddy," we said. We understood. We knew what he meant. We reassured him: everything is fine.
(These are the three most magical words in the language. They dissipate fear. Vanish unspoken terrors. Soothe anxiety. Make the bad thoughts go away.)
Tiny tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Our hearts held fast, clenched tight in our chests, sheer force of will and hope against hope the only adherents keeping them from splintering like rotten ice, from falling apart once and forevermore.
She spoke again. "Okay, now we'll play a new game." Redirection. "We're going to play with some blocks now." She pulled a clear plastic cylinder from the case. Inside were small plastic blocks; white on some sides, blue on others. "Would you like to play blocks with me?" Her eyes again searched his face, looking for contact, for response. He calmed; focused on the blocks. She repeated, "Would you like to play blocks with me?"
My wife could not help herself. She spoke his name. "Do you want to play blocks?" she asked him. Pushing him. Engage. Please. Engage.
"Yeah," he said. His small voice. A half-smile dancing once more across his face.
The woman nodded. The cylinder opened and the blocks poured out. Before she could even begin to ask, he began to stack. "You're stacking!" she said. "How high can you stack?" His eyes on the blocks. Watching carefully. Task-focused. Four high. Five. Six. Collapse.
"Good work," she said. "How about..." but he was already stacking. Four high. Five. Six. Collapse.
She took his hands in hers. "You're very good at making towers," she said. "But let's try a different block game. Here, watch me." She pulled the blocks towards her and put three together, horizontally. "I made a train! Choo-choo! Look, I can make it longer!" She added another block. "Would you like to try? Here, make a train!"
He took the blocks. Began stacking. Four high. Five. Collapse.
Redirect. "We're not doing towers anymore. We're making trains. Here, watch me do it again." She repeated the process, then pushed the blocks back to him. "Your turn."
Four high. Five. Six. Collapse.
I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. The air felt heavy in my lungs. Leaden. The press of gravity enormous.
"Maybe we should try a different game." Redirect. "We can make another tower, okay? But this time, we'll do it all in one color. Here, watch me." She constructed a four-block tower, all blue sides facing him. "See? I made a blue tower." She held up another block. "Some sides are white, and some are blue. I made my tower so it's all blue." She pushed the blocks over to him. "Can you make a blue tower?"
Four high. Five. Six.
White. Blue. Blue. White. Blue. White. Collapse.
Four pairs of eyes, watching carefully. The other woman, glancing down at a pad of paper. Her hands busy, taking notes.
"Alright," she said. "Maybe this is a good time to ask you some questions." She looked at us. Her eyes clear behind round lenses. Intelligent. Seeking out ours, trying to engage.
Four voices, back and forth. Questions. Answers. Interpretations. Hypotheses. Spin. My wife, keeping her voice steady. Something like confidence. Mine, soft. Careful. Bending in the wrong places. The deafening rush of blood. Concentrating on each breath. Smooth. Steady. Calm.
Looking over, watching him play on the floor. Beautiful boy. My skin stretching tight across my jaw, around my eyes. The air so heavy in my lungs. Hearing his mother's voice, he momentarily glanced up. I gave him a smile. "It's okay, buddy," I told him. Everything is fine. My heart swimming in blood and love and terror.
Questions you never dreamed you would be asked.
Eventually, they stood. "We're going to put together our notes, and then we'll come back in and talk some more." My eyes on the floor, on my son. Not ready to meet their gaze. And then the door shut, and we were left alone.
We sat at opposite ends of a small couch. The only question we had for each other: "What do you think?" But no way to answer. What you think. What you know. What you want to believe. Looking at each other, looking away. The little man, sitting on the floor. One leg straight, the other bent at the knee, the sole of his shoe rubbing against his pale calf. An imperfect triangle.
The blocks, slowly climbing towards the sky. Four. Five. Six. Collapse. Again.
Forever ticks by in seconds. Terrible, long seconds.
And then the door opened, and we drew in deep, long breaths. Filled our lungs, as if tasting new air for the last time. And they closed the door, and sat. Looked at us. And spoke.
"He's on the spectrum."
Four. Five. Six.
"Autism."
Collapse.
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