Just Another Kid: Each was a child no one could reach – until one amazing teacher embraced them all. Torey HaydenЧитать онлайн книгу.
The heating plate under the coffeepot clicked. The clock jumped the minutes with an audible tink.
“Would you like to sit up here beside me?”
She shook her head.
“It’s very soft, see? They’re nice cushions, these, just the kind for relaxing against. You’d probably find them nicer than the floor.”
Again she shook her head.
“I was a bit upsetting too, wasn’t I? Playing that game with you at the chalkboard. Did you think I was trying to trick you into talking? I didn’t mean it to be a trick, you know. Just a help. Just something to get you over the first time, because it’s the first time that’s so hard.”
She stared at her hands.
“And then there was Dirkie. What an annoying boy he can be. He wants to touch my hair all the time too, and I don’t like it either.”
The tears had begun to run down her cheeks. They dripped off her jawbone and onto the collar of her blouse. She did nothing to stop them.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Come here, Shemona.”
She shook her head.
I watched her. She watched her feet.
“I’m kind of thirsty,” I said. “Are you? I would think so, after all that screaming. Shall we split a can of pop?”
Lifting her head, she looked at me through her tears.
“What kind would you like?”
No response.
Standing, I pulled a handful of change from my pocket and went to the machine. “Coke? Shall we share a Coke?”
She nodded.
I put the money into the machine, and the can rattled noisily down into the tray. When I turned around to bring it back, Shemona was sitting on the sofa.
I sipped the froth off the top of the can and then handed it to her. Shemona reached up eagerly and put the Coke to her lips. Several seconds were lost in greedy gulping. Then finally she lowered it.
“What do you say?” I asked.
“Thank you.”
That was no breakthrough with Shemona. At best, it was détente. Once back in the room with the others, the veil came down again, and she retreated into silence. It had been a worthwhile time in the teachers’ lounge because it had forced her to acknowledge me as someone to be reckoned with, but I hadn’t made her talk. Exhaustion and loneliness made her talk. That and the Coke. I had the sense to know it wasn’t me.
On the other hand, there had been a major breakthrough, which had been almost entirely eclipsed by Shemona’s tantrum. And that was Leslie. When she had come to me in the janitor’s closet, that had been the first time Leslie had ever made even so much as a communicative grunt. It had startled me beyond reaction when it had occurred, and then I’d become too embroiled in Shemona’s mess to acknowledge it afterward. But once things settled down, I was astounded by the implications. Could Leslie actually talk? Could she control her speech? I’d been so accustomed to her silence that I’d just accepted it as part of her. I had assumed that the deterioration of her speech had been part of her general disturbance and had thought no more of it. That sort of thing was fairly common in children with Leslie’s kind of handicap. But could Leslie really talk?
After school, I waited up in the room with Leslie in an effort to lure Dr. Taylor out of the protection of her blue Mercedes and into the classroom. Within five minutes of the other children’s departing, Dr. Taylor was there.
“Do you suppose I could speak to you for a few moments?” I asked.
Her brow furrowed and her expression grew wary. I wondered if she thought I was going to get after her for having missed the conference on the previous Friday. Or perhaps her husband had clued her in about what we’d discussed.
There was a long, expectant, thoroughly uncomfortable pause in which we regarded one another. When I didn’t look away and she couldn’t stare me down, she finally dropped her gaze. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
“Let me take Leslie downstairs to stay with the other teacher here.” I guided Leslie toward the door. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I’m going to stop and get myself one on the way back.”
Dr. Taylor shook her head.
Back upstairs, I sat down at the table. Unlike her husband, Dr. Taylor did not sit down next to me. Instead, she sat across the table and three seats down in the chair nearest the doorway. I couldn’t have touched her, even if we’d both extended our arms.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t come the other night. I had everything out to show you then, and I’m afraid I don’t now. This was a sort of spur-of-the-moment idea, asking you in. But it helps me tremendously to talk to both parents. Also, we had a most extraordinary thing happen in here today, and I was curious to find out how it compares with Leslie’s behavior at home.”
Dr. Taylor simply sat, regarding me as I spoke. She had the most disconcerting ability to maintain eye contact, and she had the most exceptional eyes, which increased the discomfort caused by her staring. While her eyes were not unusually large, she had a way of widening them that made them seem enormous to me. The whole iris became visible, giving her that kind of cold, unblinking expression reptiles have. Or perhaps it came more from the crocodile color. Whatever, her gaze made me feel continually obliged to look away, and I was annoyed with myself for doing this.
“How is Leslie at home? What’s she like to live with?” I asked.
This caused Dr. Taylor to finally take her eyes off my face. She looked down, up, around, then back to me. She shrugged slightly. “Just Leslie.”
“Listening to some of the things your husband was telling me on Friday, I get the feeling she must be quite a handful sometimes.”
Another shrug.
“Do you find the going a bit hard sometimes?”
A pause, then a slight nod.
“Can you tell me in what ways?”
Another shrug.
“Your husband says she doesn’t sleep very well.”
She shook her head.
“What happens?” I asked.
“She gets up.”
“Then what?”
“Wanders around.”
This conversation was like pulling teeth. In all my other encounters with Dr. Taylor, she gave me the impression that deigning to talk to me was something that she just couldn’t bring herself to do. It felt less that way now. I wondered if she was feeling threatened by this situation, or if she was guarding her private life.
“Who gets up with Leslie when she wakes?” I asked.
“I do, mostly.”
“Do you just put her back to bed?”
“If she’ll go.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I need to stay up with her.”
“How often does this occur?” I asked.
She shrugged slightly. “Every night.”
“Every night?”
Another shrug. “Every night I can think of.”
“More than once a night?”
Another shrug. “Sometimes.”
“How often did you get up with her last night?”
“Three times.”
“That sounds exhausting,” I said.
Dr.