A Shadow of Things to Come
Chapter 1
The adults who are gathered in our home for my mother’s weekly prayer occasionally shift their attention away from their coffee and each other, to acknowledge me with a sideways glance. I’m sitting quietly in the corner with my coloring book, trying to ignore them, to no avail.
Possessed of the devil, that’s what.
He’s mentally retarded. Kid gives me the creeps!
His parents should put him in one of those homes for kids like him.
I struggle to block out the vicious thoughts that press into my mind, each clamoring for my attention. The voices rage on, never ceasing, making it impossible for me to pull away from them. And the accompanying feelings, sharp and cruel, sometimes with the colors of grey and black that meant that bad things were going to happen. It wasn’t so much that I heard the voices when their mouths weren’t moving; it was seeing myself through their eyes, as this thing that was broken and not right.
When the group takes a brief break an old, big-boned woman hobbles over, and looks down at me with a smile that never reaches her eyes. “And this is your son, Bobby?” Through her eyes, I see a scrawny, paper-thin boy with skin too pale from hiding indoors, and the tired and haggard eyes that one would expect to find in an old man, rather than a five-year-old child. That kid is just plain weird.
The conflicting clash of words and thoughts grind together like the rusted gears of a large machine. Her words are sharp pointed teeth that bite me inside, in the soft core of my center, where I have no protection. I bide my time until the group closes their eyes in prayer before taking the opportunity to quietly slip away out of the hallway to hide in my room. I know that I will pay for this act of de ance later, but for now, the calm I feel from the retreating tide of voices is worth the price.
It is always like this. Sometimes the barrage of voices hurts so bad that I cry out at the pain and flail around with my arms, and for this, I am punished. Again, I see my dad looming over me, his dark thoughts rumbling like a thunderstorm as he slowly unbuckles his belt. “Going to beat the devil out of that boy,” he thought, or were those his words? I could no longer tell the difference.
The whippings hurt, but what hurt more was sensing the feelings of disgust that accompanied them. What could I do? I was too little and scared to run away, so I hid inside my mind, hunkering down in that far corner where no one could hurt me. I hid that way for a long, long time.
I sense the passage of time, but at this point in my life the days meld into each other, so it’s difficult to track. I began to understand that somewhere buried under the weight of all those other thoughts resided a separate “me”, and that’s when the world came into focus as something distinctly distinct from myself.
It’s a cold day and my mom has got me bundled up warm because she and my dad are taking me downtown to meet a lady. On the drive over my mom tells me that the lady is a kind of a doctor. Seeing me flinch, she adds that the lady will just be talking to me and that I should be good, which means, as my dad describes it, no “crazy stuff.”
We enter an of ce, and as soon as I step through the door I begin to relax. The room feels more like someone’s cozy study than a doctor’s office, and the walls are a robin’s egg blue, which I find calming. A wooden bookcase lines one wall, and in the middle of the room are four comfortable high-backed chairs. A pile of large colorful fuzzy pillows is stacked next to one of the chairs.
A woman enters the room and smiles at my folks, introducing herself to them as Dr. Sandra Norvell. As she looks towards me her smile widens. “And you must be Bobby. You can just call me Sandy if you want.” A peek into her mind shows me that, unlike most adults I’ve met, her smile extends to her heart, which warms me inside. Sandy talks softly to me like I would when coming across a skittish cat for the first time. When she steps closer, I notice that she smells like owers. Without looking around I know that my parents have left the room, which helps me relax. It takes so much effort to keep their angry and anxious feelings at bay.
Sandy plops two pillows down on the carpet, then sits on one and pats the other, inviting me to join her. As I do, I nd myself glancing around the room, trying to avoid the scary feeling that I get when I have to make direct eye contact with someone. The colors of Sandy’s mind mirror the light blue walls of her of ce, so I know she is a nice person. At the same time, as often happens with me, I am having trouble separating her words from her thoughts, so I pretend not to hear her and just pull back into myself until she stops talking. Sandy must have picked up on my discomfort because a few minutes later she scoots her pillow around so that instead of facing me she’s now sitting next to me. As she does this, she slides some pictures and puzzles over to me.
“Bobby,” she asks, “can you put these pictures together in the right order?” I glance at the pictures and the correct arrangement appears in front of me like a cartoon. She gives me several more sets of pictures, and as the solutions roll out before me I quickly arrange all of the picture pieces in the correct order. A sideways glance at her reveals that I’ve been rewarded with a big smile, and I pause to bathe in the warm feeling that flows from her.
“Bobby, I’m going to show you some puzzles now. Can you use this marker to show me the right path through this maze?” With no more than a glance at the maze the right path forms in my mind and I zip through it, before grabbing another one and doing the same. I like this game, because there is an order here that makes sense. We continue that for a while, with her growing smile warming my belly.
As I play with the puzzles, I begin to notice how, by focusing like this, I find it easier to block out Sandy’s thoughts and just listen to her words. I file that insight away for later use as I continue to work on the games. Sandy tells me that she is going to the other room to talk to my mom and dad. While I wait for her to return, I amuse myself by creating mazes in my mind and solving them. At the same time, I extend a small part of myself to flow into the next room and listen in on the conversation that she is having with my parents.
“Doctor, you said something about Bobby being artistic. What does that have to do with his problems?” My dad’s thoughts turn darker as he says this, and I have to direct my attention back to my puzzles to calm my fears. His words don’t make a lot of sense since I know what an artist is, and I can’t draw very well. My mom, as usual, isn’t saying much, although I can feel her heart racing.
I take a risk and extend myself to look through Sandy’s eyes. She gives a small shake of her head and points to the test reports on her desk. “Mr. Haynes the word I used is ‘autistic,’ not ‘artistic.’ It’s a neurological disorder that has been well researched.” The image that she holds in her mind is of a lost little boy who is largely shut off from the outside world.
My mom’s eyes begin to tear up. “Are you trying to tell us that Bobby’s mentally disabled?”
“Not at all, Ms. Haynes. In fact, Bobby is one of the brightest children that we’ve ever tested. His scores are much better than what we typically see of children in his age group. You see, autism doesn’t mean that a person isn’t smart. Bobby has a very strong mind. His problem is that he gets his signals crossed when he is trying to make sense of everything that is going on around him. This same problem makes it difficult for him to communicate with others.” I feel the truth of this in Sandy’s mind. With it comes the beginning of understanding—I’m not damaged, just different from other people.
Seeing the sideways glance that passes between my mom and dad, Sandy tries a different approach. “Have you ever seen one of those old-fashioned radios where you have to turn the dial to get a channel?” Seeing my parents nod she continues. “Then you know that as you turn the dial, at some point different channels start to interfere with each other, making it difficult to hear one over the other. Autism is like that. Children who are autistic have trouble communicating and understanding what other people think and feel.”
My dad’s face has gone hard, but Sandy plows on. “This is probably the reason that Bobby sometimes doesn’t like to be touched, or sometimes has trouble reading people’s facial expressions. Mrs. Haynes, you had told me that when Bobby is upset, he sometimes rocks back and forth, is that right?”
“Yes, or he might wave his arms around.”
“Well, when autistic children get upset, they sometimes comfort themselves with repetitive moments, as Bobby does.”.
My mom dabs her handkerchief to her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that we need to put him in an institution?” I don’t need to rely on my mind-reading skills to feel the icy current of fear in her words.
“Not at all. I will introduce you to some simple exercises that you can do with Bobby that will make it easier for him to communicate with you, Before you go I’ll give you some literature on these. We also have some very good programs here that can help, if you can bring him in regularly. Also, try to keep him away from a lot of stimulation. Things like noisy crowds and loud music are going to scare him. He does a lot better when he is by himself in a quiet room, doesn’t he?”
My mom gives a weak smile. “Yes, that’s the one thing that seems to help him.”
“Good. You might think of creating a place like that in your home. And Mr. and Mrs. Haynes the other thing that I want to emphasize is that Bobby is a very bright and inquisitive boy. I know that you feel that he’s locked up in his own little world, but there is a lot of thinking going on in that mind of his, so I would recommend that you encourage this by giving him picture books, along with puzzles and games that can stimulate his thinking.” My mom shoots a questioning look at my dad, who just grimaces and nods. I feel the frustration ebbing through both of them, but at the same time, I can tell that they are at least somewhat receptive to Sandra’s advice.
Months pass, and it becomes easier for me to hold other people’s thoughts at bay. My parents follow Sandra’s advice and for the first time, books other than the Bible begin to appear in our home. My parents start by giving me simple picture books showing nature scenes, or math problems involving the counting of everyday objects, but after watching me hungrily devour them, they soon move on to books designed for older children.
It’s my seventh birthday and my dad places a scruffy little black and white dog in my lap. I sensed that my parents were apprehensive about giving me a dog, but upon seeing my face lights up at the little furball wiggling excitedly in my arms, they quickly relax. There is such a wave of pure love and joy radiating from that little body that it is almost overwhelming. I hold the little dog up at arms-length while it struggles to lick my face.
“Oreo” I announce. “Mom and Dad, I’m going to call him Oreo because he reminds me of the cookie.” My mom beamed at me. Up to that point, it was the longest sentence that I had ever spoken. With Oreo settling into my lap I decide to try something that I had always been afraid to do with another person. With that, I send the pup a strong feeling of love, wrapped in a blue cloud. With a playful bark, Oreo sends the feeling right back to me. Success!
My parents are in the other room, so I decide to take another risk and send Oreo a thought, Do you want to go outside and play? The little dog’s ears pick up as he gives an inquisitive tilt of his head. He has heard my thoughts but seems unsure of what I am trying to communicate. I try again, this time employing a different approach of picturing the two of us running together through our backyard. Yes! The reply startles me, and I realize that I wasn’t hearing the actual word, but rather the images and feelings that accompany it. The two of us play outside for the rest of the day until my mom calls me in for supper. It is the happiest memory from my childhood.
Oreo and I are playing a game of “get the ball” in the backyard, where we stay to avoid being teased by the neighborhood kids. I kick the ball to Oreo, who grabs it and races away from me into our front yard. Chasing after him I almost bump into the two boys who are walking by our house. The small one gives me a nasty smirk. “Look who is here— it’s the retard.”
Ignoring the boys I walk over to Oreo. The bigger boy piles on with, “Hey, spaz boy, don’t you know dogs are for normal kids?” With that, Oreo gives a frightened yelp as the bigger boy gives him a small kick. Without thinking I feel a wave of hate ripples out from me, pouring into both boys. The smaller one begins to back away while the bigger one just stands there, looking at me with a face that’s gone pale.
I slowly walk over and give the bigger boy a hard grin, “You hurt my dog.” This time I allow the anger that flares up within me to emerge unfettered, as it leaps into his mind. The effect is immediate, as he sways unsteady on his feet before running away a second later, with his smaller friend close behind. I stand there looking after them, shaking with a lot of conflicting emotions. There is guilt because this is the first time that I have ever used my mind to hurt someone. But hovering just below that guilt is something else that I have never felt before. It takes me a moment before I suddenly recognize what I’m experiencing as a sense of pride. Today, I somehow used my mind to protect my friend, and that felt both good and right.
Months roll by and I realize how effortless it’s become, not only to sense what my dog is feeling but also to experience the world through him. Looking through Oreo’s eyes the world shifts to a different color palette of grey, brown, yellow, and blue. My hearing becomes sharper, but the biggest difference is in my sense of smell. The tangy smell of a nearby squirrel, the spicy smell of the chicken my mom is frying on the stove, and the blended smells of owers, grass, and trees, all give me a different way to experience the world.
My experiments with Oreo have made me curious to see how far I can go in melding with the minds of other people. Up to this point, most of my time was spent with my mom or dad, and I feared that if they ever discovered my special gifts they would decide that these abilities were of the devil, and needed to be beaten out of me. My only option is to be patient and wait for the right opportunity to come along.
Thanksgiving arrives and I decide that the opportunity I’ve been looking for might arrive in the form of a visit from Aunt Peggy, my mom’s older sister. Aunt Peggy is always kind to me, and her thoughts are the pale aqua color that I’ve come to associate with a tranquil mind. I also know that, unlike my mom and dad, Aunt Peggy has attended college and enjoys reading a lot of things besides the Bible.
As I sit on my living room floor petting Oreo, Aunt Peggy is reading a magazine as she is comfortably nestled in the big high-back armchair that is usually reserved for my dad. I give her a few minutes to get into the rhythm of her reading before tiptoeing into her mind to see through her eyes. I’m surprised to discover that not only can I follow the words she is reading, but also the thoughts and the mental images that accompany those words. I give an involuntary shiver of delight, as words, thoughts, and images fuse together to help me understand much of what she is reading.
The article explores the different types of whales that live deep in the ocean, and as I read through my aunt’s eyes, I imagine myself swimming in the ocean with those huge gentle creatures. My mind drifts and I can almost feel the ocean, wrapped around me like a cool blanket. I hear a low rumbling noise, just below my normal range of hearing and, with a start, I sense that the noise is coming from me as I move my large tail n through the water looking for others of my kind. The sudden insight startles me, and Aunt Peggy shivers as she looks around the room for the source of the noise. As I pull back from her mind, she gives a mental shrug and relaxes. I try to make sense of what I just experienced, but I can’t tell whether the sensation of being a whale was just a product of my overactive imagination, or that I had somehow managed to reach out to one of those great creatures.
Time passes, and I begin to understand how to partially shield myself from others’ thoughts and feelings. With a lot of effort, when I am around only a few people I can now manage to focus my attention on one person while tuning out the intruding thoughts and images of others. At the same time, large crowds continue to prove too much for me, and when this happens, I once again pull back into my shell.
I know that I have to be careful in how much I reveal to others about what I can do. My parents still worry a lot about me, and although I don’t want to, I can also sense their deepest fears—that their son represents some kind of evil abomination. My only hope in keeping those fears at bay lies in my ability to pretend that I am just as ordinary as everyone else, though, on the inside where it matters, I felt anything but normal.
