“Joey belongs in an institution, Ms Traub,” said Doctor Houseplant.
Chelle cringed. She had heard the recommendation before, from three other physicians, and had balked. She balked again. Houseplant—his real name was Houseman—reminded her of a philodendron out of the sunlight for too long: wilted, and brown around the edges, and tilting toward retirement. He had no children; he could not possibly understand.
“How would placing him in an institution cure his headaches?” she asked.
She did not expect a sensible answer, for the question bordered on the rhetorical. But it did serve to redirect him toward the purpose of their visit. She glanced at Joey. Now almost eleven years old, he could just about feed himself without undue mess. He had dressed himself, after a fashion, with the zipper halfway up on his jeans, the belt notched one hole too loose, so that the jeans hung about his hips. One sock inside-out. She had bought shoes with Velcro fasteners because tying laces was beyond him. The tee-shirt—blue, his favorite color of the day—was on backwards; at least it wasn’t like the sock.
She had not adjusted his clothing; he needed a sense of accomplishment.
“Hurts,” he said, hands over his ears. “Not a fish.”
The headaches had started last week, and to judge by the increasing force of Joey’s complaint, had grown in intensity, to the point that he whimpered in his sleep. In a way, Chelle thought, autistic children were like pets: when they hurt, you had to do something about it, even if you didn’t know what it was. The problem was that Doctor Houseplant didn’t know, either.
“There is a facility right here in Southhaven,” he was saying, as he pulled a business card from his pocket. “The Mueller Institute. They’re new, but good.” He handed her the card. “You can at least hear what they have to say,” he went on. “They can develop programs that cater to individual needs—”
Chelle got to her feet. “Thank you, Doctor, but that’s not a solution for us.” She held out her hand for Joey. He ignored it.
“It will free you up to get a job,” Houseman pointed out—the advice unsolicited. “To support yourself better.”
The remark infuriated her, but she kept her composure. Her hand passed in front of Joey’s face, and he took it. Gently she pulled him up. He was so light, and yet so strong.
“Your prescription has been called into the pharmacy,” he went on, and watched while they departed, she striding in short steps, he shuffling along. She halfway expected to hear Houseman call out, “Next!”
Just before they reached the sliding glass doors, Joey aimed the first two fingers of his right hand and swept them to the right. The doors opened immediately. “Jedi fish,” he said.
On the way to the car, Chelle asked, “Joey, what day was August 13, 1809?”
“Sunday.”
She would confirm that when she got back to the apartment. But as with perhaps a hundred different dates before, he had never been wrong. It occurred to her that if he could be rewired, so that the neurons could connect at will, he would have invented a cure for everything within a year. But up to now he had demonstrated just the one talent. The quirky ability might get him on a late-night television show as a curiosity, but it was otherwise of little value.
Still, they could use the money. She hated welfare. She hated food stamps. No, that was not quite accurate. She hated having to beg for welfare and food stamps by filling out form after form after form. She wished she could find a job, one that had hours that fit in with Joey’s needs, or a day care for autistic children. She had searched. She had tried. But only institutionalization would free her. And she did not want that sort of emancipation. Joey was her son.
Joey almost ran into the car door. Chelle caught him in time. She got it open, got him into the seat belt, and he clapped his hands to his ears and began rocking back and forth. She wanted to cry.
Let’s just get home, she thought.
Making the choice between eating and medication, Chelle did not stop by the pharmacy for the Imitrex. Its cost was not covered by TennCare; so she had been told. She had thought otherwise, but apparently autism was regarded as a pre-existing condition. She had filed a protest three months ago, and was waiting. Waiting. The institute in Southhaven was not an option: being a resident of Tennessee, she did not qualify for Medicaid in Mississippi. Possibly Doctor Houseplant’s geography training was insufficient.
Joey whimpered. “Hurts. Not a fish.”
“I know, baby,” she sighed. “I know.”
Chelle had done the research. There were support groups. One even stood out…but it was for ages nine months to three years. Joey would turn eleven in another month. Another sounded interesting, and she had called them, only to find that there were forms to fill out and a long waiting list. A third already had over fifty in the group, and Chelle feared that Joey’s voice and hers would be lost in the crowd. But there was one group with an off-beat title: Grow with Jamie & Friends. She had phoned them as well. They met on Friday evenings at seven, and had extended an invitation. Today was Friday. Somewhere on or near Jefferson, she thought…she almost missed a stop sign, and managed to brake without disturbing Joey.
Tonight, she thought, breathing deeply. Tonight.
A horn from behind urged her on.