Life, Animated by Ron Suskind Read Free Book Online

phrase—“hold you”—that takes us in the other direction, as he displays an urge for connection that autistic kids aren’t supposed to have. He says it, and holds out his arms, as we sit in the glider that we saved from his nursery back in Dedham. It doesn’t happen often, but a few times is enough.
    A need expressed and met. Of course, it’s the kind of thing a dog would say if it could talk, and variations of this desire to hold or hug is a favorite of chimps who’ve been taught to sign. But on this phrase, we hang the world and its many promises.
    As for the rest of life, it goes on. Family outings to the latest kids’ movie, a Baltimore Orioles game, a trip to the Virginia mountains, and everything humanly possible for Walt. The prospect that because of this insanity Walt will be denied any of his due is unthinkable, even if mandated by laws of time and space. The only defense is a strong offense—to show we are like other families, only more so. Every practice—he is starting hockey—playdate, birthday party, neighborhood fair, museum visit, parent-teacher conference, and PTA meeting is in the nondiscretionary category. Everything has to be, and will be, done.
    Of course, in malls, movie theaters, and restaurants with Owen, we’re anything but typical. We draw stares. And sometimes it takes a while for folks to turn away. We’ve become experts on staring. With some disabled kids, it’s clear that they’re disabled—there’s some sort of physical manifestation. Owen, like his classmate Julian, looks typical. In fact, they’re both cute kids, with delicate features. So why is that curly-haired boy in the corner booth at the diner grunting, dropping silverware, shaking his head wildly, and spilling things? Clearly, he’s a very badly behaved boy. Maybe abusive parents.
    Booths, especially in diners, are preferable, so we can keep Owen on the inside, in the nook between the wall and the tabletop jukebox. That way, no one can see him all that well—we can reduce the number of onlookers.
    Walt notices every eye in the room. You can see that, as his self-awareness grows, it makes him uncomfortable. How can it not? Cornelia and I force ourselves to act like nothing is happening, nothing different, or noticeable. No, he’s just talking to himself. Can we please have some extra napkins to clean this up? Thank you, and the check, please.
    We see Walt panning the room for stares. We’re just like everyone else, Walt . That’s our standard response. He looks at us like we’ve gone around the bend.
    Cornelia is on the phone, sounding desperate to talk.
    “What—is something wrong?”
    “No,” she says. “He’s just doing it again—the movie talking.”
    So what, I wonder. He’s been doing it since “juicervose.”
    “It’s just echolalia. Parrot stuff. He’s just repeating sounds.”
    I can hear her shaking her head on the phone line.
    She explains in a measured way, like talking to a child, that the phrase of gibberish he’s been repeating for the past month she’s just deciphered. He’s been watching Beauty and the Beast incessantly and he seems to be repeating something—“bootylyzwitten”—on a regular basis. And he was just repeating it in the car. “You’re not going believe it.”
    At this point, I am jumping though the phone. “What? What!”
    “Beauty lies within.”
    I can’t say anything for a minute.
    “Are you there?”
    “I’m here, I just can’t believe it,” I say, finally. “Of all the phrases, that one. That’s what the movie’s about—that’s its theme. Could he actually be understanding what he’s watching?”
    I tell her I’ll call tonight—definitely tonight!—but I have to run. I’m late for class.
    It’s the fall of 1995 and, on the surface, quite a bit has changed. Not that I’ve re-enrolled in college. I’m in Providence, Rhode Island, following Cedric through his formative freshman year at Brown University for a book. In the spring, the