Somebody Somewhere by Donna Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

throwing the ball back and forth with me. Gradually I had managed to include two other children in a game of catch. Michael smiled to himself, alternating between looking at the kids and staring once again into nothingness.
    Other children were skipping rope. Michael walked into their games again and again with the same apparently aimless wandering I had seen before in Robbie. It was clear that Michael wanted to join in but couldn’t show it directly, even to himself. The other children became annoyed.
    I found a rope for him. Without expression, excitement, or expectation, I helped him through the motions of skipping step by step. Michael got the gist of it and seemed fairly pleased with himself as he went around the grounds throwing the rope over his head and stepping over it as it landed in front of him.
    Michael began to teach me. He took my hand, and my heart sank. I was afraid and yet curious as to why I didn’t “disappear” when I was with him or Jack or Jody. I felt strangely safe and familiar with him. His touch had no expectation. He was almost as avoidant of it as I was.
    He put my hand in front of his face, spat on it, and broke intocheeky, secretive laughter. Michael seemed to think this was hilarious. At first I didn’t.
    Michael expanded on his game, making strings of sounds as he held my hand in front of his face: “K,k,k,b,b,b,t,t,t.” Suddenly it occurred to me that he must have had speech therapy. He wasn’t spitting on my hand after all, he had been demonstrating the letter “p.” I chuckled quietly to myself thinking how irrational speech therapy must have seemed to him, some perverse game where he was taught to blow and spit upon the hands of a stranger. He had, at least, found entertainment value in what might otherwise have been a meaningless session where he was expected to make sounds without ever being told why. Even if he wanted to, who would know to explain all this to him? Who would know to explain why on earth he would want to use words according to his own value system? Who would even think he was listening or understanding when he found it too difficult to express his awareness, even to himself?
    Together inside of a Hula Hoop, Michael and I went for a walk—with Michael leading. We stopped at the playground, climbed out, and played follow-the-leader until neither of us could tell who was the follower and who was the leader. We made musical patterns out of the sounds made by tapping various wooden beams and metal pipes, and filled in each other’s tunes, composing. We went to the sink and played with the drink taps, splashing the water about.
    Two girls came by chattering with each other. They shot a strange expression in our direction before detouring to play several feet away. Michael stood stock still like a shop mannequin. His smiling face grew solemn, his eyes stopped smiling. His fist came tensely up to his chest and he glared at me. In a loud, deep monotone, he hit himself with each syllable as he announced, “NOR-MAL.” I looked at the girls and looked back at him. “Yes…” I said, “Michael and Donna are NOR-MAL.”

    I had contacted one of the two people whose names I’d been given when I first visited the special-needs school. One was at a resource center for people like me. The guy who met me there talked for some time with me and reassured me that while most autistic people were not as capable as me, there were a few he’d known who were fairly capable. Then he asked me if I wanted any help. I looked at him like he was nuts. He suggested the name of someone. It was a Dr. Someone and in my books that spelled headshrinker. Oh shit, I thought. This guy thinks I’m crazy.
    I had seen a psychiatrist for two years, from age seventeen to nineteen. It did plenty for teaching me to act and think like her, and it got me back into education, but it didn’t help me get “real.” Willie went from prison warden to shrink. Carol went from street kid to sophisticate. And