Pleasant Plum #9

Michael Miller Stone III ceased to be when he was three.

Instead, he became “Mikey”. I had started baby sitting Michael when I was in sixth grade; in fact, he was my first baby sitting job. But Michael Miller Stone the Third didn’t make eye contact with me, and he preferred bright toys instead of my well practiced baby faces. Michael didn’t like hugs, or any physical contact. He still didn’t have any first words when I continued to sit for him in high school.

Michael was diagnosed with autism—and became the “Mikey” I love today. Although, I can’t really tell if he loves me. I think so.

His parents needed help. My Saturday job would be to take Mikey off their hands, so they could feel “normal” again. Both were career driven, and had wanted their son to be the same. Ivy League, private school, violin. Those plans were shattered when Mikey’s name changed. When the executive board would get off track and talk about their children, Mrs. Stone would work very hard to be invisible. That was something absolutely against her character. I guess she didn’t want them to know there would never be a need for violin lessons.

Today, I am taking Mikey to the beach. A treat for him, a death wish for me. Mikey’s autism makes him seek sensations and stimulation. Waves, sand, wind, and gulls make him gleeful. Ocean waves make me terrified. Mikey will never learn to swim. Twelve now, a shade of a mustache is forming; belying a maturity that he probably will never have. But shaving him is too much trouble. In fact, everyday functions are almost too much trouble. He’s potty trained. To make him go number one, the care-taker pores warm water over his genitals so he goes. We are still working out a way to take care of number two. He’s wearing an adult swim diaper under his trunks, just in case.

“Hey look! A girl with a pet retard!” , some poetical beach bum. Mikey’s wrist is linked to mine by a tether. It looks stupid and over-protective, but it’s better than the alternative, which is drowning. Mikey sees a seagull. He points, flaps his hands together, lets out an intelligible screech and catapults toward them dragging me along too. Damn the boy is strong!

Sometimes I wonder if there is a place for Mikey. An autistic adolescent who’s cuteness is no longer a bargaining chip. Sometimes I wonder if there is another reason Mrs. Stone keeps encouraging me to take him to the ocean…..

Mikey could be a genius, but his mind just won’t let him show it. There is so much we don’t know about autism. Why his brain won’t let him connect with people, why his mind won’t let him go anything but full speed.

He sees a huge sea shell and runs pell-mell toward it. I anticipate the run to avoid the jerk in the tether. It’s a huge seashell, one that seems to have lived longer and more robustly than any of the others we’ve seen so far today. However, on the bottom of the thing, is this huge nodule of extra calcite. This growth would have prevented the creature inside from scooting along the ocean floor normally. It should have been any easy snack. And yet the shell and the animal inside continued to grow and thrive. Leaving us this humongous shell.

Mikey’s already had enough of the beach. He wants to play in the hotel elevator. He likes the feeling of acceleration-of constantly speeding up and slowing down. Perhaps it’s the same reason he likes the waves.

I pocket the shell before we go. I’ll put it in his room next Saturday. The driftwood, shells, and pieces of multicolored glass run smooth by the ocean, have been brought back by me and all the other caretakers-to give his room a little spunk. He's got a nice shelf to store the little objects that bring him joy.

I think there may be a place for Mikey after all.

At least, I hope so.