Following Ezra (2 page)

Ezra seemed agitated even in his sleep, and when he rose at daybreak, it fell upon me to prevent him from waking the other boys or creating enough of a disturbance to rouse the staff members and families neighboring our small bungalow.

So Ezra and I began taking walks.

The air was cool and crisp at that early hour, the best time to roam the grounds, where peacocks wandered freely and geckos scampered across stone walls and asphalt patches. Ezra was drawn to animals of all kinds, so we wandered down a short dirt road to visit a compact stable that housed the center’s small herd of horses, then continued up a knoll and into a modest pen, where Ezra could meander amid a few dozen chickens and, nearby, peek into a small aviary with parrots and a handful of pigeons. For a boy who spent most of the year in a Los Angeles neighborhood with all of the traffic, smog, and noise that came with it, this was heaven.

After a few days, Ezra had worked out a circuit that he insisted on following each morning: paying a visit to the livestock and birds, then continuing a stretch to a little barn, past the swimming pool and sports fields, and up the road to where he had discovered a playground area. There, years before, campers had created a cluster of toddler-size animals molded from plaster. Ezra would sit on each one, always in exactly the same order: the giraffe, the camel, the snail, the turtle. Then we wandered to the nearby swing set, where I pushed him for a few minutes until he was ready to hop off and stroll back to the cabin, just in time to find his mother and brothers beginning to stir.

One morning, instead of turning left to return to the cabin, Ezra turned right.

“Other way, Ez,” I said. But he didn’t hear—or chose not to listen. Instead of heading back toward the family, he walked with resolve up the paved road, toddling a few steps ahead of me. I followed closely behind him, calling to him, to no avail. Then I dropped back a few paces. It was a private road, and I knew that at that early hour no cars were likely to come by, not even the groundskeeper’s rusty red pickup. So I let my young son walk as I faded ten feet, then fifteen, then twenty feet behind. I wondered whether he might become upset, realizing that I was not at his side. He didn’t. Ezra followed the curving road amid the brush and eucalyptus, up a small hill, around a bend, and on for nearly half a mile. A three-year-old boy ambling up a rural road, more and more isolated from everything and everyone he knew, my son seemed completely on his own—confident and naive, bold and aloof, utterly alone.

I watched, feeling a combination of fear, bewilderment, and wonder. Fear for his safety; bewilderment at his seeming lack of awareness or connection; wonder at his resolve to follow his own path, to take the road he wanted, even if it was unknown.

 

 

This is the story of what happened in the ten years following that summer, a decade that has delineated a personal journey, beginning in darkness, winding through desperation, fascination, love, and, ultimately, a sense of awe for our unique, exceptional son. I started the quest trying my best to be a good dad and an enlightened consumer, searching out the right doctors, the best therapy, the most promising medicine, the breakthrough diet. In time I learned that what I had been looking for was the wrong thing. Like many parents, I saw my son’s challenges as something to get past so that my family and I could get on with our lives. I eventually learned that this
is
life; this is what life is. It wasn’t about finding the right expert for my child; it was about learning to be the right parent.

Ten years ago, I watched my solitary boy venture down an isolated road. For a decade, I have watched from an increasing distance as he takes a path all his own. In some senses, that has made his life richer and fuller. Yet Ezra’s path is so singular that I have wondered what he is missing by walking alone, in his discrete universe. And then there is this question: As his father, what is my role? To run ahead of him and lead him in a safe direction? To walk by his side, holding his hand? To try to pull him back to familiar territory? Long ago, I made my choice: to follow Ezra and to watch, in awe and mystery, as my son makes his own unique way in the world.

CHAPTER ONE

“Sorry about the chairs,” the teacher says.

It’s parent conference day at the preschool. As Shawn and I arrive on a chilly December morning, Karen gestures toward a pair of blue, toddler-size seats across a Formica-covered table from where she sits scanning a manila folder. Why do they always make us cram our adult bodies into these tiny chairs? It seems to reflect the absurdity of conducting conferences at a preschool. These two-year-olds aren’t taking algebra exams or memorizing the branches of government. What could a teacher possibly have to say? I want to be a good father, but I’m not convinced it’s worth taking the morning off from work and driving six miles to hear how my children are interacting with their Play-Doh.

I decide it is important, though, more to check on the school than the children. After moving from New York to Los Angeles just a few months earlier, we enrolled Ami and Ezra at the neighborhood preschool without much research besides soliciting recommendations from a couple of friends. The conference will give us a chance to get to know the teachers and to introduce ourselves.

We’re impressed with Ami’s instructor, an upbeat woman who regales us with stories about how well our oldest son has adjusted to the new environment. Ami, at four, has quickly forged friendships with virtually every child, distinguished himself by routinely volunteering to set up the apple juice cups, and charmed instructors with his smile and manners. “In fifteen years teaching preschool,” she says, “I have rarely had a child like this.”

Warmed and cheered by an educator who obviously knows what she is talking about, my wife and I smile at each other as we make our way a few doors down the hall to Ezra’s room. Karen is in her mid-thirties, with short blond hair, and a languid manner that might be calming to young children, but her halting speech immediately makes the conversation feel as awkward as the chairs. After an initial nervous smile as she welcomes us, she quickly becomes more somber, looking over her notes.

“Let’s start with the positives,” she says, not smiling. “Ezra has a lot of energy and”—she pauses—“he’s a very loving child.” Then a long, difficult silence. I’m waiting to hear the rest of the positives, but none come. Just this: “I do have some concerns.”

On only a few occasions in life have I felt time slow down. At our wedding, the births of our children, the moment I pulled onto Fairfax Avenue at the wrong second and watched another Toyota minivan careen into mine—events that stretched out, seemingly out of time, existing in their own reality, apart from the ordinary pace of the universe. This conference is becoming one of those moments. I hear some of the words—
spacy
,
inflexible
,
autonomous
—and the phrases—
hard to get him to connect
,
not very responsive.
I catch one image: Before snack, when the children get in line to wash their hands, Karen says, reading from her handwritten notes, Ezra simply stands at the sink, motionless, seemingly not understanding what to do. I picture my little boy, lost in thought as water flows from the tap and his classmates press up behind him, eager to get to their Ritz crackers and apple slices.

As the teacher describes our middle son, I look up at Shawn. We both understand what Karen is talking about. In recent months, we have begun to notice quirky behavior ourselves. Ezra has been spending long hours alone engaged in strange, solitary routines. He lines up his toys in precise patterns in the backyard, then turns on a garden spigot, leaving it running as he watches the water form a small rivulet across the concrete. Then he drags a plastic laundry basket outside and folds a multicolored comforter into it, then climbs in himself, tucking his body into the quilt and lying in silence as he listens to the running water. He repeats this ritual day after day. Occasionally he has gone missing in the house for fifteen or twenty minutes and we frantically search every room, finally discovering him hiding, awake but motionless, under a mound of stuffed animals he has crammed into his younger brother’s crib.

To us, he seems remote and a bit unusual, but we figure that’s just Ezra. He acts and responds to almost everything differently than Ami, who was outgoing and friendly seemingly from the moment he emerged from Shawn’s womb. Isn’t that to be expected? Doesn’t every child have a unique personality?

My initial response to Karen’s description is to smile.
Yep, that sounds like Ezra, all right.
Shawn, too, breaks into a grin of recognition. Then she asks what Karen has been doing to help our son adapt. Karen pauses for a long time, at a loss, then, looking down, quietly answers: “I’m telling
you
.”

I don’t know what any of it means—how unusual his behavior is, what our next step should be—but as the two of us slip out of the school and slowly walk down the street, I feel a sense of alarm and disquiet like none I have known.

 

 

That night, Shawn can’t sleep. Of course, we have both recognized our son’s odd habits, but hearing the description from Karen has been a shock. His behavior isn’t just odd; it’s problematic. Surrounded by the rambunctious, animated play of other two-year-olds, he chooses to be alone, seeming to notice only the picture books he is continually paging through.

“He has difficulty focusing on tasks such as hand washing and drying, feeding himself and fine-motor activities,” Karen has written on the twopage report she handed us on our way out of the classroom. “He often chooses to be by himself rather than interacting with peers.”

Shawn has long felt baffled by Ezra. She’s a natural and nurturing mother, constantly singing to the children, lavishing the boys with hugs and kisses, and enthusiastically engaging them in play. But Ezra has become resistant to her hugs, and she has expressed frustration and sadness at how our two oldest children don’t interact easily the way she saw other siblings play. Ami seeks out friends and playmates, but he has little to do with Ezra, who shows no apparent need or desire for companions. Sitting up in bed, tears running down her cheeks, Shawn takes out a pad of paper and writes the words:
“Who and what is my son Ezra?”

She lists these qualities of our two-year-old boy:

Then she writes another list, under the heading
“Ezra does not”
:

Finally, she makes a third column:
“Ezra likes”
:

I’m not sure why she is compiling this inventory of our son’s traits. I suppose Shawn is trying to exert some control—to make sense of the chaos. My wife is not timid. She is assertive, self-confident, and operates with assurance. But not now. When it comes to Ezra, she seems uncharacteristically adrift. Writing it down helps. Just articulating the collection of behaviors and characteristics that she has been noticing, sometimes passively, seems to ease her mind. But it is also painful. When she’s finished writing, Shawn looks over the pad of paper, shakes her head, and wipes a tear away.

My own response—to the list and the situation—is different. Part of me still thinks our son is fine; he simply needs an instructor who understands him. One of Karen’s observations was that the teachers had brought in a plastic toddler-scale table meant for water play, and filled its shallow basin instead with dry oatmeal. Ezra, she reported, kept trying to eat the oatmeal, even when his teachers repeatedly asked him to stop. Who is right, I wonder—the ones playing with oatmeal, or the one eating it?

I have been a journalist for years, and I am trained to use research as the way to solve problems. When I shop for a camera or a printer, I study
Consumer Reports
, bring it along to Best Buy, and purchase the best product on the list. That keeps things simple. Shawn has already obtained the phone number of a family therapist the school recommends. I figure that we’ll consult this woman, gather her advice, follow it, using the right technique to get him engaged with other kids and his teachers, and solve the Ezra problem.

 

 

A few days later, in an ordinary office building on a busy street, we visit Ruth. She is an angular woman, with a no-nonsense, grandmotherly style. Though the seating is more comfortable than in Karen’s classroom—Shawn and I share a plush maroon love seat—I still feel anxious, off balance.

Ruth begins by taking a case history.

“Tell me about your pregnancy with Ezra,” she says with a slight smile.

It began when we were spending a year—the third of six years of Shawn’s rabbinical studies—in Jerusalem. We were leasing a small walk-up apartment in a pale stone building on a quiet, one-block side street called Tel Chai—Hebrew for “hill of life.”

For me, it was a year of changed plans. I arrived with vague notions of pursuing my work as a freelance journalist, writing newspaper and magazine features about Israel. Instead I mostly cared for Ami, who was just over three months old when we arrived. While Shawn studied Talmud and Jewish law, I maneuvered the black fold-up stroller through the city’s labyrinthine streets and the narrow passageways of the openair produce markets, simultaneously becoming intimately acquainted with the ancient city and my infant son as I changed diapers in bus shelters and cafés.