What No One Else Can Hear (26 page)

One of the little boys, Evan, was under his bed, screaming and refusing to come out. Lydia was banging her head against the wall, Carl and Myka were lashing out at anyone who came close, and Peter sat in the middle of the hall, refusing to move.

Then there was my Stevie. He had grabbed his ears and rolled up in a ball in the middle of his bed as soon as the tumultuous emotions started up as a response to the alarm. Gary knew how we worked with the blocks to build a mental wall, and he was using them to talk Stevie down. He wasn’t making much headway and was afraid he was just going to have to carry Stevie out. What he was doing was taking too long.

Molly gathered up the closest child, Carl, and headed outside with him. Mark scooped up Lydia, and Paul had Myka.

All three staff members came back in for a second time and both Mark and Paul escorted Peter, the heavyset boy who had been sitting in the hall. Molly started coaxing Evan out from under the bed, and Gary was still working with Stevie.

Molly finally had Evan in her arms and went to update Gary, since she had to go right by him and Stevie to get out, and maybe to try to hurry them up. She reported that the firemen had arrived by the last time she was outside and there truly was a fire. It was on the ground floor in the administration department but was spreading rapidly. For whatever reason, the automatic sprinklers hadn’t gone off. So far our stairway was still passable, but Molly said the fire was heading that way, so they had to hurry with the last two children.

Gary finally got Stevie moving at least, though Stevie was still alternating holding his ears and scratching his arms. Gary asked him if he thought they could go outside now. Stevie said he could, and they set off for the stairs.

They got as far as the second floor before the stairwell started to fill with smoke. Molly was trying to convince Gary they should try to get out that way anyway, when they saw the flame flash into the stairway on the ground floor. Gary did the only thing he could. He slammed open the door to the second floor hall and pushed everyone in, shutting the fire door behind them.

They moved the kids to a window and got the firemen’s attention. That was where I came in. I couldn’t help but feel like I should have been there. I could have calmed him sooner. I could have gotten him out.

Drew put his hand on my shoulder and just gave me a meaningful look, like he knew what I was thinking. As close as we had gotten, maybe he did.

B
Y
NINE
o’clock, as Drew and Dottie were thinking about leaving the hospital to get a little sleep themselves, Stevie started to stir. As soon as he was fully awake and realized it was daylight, he insisted he should leave, since the doctors had said he had to stay overnight and the night was now over. Dottie and I tried to explain he’d only been in the hospital about six hours and he had to stay a little longer so the doctors could be sure his head was okay, but he stuck to his guns. Stevie could be very literal sometimes—most times, actually. This was typical of children with autism. Most of the children at the center were the same way. The doctor had said he could leave tomorrow. In his mind it was tomorrow; therefore, he could leave. Drew had been sitting back and watching the whole conversation, and when I tried yet again to explain to Stevie why he needed to stay longer, Drew interrupted.

“Jesse, Stevie understands everything you just said. He just doesn’t
want
to stay, so he’s pretending to misunderstand the doctors.” He turned to Stevie. “Right, buddy?”

Stevie grinned, the little imp. He was playing me! I had known for a while that he sometimes played minor situations to get what he wanted. After all, he’d had the staff at the center wrapped around his finger for years. Who could resist that cherubic face? But this was the first time he had tried this tactic on
me…
I think.

Stevie shot Drew a mock glare and settled back down in bed. Before long he was asleep again. Four hours’ sleep really wasn’t enough.

T
HE
FIRE
at the Lynneville Center for Children with Autism was on all the local 8:00 a.m. news shows, both TV and radio. By nine o’clock, hordes of people crowded into the parking lot and some were already in the building. As soon as the people in the neighboring area heard about the fire, the ones who were available grabbed buckets, sponges, mops, and any cleaning supplies they could think of and were arriving in droves to help with the cleanup effort. The extra help was greatly appreciated—and sorely needed since the staff had all they could do to keep the children calm and busy.

Sara had attempted to keep Stevie’s name out of the news but had no such luck. Reporters were arriving at the hospital in a steady stream, only to have disgruntled hospital employees turn them away.

Apparently, someone in the media contacted Mr. Liston and asked if he would be returning from his campaign tour to be with his son. What was he going to do? If he wanted to still come across as the doting dad, he would have to visit. By late afternoon he breezed in bearing gifts, with a myriad of reporters in tow. He swept past hospital staff as if they were nothing. Dr. Brown happened to be there, checking on Stevie and tried to stop the elder Liston, but he’d hear nothing of it. I managed to catch him in the hall and tell him as discreetly as possible that this circus was really not in Stevie’s best interest. I even tried to capitalize on the fact he had given me medical power of attorney for just such a reason, but he just reminded me it could easily be revoked. He was determined to have his impromptu press conference in his son’s room and didn’t seem to care whether or not Stevie was going to handle it well.

I did manage to sneak back into Stevie’s room and warn him of the noise and lights and all the anxious people just before the circus arrived. To his credit, Stevie handled it pretty well. He clapped his hands over his ears when all the reporters started talking at once but quickly counted the rows of his wall as he built it in his mind with no help from me. Sometimes it seemed to be enough just to have me close. I didn’t actually have to coach him with the shields anymore—most of the time.

“Hello, son.”

Liston oozed what probably looked to the media like fatherly concern. It just came across as condescension to Stevie, especially since Stevie could probably still sense what Liston was feeling, even with the shield, and he didn’t like it. Stevie wrinkled up his nose and said nothing in reply.

“How are you feeling, little fellow? I bet your leg hurts pretty badly, doesn’t it?”

Stevie didn’t answer that. Instead he asked his own question. “You’re the noisy man from the court, right?”

“I’m your daddy, little fellow,” a flustered Liston said to Stevie, in a “poor little thing” tone, and quickly turned to the media. “The poor baby must be having a bad day. He doesn’t always remember the people he should.”

Which, of course, wasn’t true at all. This was in fact only the second time Stevie had seen the man in person in the last six years. He had seen him on TV and seemed to take an interest, but he never associated him with “Daddy.” He didn’t this time either. He just wrinkled his nose again and stared.

Liston tried to regain control of the situation and gave Stevie the gifts he had brought. Of course he talked to the media instead of to his son. “The boy likes to color and enjoys playing with blocks.”

Stevie also loved opening presents, so Liston got the joyful face and enthusiastic ripping into packages that he no doubt wanted. When Stevie saw the first gift, he frowned and tossed it aside in favor of the still wrapped one. I stared at the opened gift disbelievingly. A pack of oversized crayons—the ones they made for preschoolers—and a coloring book with appallingly simple drawings. No wonder Stevie threw it away. He could draw better pictures than those with his eyes closed.

Unfortunately the second gift wasn’t any more insightful. A large set of Duplo blocks—the giant Lego things, again made for preschoolers. Liston didn’t have a clue about Stevie’s mental level or ability. He only knew about the art and the blocks from the tapes he’d seen at the trial. I honestly felt sorry for the man, just for a second. This beautiful boy could have been all his to discover and enjoy for the last six years, and he’d pissed away his chance. When I remembered the only reason Liston was here now was because his own political best interest was being served, I quickly stopped feeling sorry for him. No one had deprived him of the opportunity to know his child except himself.

The reporters from the TV stations had been filming the whole scene, but the ones from the newspapers, although they had been snapping photos right and left, wanted a posed picture with Mr. Liston and his son. Liston sat on Stevie’s bed and tried to sling an arm around him, but Stevie was having none of that. Mr. Liston bounced back quickly and told the reporters that some days Stevie didn’t want
anybody
to touch him, not even his own father. I imagine he hoped they hadn’t noticed that in an effort to center him for the coming onslaught, I had been holding Stevie’s hand when they all came in, and Stevie certainly wasn’t objecting to that.

The photographer snapped several pictures, but in every one Stevie was frowning and sitting as far from his father as humanly possible in the small hospital bed.

The next day, when I saw the article in the morning paper, I noticed they had opted to use a shot of a gleeful Stevie opening presents, alongside a publicity shot of Mr. Liston. I guess none of the photos taken of the two of them together showed the kind of relationship they wanted to portray.

A
SHORT
while after the media circus left, Dottie came by the hospital. Drew was due to work that day but had been allowed to go in at one instead, since he had been working from four to eight in the morning. Dottie was supposed to have the day off but had been at the center for most of it anyway.

She filled me in on the cleanup effort. The third floor really had little in the way of smoke damage, and the volunteers had concentrated on getting that floor ready for the kids. They had let it air out all day and cleaned and disinfected anything that didn’t move out of the way. The administration thought that by sometime the next day—Friday—the kids should be able to move back into 3-B.

The second floor was taking a bit longer to clean. More soot on the wall, more smoke in the air, but the first floor was the major concern. The whole building was still structurally sound; that wasn’t the problem, but the first floor had collected a lot of smoke and soot. Volunteers and administrators alike figured it would take several days of cleaning and airing out for that hall to be habitable again.

The ground floor was a mess. More than just cleaning would be needed.

When the doctor came in to see Stevie, Dottie took the opportunity to go check on our favorite firefighter, whom we had learned was named Mike Patterson, but Stevie had immediately dubbed him Fireman Mike. She had good news when she came back. He was awake and coherent, though still incredibly sleepy. The prognosis was looking good, though. I was
so
happy to hear that.

Stevie’s doctor decided he needed to stay at the hospital for another night. He even scheduled another MRI. He had heard about the visit with Mr. Liston and was quite concerned with Stevie’s inability to recognize his father. He agreed the boy hadn’t seemed to have trouble recognizing
us
, but with such a high-profile case, the doctor decided he didn’t want to take any chances. So Stevie was stuck here for another night. Weren’t we all just delighted about that? Especially since we all knew Stevie’s nonrecognition of his father had nothing to do with his head injury.

Stevie sulked about it but I wouldn’t buy any attempt at confusion on his part. He tried the puppy-dog face on me, but since I really had no say in the decision, his best efforts did nothing to change the outcome… this time.

D
OTTIE
AND
I were watching the news on the TV in Stevie’s hospital room when another report about the center fire came on. It had officially been ruled as arson, and there was a short list of suspects. They didn’t give names of the suspects, but they did say Charles Tyler was wanted for questioning as “a person of interest” but could not currently be found.

Surprise, surprise. I could have told them it was Chuck. Administration office? Reports, documents, et cetera. All sorts of items that could have been used in the upcoming case against Chuck, suddenly destroyed? It didn’t take much thought to add all of that up and arrive with Charles Tyler.

Too bad for him that there were copies.

F
RIDAY
MORNING
finally dawned, and just after breakfast Stevie was again chomping at the bit to leave the hospital. Fortunately they came early to take him for his MRI.

We were gone a little while for that, and by the time we returned, Stevie was ready to climb the walls—literally, if his broken leg would have allowed him. I managed to keep him entertained for a little while by asking him to draw a picture for Fireman Mike. I had asked a nurse about the man just before Stevie had awakened, and she said he was doing much better. By that afternoon they might let him have a few visitors outside of family. I told her to put Stevie’s name on the top of the list of nonfamily and nonfirefighters who wanted to see him, and she said she would.

I settled down to do something I loved—to watch Stevie draw. I usually played a game with myself to see how fast I could name what he was drawing. A while back I had started guessing out loud, and Stevie enjoyed the game, as well. I swear sometimes the little stinker changed the picture into something else if I guessed it too early. He certainly had the skills to do that and usually smirked right around the same time, but I’d never actually asked him if that’s what he was doing.