Pool Eyes

True story, sprinkled with a little fiction

[pooleyes-blog]

Five

"So how's that little brother of yours, James, isn't it?" "Good, fine," "Talking yet?" The music teacher packed his flute away, taking it apart and lying it in its velvet lined case. "No, well... only a little." I tried to choose my words carefully. "Hmm, what age is he now? God, should be talking at this stage..." Tell me something I don't know. Uncertainty had made me a little bitter, sarcastic.

The letter was there that evening, I knew when I walked in the door after school. It sat on the table, all crisp and white, with the health department's blue stamp on it. Mam sat, hands clasped together, staring intently at it. She swallowed, and glanced up at dad, who bit his lip and held her shoulders.

I lay in bed, hearing her tears down in the kitchen. "He's still James. Doesn't change anything." "Of course it doesn't, no. It's just a label. Just means he can get the help he needs." "But you said - you promised - you didn't think he had anything, just a late talker." I though wrong, I'm sorry." He sounded sympathetic, not sarcastic.

I rolled over, pressing my face to the cool part of the pillow. Autism. I rolled the word over in m head, stretched it and whispered it, trying to get a feel for it. It was an odd word, and seemed a little scary.

[pooleyes-blog]

Four

Dad's fingers twisted through Mam's, his thumb rubbing slow circles on the back of her hand. "That stupid survey, how did it even make sense? What kid can proficiently use cutlery at that age?" Her eyes were angry, and sad. Elsie looked up from where she was sitting on the floor, stacking bricks. James sat next to her, watching silently. I put down my book.

"Time to go in now, James. We're going to talk to the nice man." Dad crouched down beside him. James kept staring. "James?" Mam called, him, her voice wobbling slightly. "James!" He didn't respond. Dad scooped him up and sat him on his hip. They disappeared back into the office. 

[pooleyes-blog]

Three

It was always the same. The long car journey, my eyes glazed over as I watched the land roll past outside the window, Elsie glued to the Nintendo, James silent, Mam worried.

And all the doctor's offices, and clinics. All with the same blue lino floor, the same cheerful-yet-sickly yellow walls, the same cheap magazines. The same doctor, the same story. "So, what's this young man's name? James? How old are you James? We're just going to do a few tests, nothing big..."

And it was always the same tests. Ring a bell, see if he reacted. Call his name, see if he reacted. Shake a maraca behind his head, see if he reacted.

"He's not deaf," Mam said, leaning in across the doctors desk as we were leaving. "No, I don't think he is." For the first time, not the same reply. The shock was obvious on Mam's face, She had been expecting confrontation, a mimi battle that she was already to tired to fight.

"Maybe... well, perhaps you might want to see a child psychologist, see if an assessment would be a good idea..." The frown on Mam's brow tightened. The doctor fixed her tweed blazer, her cheeks a little pink. "It might be for the better. I don't think he's deaf, since he responded to some noises, but ignored louder, more obvious stimuli." "Ok... I'll do that. Thanks."

We sleepwalked to the car, and drove home in silence.  

[pooleyes-blog]

Two

The air was frigid, our breath forming little puffs of ghosts that dissipated as we walked through them. Granda's hands were shoved in his pockets. So were mine. I was too old now to reach out and hold his, and feel the rough calloused skin fold around mine. "Do you think he'll start talking soon?" "James has been through a lot, what with all the earaches and stuff. I'm sure that just put him a little behind. You keep on talking to him, telling him stories. He'll start, you'll see. You'd better be careful, he might end up passing you out for chattering."

We stopped when we reached the bank, and with a crinkle Granda pulled out the paper bag tucked under his arm. The swans already knew why we were there, and had congregated along the grassy verge, waiting. Granda held the bag open for me, and I pulled out a piece of stale bread. He did the same, and we tore them to pieces and threw them into the water for the birds.  

"He'll be fine, Rosie you'll see."

[pooleyes-blog]

One

Blurring the lines between story and life; that's what humans do, isn't it? Mixing fact and fiction. Our family has always been good at it.

It was his eyes that hit me first. His silent, big, blue eyes. Two dark pools, inescapably deep. Then his dark, almost black hair; soft and light on his pale head. Then his lips, a perfect soft red love heart. So quiet, just staring.

"Go on out, get yourselves something from the vending machine." Dad pressed a few coins into my hand, patted me on the back. I followed Elsie, only two and a half, out to the corridor. "I hate hospital smell." She was much more articulate then most kids her age, and had been speaking since she was ridiculously small. I nodded. I didn't like hospital smell either. Especially not since the August three years before, with the sound of weeping, and the baby brother that never came home. Even though I was older now, just turned nine, I still walked quickly past the hospital chapel, memories of the tiny white coffin still smarting in my mind.

Elsie' curly hair bobbed as she scanned the rows of chocolate.  "Smartie Bar," she said eventually. "D4" I got two of them, and we sat in the sterile disinfected corridor crunching loudly.