Like No Other Boy Read online

  “Come on, Tommy. Open up for Daddy.”

  “Nooooo,” he said, through his clenched mouth.

  But I pulled down on his lower jaw just enough to get the toothbrush to slide in and make a few rounds over his teeth. He bit down on the toothbrush and it wouldn’t budge. The damn thing was locked in place.

  “Come on, Tom-Tom. Just let me have one good brush. Okay?”

  White toothpaste was all over his lips now, but very little had gotten on his teeth.

  “Mmmmm.” He groaned, refusing to cooperate.

  “Please?”

  I made one more attempt at getting the toothbrush on his teeth and was mildly successful before he bit down on it again. I yanked on the toothbrush, but he wouldn’t let go of it. Max came up to watch. He barked and huffed, looking at me and Tommy, then back at me again, standing outside the bathroom. I couldn’t tell whose side he was on. He barked louder.

  “Hush, Max.”

  The hard work broke me. Enough was enough. I stared at myself in the mirror, and the dad looking back at me held a sorrowful expression. Another failed attempt.

  My shoulders sagged. “Okay. You win.”

  Tommy made a motorboat sound as he raced out of the bathroom and headed straight for his bedroom. His usual tactic was to jump into his bed and hide under the covers, waiting for me to come in to the bedroom and tell him goodnight.

  So much for his teeth. But I had hope: On Monday morning, we had an appointment for Tommy with Dr. Rahmed Patel, a dentist who specialized in children with autism. I was sure Tommy would be totally uncooperative and pitch a fit when the doctor tried to look inside his mouth. But it needed to be done. I was looking forward to the visit and also dreading it. We'd been put on a three-month waiting list and were lucky to get the appointment.

  With Tommy in bed, I stood at the doorway just outside his room. He started using his first finger to scrawl around in the air, as if he were make-believe writing or drawing. I’d never seen him do anything like that before.

  I just stood there and watched, and he hummed to himself pleasantly as he continued air-writing.

  When I came in, he dropped his hand to his side.

  “What are you doing, Tom-Tom?” I stood over his bed and looked down at him.

  “Draw, Daddy. Picture.”

  “Really. Of what?”

  “Chimpie.” Tommy yawned. He showed no interest in drawing, but he did like to color. I would have to get a book of animals that he could color in.

  “Well, we’ll get back to those chimps as soon as we can.” I leaned down toward him. “Kiss?”

  He hesitated, then nodded shyly, and I leaned over a bit more and pecked his forehead. His shampooed hair smelled like flowers. The nightlight’s soft glow threw shadows on the wall as Tommy turned his head toward me, curved his lips upward, and held them like that: fixed, rigid, exposing his teeth. It was as if he’d read about how humans smiled or studied diagrams and was doing his best to imitate the process.

  “Hair, Daddy.” He spoke softly and put a hand to his hair and scratched. One word: “Hair.”

  I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Oops. I forgot. Of course. Just a sec.” I went to the bathroom and returned with the special black comb I’d bought for him. The words Tommy Crutcher were embossed on it in gold lettering. Ever since his mother and I had split, Tommy had me comb his hair before bed. He wouldn’t go to sleep until I did it. I loved running the comb through his silky honey-wheat hair, one of the few times he allowed me to touch him.

  “How’s that? Okay?” I spoke gently.

  “Good.” Tommy yawned. “Goooood.”

  I set the comb down on his bedside table, then rested my cheek against his and felt the sweet warmth of his breath on my skin.

  “Good night,” I whispered, standing at the door, filled with a deep and abiding affection for this flawed being, this work in progress. I felt such strong feelings for this son of mine, my heart melted from the warmth inside my chest. “I love you, Tom-Tom. Do you know that? I love you so much.”

  “Daddy,” was all Tommy said in his monotonic way. Another unit of a word, shaped and molded like the others: “Daddeee . . .”

  * * *

  The main reason for our marital breakup: Tommy’s autism turned Cheryl away from me. That was my explanation, anyway, though Cheryl would probably offer her own version of our not so glorious story. She became obsessed with bending our son back to normalcy, and if I didn’t agree with her methods, then she didn’t want any part of me either. But it was plain to me that you couldn’t bend someone back into a shape that never existed in the first place. We even disagreed on how we should dress him. Cheryl wanted him outfitted like a catalogue model. I was happy when he chose his own clothes, even if they didn’t match.

  As I went to my bar and poured myself another vodka with a touch of OJ, I let my mind wander, going back in time, and there it was, facing me once again: that morning, the day when we started unraveling as a couple. Yes, I could pinpoint the time. Thinking about it, my head started to spin. I felt a quiver in my bones.

  “I want to take him to another psychologist in San Francisco next week,” Cheryl had said over breakfast. “What do you say?” She ran a hand through her uncombed auburn hair, unable to hide the circles under her eyes. Four-year-old Tommy sat in the corner of the kitchen, playing with a deck of cards on the floor, totally lost in his own world. “Her name’s Susan Adler,” Cheryl went on, glancing at Tommy, “and she’s got a technique called the Lovaas method.”

  I remembered how light slanted in through the windows, streaking across our son’s face, as Tommy scattered the cards around and then crumpled them up. You could call it playing. He hadn’t said a word in weeks and his eyes were always averted, troubled, which broke my heart; our hearts.

  “I don’t know,” I said. A filled-to-the-brim coffee cup sat in front of me, untouched. “He’s seen so many therapists already. Maybe we should just give him a bit of a break for a while and . . .”

  “A break? A break from what? I swear, Chris.” She’d lost weight since dealing with Tommy’s autism, her face a palette, shades of pale. “Sometimes you just don’t get it. Actually, I don’t think you ever get . . .”

  Cheryl couldn’t continue. My throat clenched as she broke down and sobbed, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. I reached for her and tried to embrace her, but she moved away. “I’m at a dead end here. We’re at a dead end, and I don’t know what else to do. Do you? Do you?”

  Her plea for help frightened me.

  We’d both had too many nights recently, staying up far too late getting Tommy to sleep, trying to train him and seeing progress, and then watching that progress slip away. Our world was unraveling and we had no idea how to stop it.

  “Do you have any answers?” She wiped away her tears, swallowed, tried to gain control.

  “All we can do is keep trying, I guess. But maybe, if we just accept him as who he is, and just encourage him toward normalcy, I don’t know . . .” I looked away. Clouds of confusion billowed in my coffee cup.

  “Encourage him? I can’t just encourage him. I can’t do just that. I don’t know about you, but I need to do everything I can. I feel like we should take him everywhere, to as many therapists as possible. It’s just too much. I’m so at a loss. There’s nowhere to really turn, no one who can . . .” She sobbed and broke down again, tears streaking down her cheeks, and for a long moment, she was unable to speak—just like Tommy. Then she looked at me, red-faced, a well of pain deep inside her eyes. Tommy droned along as she said, “I just want to hold him. I just want to see him smile and hear him say a few words. Is that too much to ask?”

  Just hearing the desperation in her voice, my heart broke like a dam, a river of pain flowing everywhere.

  The ringing of my cell startled me and I blinked as the memories faded away, the raw emotions of our problems parenting Tommy still lingering.

  Shadows flickered on the walls
and I turned on a lamp. I hated shadows of all kinds, real and imagined.

  The caller ID read “Marty Ackerman.”

  “Marty! How you doing?” Marty was a colleague of mine in the voice-over biz. I tried to sound bright and bubbly, but I suddenly needed air. I opened a window in the kitchen, then returned to the den. I blinked.

  “Hey,” Marty said. I took a deep breath and realized that someone was cooking steaks on a grill nearby, the delicious smell wafting my way. “I’ve got a job for you if you’re interested. It’s a spur of the moment thing, but—”

  “A job? Are you kidding? Of course!”

  Marty had helped me land commercials for a jeweler and a pizza chain when I was still on top of my game. He worked for a large ad agency in L.A., San Diego’s more exciting and edgy sister.

  “There’s this spot for a furniture company, and our voice guy came down with bronchitis at the last minute. The thing is, we’re wondering if you could come in tomorrow and help us out. You think that’s a possibility? They want it finished ASAP. It’s scheduled to run Monday morning, 8 a.m. We have studio time and everything.”

  I spoke slowly. “Does it have to be tomorrow?” I gripped the phone.

  His reply was quick and firm. “Afraid so. Can you do it?”

  “What are they paying?” I could still smell the steak, but I had no appetite at all.

  “The usual rates. Four seventy-two for a two-hour booking with residuals. They might even kick in an extra hundred.”

  It was money, not a lot, but I needed anything I could get. I had to keep Tommy tomorrow though.

  “Let me see what I can do, Marty. I have my son with me this weekend. I’ll have to arrange something if I can.”

  Hanging up, I weighed my options. Cheryl, an interior designer, was in Santa Barbara with a client, so I quickly deleted her from the list. She wouldn't be back until late Sunday. That left her mother, a slight woman with palsy in her right hand, but she and Cheryl’s father were out of town too. Typically, my Plan B was to use a babysitting service, but when I called them, I found out they were all backed up because of unusually high demand. I realized I had no other choice but to turn to the one man who practically invented me—my dad.

  The only problem was, at eighty-two, my father was barely able to handle Tommy alone anymore. He’d kept Tommy for me before when I was in a pinch. But now with his occasional dizziness and his high blood pressure, would it be possible?

  I was my father’s keeper, so to speak. His caretaker. I was responsible for his medicines, taking him to the doctor when necessary, checking on him as much as possible, making sure he was eating enough, the list went on and on. He depended on me a lot. And now, I was depending on him.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said when he came on the line. “How’s it going?”

  “What the hell do you want?” His rough voice sandpapered my eardrum.

  Treat me like a telemarketer, why don’t you? “How you doing?”

  “Oh, cut the crap. You know exactly how I’m doing. How’s any old fart my age gonna be doing?”

  I held the phone away from my ear and picked up a paperweight. I felt either like slamming it hard against the table or throwing it through a window.

  “Well, that’s good. Anyhoo, are you going to need a ride anywhere soon? How’s your food supply? Your doctor’s appointment’s not till next week. But still, just wondering if there’s anything you need. How’s your back?”

  “Stiff as always. Eddie Johnson’s coming over to visit for a while tomorrow, the old bag.”

  “Okay, fine.” Dad refused an in-home aide for even one day a week and a move from his house into assisted living was, in his eyes, unthinkable.

  “Me in assisted living?” he would say. “Are you serious? I’m not gonna live around all those old people.”

  Right, Dad.

  “So, I was wondering . . .” I began.

  When I’d finished explaining my situation, my dad, being the grand old taskmaster that he was, didn’t even hesitate. “Look. Last time I kept Tommy my blood pressure went up. I wasn’t even sure I could control him. I can’t risk it. You’re going to have to figure out something else.”

  “Okay. I understand.” My voice broke. “I don’t want to pressure you.” Before I could say anything else, the phone went dead.

  I wracked my brain, but couldn’t think of another person. In desperation, I tried Sam Axelrod, a friend and colleague of mine, but got no answer. Nothing. The silence in my condo wrapped around me like a smothering blanket, then it was as if the silence turned into hands and tightened its pressure around my throat. A job had fallen right in my lap and I was going to lose it. Could I take Tommy? The chances of him pitching a fit while I was trying to work were pretty good. No, I couldn’t risk it. I texted Marty back: Sorry.

  He responded quickly: Okay, pal. Thanks anyway.

  And that was that. It was a wrap. One more lost opportunity because of . . . what? Fate? Bad luck? A toss of the coin? Why did I always seem to land on tails?

  Max was scratching himself in the den and the jangle of his dog collar resounded through the room. I thought about that tantrum again and felt bad. I should have given him his damn ear plugs. Why wasn’t I on the ball? No way would I tell Cheryl about our little incident.

  When a car horn honked outside, I jumped.

  Then I heard: “Daddy.”

  Tommy stood at the top of the stairs, hugging himself, an anxious look on his face. “Daddeee . . . Daddeee.”

  “Yes, son?” I called.

  “I scare.” He crumpled up his chin, his hair still nicely combed, Radar nestled against him under his arm.

  “Did you have a nightmare?” I frowned.

  “Scare.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared about, Tom-Tom,” I lied.

  I went upstairs and led Tommy back to bed, fluffing the pillow for him as he slid under the covers. I tucked him in.

  “It’s all right. Daddy’s here.” I gave him a warm smile, reassuring him as much as I could.

  “Daddy . . . you . . .” Tommy’s brick-words seemed heavier than ever with a kind of inherent meaning in them that only he could understand. “Daddy . . . you . . .”

  “Right. Daddy’s here.” I touched his forehead, smoothed it. Amazingly, he let me.

  “Stay.” Tommy’s eyes melted into mine.

  “Yes, I’ll stay. Of course.” I fluffed up his pillow again, then brought over a wooden desk chair that we kept in the corner of the room for just such a purpose. “Night chair,” Tommy called it. I sat next to him as he turned on his side, the chair creaking as I shifted in my seat. The quiet of the room, the soft glow of the nightlight, the few children’s books scattered on the floor. It felt so intimately familiar, as if I’d lived in this room for lifetimes as my son’s guardian angel.

  His emotional nightlight.

  “Daddy,” he said, snuggling deeper under the covers. “Daddeeeee . . .”

  “I’m here, Tom-Tom. I’m here. You know I’ll always be here for you.”

  This much was true.

  When his breathing finally evened out, I trudged downstairs and did the only thing I could possibly do: I opened up my computer and started searching for anywhere in or near San Diego where I could possibly get my son hooked up with some chimps. One-on-one personal time would be best.

  Chapter 3

  Hope and all its beautiful ramifications arose in the form of the Weller Institute, a primatological research center located near Live Oak Springs, about an hour and a half from San Diego. Tommy, Cheryl, and I headed there for an exploratory visit with the chimps, which was set for 10:00 a.m., March 30th, Saturday, just two weeks after our encounter at the zoo.

  I’d talked to Dr. Rachel Simmons, one of the directors, and emailed her a video of Tommy interacting with the chimps. Dr. Simmons proved to be interested and brought up the subject of Tommy meeting with their research primates to their board. A week later, she’d called me and said we’d been granted an hour
’s visiting time under careful supervision. I was ecstatic.

  I’d made the video on my phone when I took Tommy back to the zoo on Sunday, the very next day after our initial visit. I carefully recorded the same kinds of uncanny interactions both with Wispy Hair and Big Guy, the mimicking, the gestures.

  At one point during his visit with the chimps, Tommy placed his hand on the glass barrier at the exhibit, matching it with a chimp’s hand, and it suddenly reminded me of a sad scene from a prison movie: The inmate presses his hand against the window after talking to his loved one, and then the loved one puts her hand on the window too, both of them trying to connect through a barrier. I couldn’t help but ponder the similarity: Tommy and the chimp were each locked up in their own ways.

  Now as we drove out past San Diego, the landscape giving way to more widely spaced houses, fields, farms, and reams of giant windmills that would have given Don Quixote a fit, I sat in the passenger seat next to Cheryl, anxiously awaiting the visit. We were in her blue Ford, Tommy in the back with his stuffed animals and a few books, which we hoped might entertain him. Mister Backpack was safely ensconced on the other back seat, next to Tommy.

  Traveling on the interstate, we soon passed an entrance to the Cleveland National Forest, which cut deep into the horizon with its imposing tall pines and oaks, its chaparral, all of it melding together like liquid landscape in some impressionistic painting. It was beautiful.

  Tommy continued playing with Radar and Monkey, his new pet, as Cheryl continued driving along. He’d gotten Monkey from the dentist, where, during his uncooperative visit, Tommy refused to open his mouth until we threatened him with the constraints of a papoose board. Fortunately, we didn’t have to use the restraining device. We’d discovered six cavities. The dentist, Dr. Patel, who had a gentle way with Tommy, much appreciated, told me later he had his own autistic son, a teenager, whose picture he showed me. I saw that same awkward smile on his face that I saw on Tommy’s, that far-away look. Dr. Patel said his son gave him a window into autism by telling him that he either hears, or sees, but he can’t do both, and that sometimes, he felt as if he didn’t even have a body, that he was four years old before he even knew he had a body. Sad, indeed.