Unlocked (10 page)

At home Holden still kept his cards to himself, not trusting her to hold them. And whereas sometimes in the past she would catch a glimmer of eye contact from him, now he made none at all. He was more agitated about going to therapy, too. The only time he seemed happy and right with the world was during his movie, sitting in front of the television screen watching himself
run across an open field with his father or roll on the floor laughing alongside Ella Reynolds.

Tracy could only figure he was regressing—always a possibility with autistic kids. If Mrs. Bristowe confirmed that possibility today, Tracy wasn’t sure how she’d handle the news. She parked her small car amidst the Suburbans and Navigators and BMWs and headed toward the south entrance of the school. The wing for the special-needs kids.

Holden was not her only concern. Dan had called this morning sounding terrible. He was battling pneumonia and he briefly mentioned getting a little too cold in a recent storm.

“I’m fine, Tracy. Don’t worry about me. Just pray.” He hacked a few times, so hard it sounded like he was dying. “Everything will be okay.”

But it wasn’t. Dan had cheated death too many times already. One of these days the call would come from the Alaskan Coast Guard or someone from the commercial fishing industry, informing her that Dan wasn’t coming home. Not ever again.

Tracy’s heart thudded hard in her chest.
Please, Father … be with me. I’m not sure how much I can take.

I am with you, daughter. I love you, and I will fight this battle for you … Trust me, precious child. Trust.

The answer whispered to her anxious heart and gave her something to hold onto. She couldn’t imagine what the next hour would bring.
Trust God,
she told herself.
No matter how you feel, Tracy. Come on.
She peeled off her Walmart vest, tossed it on the backseat, and stepped out of the car.

She was early, so she didn’t rush. Instead she soaked in everything around her—the groups of kids, their laughter and conversation. So different from the life her son was living. A pang of sadness hit her and wrapped itself around her heart. This was his senior year. Tonight these kids would go to a Fulton High football game and Holden would go to therapy. Even if something
finally helped Holden step out into the light where the rest of them lived, it would be too late for any of this. Too late to experience high school.
Stop it, Tracy …

She reached Mrs. Bristowe’s classroom and peered through the window in the door. Holden was already sitting cross-legged on a pillow in the corner of the room, his eyes focused on the bare ceiling. She wanted to run to him and take him in her arms, cry out to him.
Holden, honey … it’s me, your mom. Come out of there, baby. Whatever’s holding you, break away.
But she couldn’t do that. She’d tried before, and it only frightened him. One time when she asked him to find his way back, he covered his face and rocked for half an hour. That was two years ago. Tracy hadn’t brought up the subject since.

Please, God … I need You. The schooling and therapy … it isn’t working, Father. How can I reach him? We need a miracle, Lord. Please.

Mrs. Bristowe must’ve seen her, because she came to the door and opened it. Her smile was pleasant, but she looked worn out. Not a good sign. “Hello, Mrs. Harris.”

“Hello.” She never knew whether to go to Holden in a moment like this. Holden rarely acknowledged her, but she was determined to treat him the way she would if he didn’t have autism. So she crossed the room and crouched down to his level. “Hi, Holden. It’s conference day, okay? I’ll talk to Mrs. Bristowe and you do your math. Then we’ll go home.”

Holden rarely looked at her, and never responded. But Tracy was pretty sure he rocked a little. She smiled at him. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She stood again and followed Mrs. Bristowe to her desk. When they were seated, the teacher set a file with Holden’s name on it squarely in front of her. “Mrs. Harris, you know that the first meeting of the school year is important. We like to assess how our students have progressed over the summer and whether
we have them on the correct plan.” She drew a deep breath as she opened Holden’s folder. “We’ve definitely seen changes in Holden since last spring.”

“Yes.” Tracy sat rigid in her chair, her sweaty palms locked together on her lap. “He seems, I don’t know … unsettled, I guess.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Bristowe paused. “Definitely.” She pulled a single sheet from the file and handed it to Tracy. “Here’s a report from an incident the other day. I’ll give you a few minutes to read over it.”

Tracy glanced at Holden, but he didn’t seem to be listening to them. He had his work tray on his lap and he was hunched over the paper, working trigonometry problems with as little effort as it took him to breathe. She took the report from Mrs. Bristowe and began to read.

The document told about a situation that past Monday where Holden stopped to listen to the drama production class singing a song during rehearsal. Tracy looked up at Holden’s teacher. “He wanted to stay? To listen to the music?”

“Definitely.” She angled her head thoughtfully. “Of course, that’s a mainstream class, and Holden hasn’t been approved for mainstream drama. There’s no telling how he would act in that situation.”

“So you didn’t let him stay?”

“I couldn’t. I’d need permission on a lot of levels before I could do that.” She hesitated. “I’ll get to that in a minute.”

Tracy nodded. Why did Holden have to have a committee make a decision for him? If he wanted to hear a song, wasn’t it possible to stand by him and let him listen? Everyone agreed about the importance of music, right? Even the school therapists. Tracy contained her frustration. She found her place on the page again and read how Holden had become agitated and how he’d dropped to the floor and produced a couple dozen push-ups in the hallway. Tracy felt tears brimming as she read the final line:
When we finally reached the gym with the other special-needs kids, Holden was completely noncompliant.

Noncompliant? Because he wanted to listen to music? Tracy wrestled with her frustration. She dabbed at her eyes and handed the piece of paper back to the teacher. “What do you mean, ‘noncompliant’?” She had to watch her tone. Nothing good would come from getting angry or frustrated with the woman. After all, Holden had been a little noncompliant for her too.

Mrs. Bristowe’s expression softened, and a fresh kindness shone in her eyes. “We have a protocol for the students. You know that. So once I got Holden back on task and into the gym, I asked him to participate. The kids were throwing a Nerf ball, working their large motor skills along with their ability to interact. Holden didn’t want to do that.”

A Nerf ball. Tracy pictured the woman in her line at Walmart a few weeks ago. The boy was tossing a Nerf ball, talking about playing with his mom later that day. It was something Holden loved to do when he was two and three. But now he was eighteen. Maybe he didn’t want to toss a Nerf ball. She forced herself to focus.

“We never make the kids participate. As you know, we introduce an alternate activity. So I gave him a math sheet and asked him to sit in the observation chair.”

“The observation chair?”

“Yes. It’s a comfortable seat in the corner of the gym where special-needs students can observe other kids interacting. Research shows there’s benefit to observing.”

Tracy wanted to scream or laugh out loud. Wasn’t that all Holden wanted to do? Observe kids in the theater room? And did the woman really have to use all the right education words? She could just say she had Holden sit to the side and do his schoolwork. She clenched her hands and nodded. “You said he was noncompliant.”

“Yes.” Her tone suggested the worst was yet to come. “Instead of working on math, he stood and turned in circles. Small circles, then larger circles, then sweeping circles until he was almost in the way of the other kids.”

Circles? Holden hadn’t moved in circles since he was five years old, six, maybe. Panic coursed through Tracy’s veins. They’d resolved that behavior through therapy before his seventh birthday. “Did … did he do anything else, anything that would explain why?”

“No. I spoke to him several times, but he never looked at me. He circled until finally he grew very irritable. Then he dropped down and did a series of push-ups—like always. After that he sat in his chair, but he wouldn’t work on his math the rest of the day.” She looked at Holden. “He’s been disagreeable every day since then.”

Tracy couldn’t fathom why Holden would regress now, or what was at the cause of it. She prayed for him constantly, and never took a day off from therapy. This week his therapist was helping him understand the musical PECS cards. That reminded Tracy. “Usually he uses his cards? Did he have them? So he could tell you what he was thinking?”

“First …” Mrs. Bristowe smiled patiently, “he doesn’t really tell us a whole lot with the cards. There are glimpses, yes. But little more.” She looked at Holden’s file for a moment, then back at Tracy. “And yes, he had his cards when he stopped to listen to the drama class.”

“What did he say?” Maybe there was a window here, a way to know what Holden had been thinking.

“One of the girls in the class came out to talk to him. He showed her a card he uses often.” She hesitated. “The one with the pair of eyes.”

“It says ‘I see.’” Tracy glanced at Holden, but he was looking up again, most likely unaware of their conversation. She leaned
closer, her voice lower. “What if he really meant that, Mrs. Bristowe? Maybe he could see that the class was involved in music, and he wanted to take part. Or maybe he wanted the girl to know that he saw her. Even if maybe he wasn’t looking right at her.”

“Sure.” Mrs. Bristowe looked bewildered. “Any of those possibilities exist. And he had access to his PECS cards in the gym. But instead of using them to express himself, he turned in circles.”

Tracy sighed. They were getting nowhere. She couldn’t defend Holden’s actions unless she knew what he was thinking. Same as anyone who worked with him. “What about his class work?”

“It’s about the same as last year.” She pulled a group of papers from the file. “He continues to excel in math, of course.”

“You mainstreamed him this year. How’s that going?” She had asked Holden, of course, but he hadn’t given her any sign except one. “He started showing the cards differently after school started. He used to hand them to me, but after the first day, he stopped that.” Tracy folded her arms in front of her. “Now he holds tight to the cards when he shows them to me.”

“I noticed that.” Mrs. Bristowe pursed her lips. “I have a sense he’s getting picked on from a few of the football players.” She pulled a paper from the back of the folder. “A junior, Michael Schwartz, made this report at the office that day.”

Tracy felt her heart skip a beat as she took the paper. If Holden was getting picked on, then he couldn’t be mainstreamed. She could hire a tutor for him, or have his therapist help him with online studies. Holden wasn’t going to be the target of bullies.

She studied the report. It wasn’t long. Just a fact sheet with the student’s name, the date and location of the problem—in this case the math building, two doors down from the room where Holden took trig. The only details came at the bottom.

I was in the math building, and I saw a bunch of football players kick the shins of Holden Harris. I know who he is because I was a T.A. for the special-needs class last year. After they pushed him
around, one of the guys kicked Holden’s backpack. His flashcards scattered all over the floor and he seemed pretty upset. I thought you’d want to know.

Tracy’s hands shook, and her heart raced faster than before. “The answer’s right here.” She had to work to keep her voice down. “No wonder he won’t let go of his cards. Holden was attacked and no one told me until now.”

“I wouldn’t say attacked. Michael might’ve seen it wrong.” Mrs. Bristowe took the paper and returned it to Holden’s file. “But you asked about the mainstream efforts. His teacher says he doesn’t act like the other kids, doesn’t look at the board or talk to anyone. And he’s still doing the flapping I told you about last year. But otherwise, his class work and test grades so far have been at the highest level.

Tracy leaned back in her chair. “So …” Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she fought them. “What do we do?”

“That’s up to you. No one is picking on Holden in class.”

“But the walk to the classroom takes him by any number of people who might.” Again she forced herself to talk quieter. “Isn’t that right?”

“It is.” Mrs. Bristowe gave a sad shrug. “If he were my son, I’d pull him. Let him work on his trig at home.”

“But if we can’t mainstream him in math, then how does he ever make the transition?” The answer hit her before Holden’s teacher had the chance to respond. They couldn’t mainstream Holden because he wasn’t making the transition. Because therapy wasn’t working and change wasn’t happening and Holden hadn’t advanced at all since last spring. It was the whole reason Mrs. Bristowe looked discouraged.

The teacher folded her hands on her desk and looked straight at Tracy. “I have an idea.”

Tracy had never felt more defeated. Sure, she was praying,
and she’d keep praying. But what reason did she have to believe anything would ever change for Holden? “What is it?”

“I mentioned it would take a committee to allow Holden into the drama room. But something has happened to expedite that process.” She smiled, her eyes bright for the first time since the meeting started. “The drama student—the girl Holden showed the PECS card to the other day—has asked if Holden could observe rehearsals during sixth period. Our drama instructor Mr. Hawkins has agreed.”

Tracy leaned her forearms on the desk and tried to comprehend what Mrs. Bristowe had just said. “She did that for him?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Bristowe sorted through the folder and found one more piece of paper. “I’ve taken the idea to the team of specialneeds teachers, and everyone has signed off. It’s up to you now.”

“Of course.” Tracy made a sound that was more laugh than cry. She brought her fingers to her lips and reached for a pen in her purse. Then, with a renewed sense of hope, she signed the bottom of the page and handed it back to Mrs. Bristowe. “When … when can he start?”