Loree Lough - Devoted to Drew

CHAPTER FIVE

“MOMMY?”

Bianca turned down the volume on the tiny kitchen TV. It had been Drew’s idea to leave it on while he did homework. “I have to learn to work with distractions around me,” he’d said on the first day of school. Amazingly, he’d been right.

She tucked her pen into the checkbook register and traded it for the math assignment he held.

“Finished my homework page,” he said.

Not an easy feat, she thought, tears in her eyes. “You answered every question correctly, and it’s so nice and neat. I’m so proud of you!”

A slight furrow appeared between his brows as he studied her face. “Then...then why are you sad?”

“Oh, honey, I’m not sad. These are happy tears. I’m happy because...” Because you’re looking at me. Straight into my eyes and seeing me! She got up, walked to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him. “Because I love you so, so much!”

Drew groaned good-naturedly. “I know. Love you, too.”

Her three favorite words. He’d been reciting them since before he could walk. They had always sounded hollow, robotic, anything but sincere...until about six months ago, when his facial expressions and voice proved he meant them. How far he’d come since September!

“Can I have a snack break before I do my spelling homework?”

“What would you rather have—string cheese or apple slices?”

“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” he bellowed.

Bianca laughed. “Okay, how about a healthy snack now and ice cream when your homework is finished?”

He thought about it for a minute, then said, “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do—string cheese or apple slices.”

“Apple slices will get my pencil sticky,” he said, hopping toward the fridge.

She went back to balancing the checkbook, and he went back to his assignment. His willingness to cooperate made it hard to believe he’d been misbehaving in class. Bianca thought about her recent conversation with Mrs. Peterson. “Is something going on at home, Mrs. Wright,” the teacher wanted to know, “that will help me understand why he’s acting out?”

Months before his first day of school, Bianca had hand-delivered Drew’s file and spent hours defining every test, explaining every result, listing every specialist who’d evaluated Drew and their every conclusion. There were photos. Charts. CDs and DVDs of sessions with occupational, speech and behavioral therapists. She’d been deliberately thorough, for the very reason Mrs. Peterson had mentioned during the meeting: so his teacher would better understand Drew. “He isn’t acting out at home,” she’d wanted to shout, “so maybe the problem is at school!”

Instead, she’d said, “You’re too busy teaching and monitoring the other children to keep an eye on Drew every single minute.” Bianca promised to spend a lot more time in the classroom so that hopefully, she’d notice something—anything—that would explain Drew’s behavior. Because when all was said and done, only one thing mattered: Drew.

She took her son’s hands in hers. “So how’s school these days, sweetie?”

His pupils dilated before he looked quickly away. And when he started bobbing his head and chanting “school, school, school,” Bianca had all the proof she needed that home was not the source of the problem.

She adopted a deliberately sing-song tone to break the cycle. “Drew. Honey. Tell Mommy what’s going on at school.”

An article in Autism Advocate explained that kids could sidetrack themselves from stemming, that distracting tendency of autistics to flap their hands, bob their heads and any one of a dozen other repetitive actions. When she explained how the process worked, Drew came up with his own distraction tactics. Dancing, not spinning; jumping instead of running; watching a video to stop himself from staring at lights. It had been months since he’d learned that sitting on his hands put a stop to hand flapping. Longer still since he’d bobbed his head once he figured out that touching his chin to his chest controlled the urge. Yet there he sat, doing both, and it seemed he’d forgotten how to stop himself. Her heart ached, knowing she’d caused it with her ill-timed question.

Then an idea sparked, and she went with it. “What is the boy’s name?”

When Drew looked up, his expression said, How did you know it was a boy?

“It’s okay,” she said, scooting her chair closer. “What’s the boy’s name?”

“His name is Joseph. Joseph is his name. Joseph is the new kid.”

Proceed with caution, Bianca thought. Putting ideas in his head to get the information she needed wouldn’t help Drew in the long run.

“What can you tell me about Joseph the new kid?”

“I don’t like Joseph.” Drew sat on his hands but continued shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, sitting taller, “he butts in line and pushes people down and takes other kids’ stuff.” Drew paused, then pursed his lips. “Joseph kicks. And hits. And uses potty words all the time.” Frowning, he rested his chin on his chest. “Mrs. Peterson never sees Joseph do any of that. She only sees me get mad when he does it.”

Her maternal instinct was strong, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and promise she’d put a stop to Joseph’s bullying. But her desire to help Drew was stronger.

“And you know what else?”

“What else, sweetie?”

“Joseph calls me Flappity Weirdster Weirdo,” Drew grumbled. Eyes narrowed, his little hands formed tight fists. “And you know what else?”

“What...”

“He bites. Hard.”

Bianca gently rolled up his shirt sleeves and stifled a gasp as she saw half a dozen crescent-shaped bruises on each slender forearm.

She wanted to slap Joseph silly. Slap the teacher, too, for allowing this to happen to her sweet boy. Heart pounding, she grit her teeth. Oh, you are going to get such a piece of my mind, Mrs. Peterson!

The poignant music of a Save the Animals commercial wafted from the television, drawing Drew’s attention, and it seemed to Bianca that the abused dogs’ and cats’ forlorn expressions mirrored her son’s mood. She tried to comfort him with a hug, but he stiffened and pulled away.

“Wish I had a daddy who loved me,” he said.

Did he yearn for a superhero-type dad who’d storm the school, demanding protection for his little boy? Or simply someone to tell him that he hadn’t invited—and certainly didn’t deserve—Joseph’s malicious treatment?

Drew stared at the TV as a new commercial appeared on the screen, and in this one, Logan Murray’s friendly face smiled out at them.

“Autism Service Dogs of America,” he said, “was founded to improve the lives of kids who need a little help....”

She’d heard of the organization and had looked in to getting a dog for Drew. When she had learned that it could cost in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars, she’d closed the book on that area of autism research. Not that the dogs weren’t worth the price—for the right families—but Bianca wasn’t the type to organize a fund-raiser, appealing to friends, family, neighbors and coworkers to help defray the cost.

She’d read Logan’s bio cover to cover and knew that it contained a long and varied list of charities. When had he become affiliated with ASDA?

Drew pointed. “Why couldn’t I have a dad like that?”

She hoped he wouldn’t repeat his rendition of Daddy Didn’t Love Me. If she hadn’t figured out why some parents—fathers, mostly—couldn’t cope with autism, how could she explain it to her little boy?

Now Logan squatted and draped an arm around a happy-faced labradoodle. “Isn’t that right, Poe?”