Hugs

Steve stood outside his car, enjoying the warm afternoon temperature and the constant breeze. He noticed a small boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, walking alone outside the security fence designed as the primary barrier between the highway and the natural curiosity of children who had no sense of danger to themselves. The boy was jumping up and down on his tiptoes and flapping his hands each time a vehicle whizzed by, mesmerized by the rapid movement. To Steve, this was clearly the self-stimulating behavior of an autistic child that was usually discouraged by parents and educators alike. He instinctively walked toward the child as any father who understood the situation would. As he neared the boy, he took note of the dirty blond hair, the mismatched shorts and T-shirt, and the battered sneakers that were telltale signs of an autistic child who had little regard for appearances. Taylor, at thirteen years old, was the same way. If you allowed him to choose his clothing for the day, the results would be entertaining: plaids with stripes, odd colors, and long pants with a sweatshirt on a ninety degree day. All were within the bounds of tasteful dress. Steve increased his pace without breaking into a run that might startle the boy and cause him to dart into traffic. He was already off the curb as Steve approached. He maintained an angle that concealed him from the child’s field of vision and closed the distance between them. He was ten feet away when the boy jumped into the first lane to greet the oncoming traffic. Steve ran into the street and grabbed the little guy just as a dilapidated van screeched to a halt with its horn blaring and slewed sideways to stop before it ran over them. Steve snatched him up and cradled him in his arms, hugging the boy to him as he lunged to the safety of the sidewalk with no room to spare. It was close, as close as he ever wanted to be to getting creamed by a speeding vehicle. Several things happened at once. A string of cars hit their brakes, adding to the blaring cacophony of the van. The driver spewed a string of curses directed at Steve, shaking his fist in a fit of rage caused by the near miss. “Keep your goddamned kid out of the street, you idiot!” he screamed. Steve paid no attention to the irate driver because the little boy had sunk his teeth into his trapezium muscle and bit down, breaking the skin. He pulled Steve close in a bear hug that surprised him in its strength and intensity, and Steve reacted by squeezing the boy to him to gain release without wrenching him away and incurring any additional damage to his shoulder. He felt a sharp jab in his kidney area when he clutched him to his chest as though someone had stuck him with a pin. What came next was a complete surprise. The child eased his hold on him, sat back in his arms, looked him directly in the eye, and said, “I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to bite you. I just had to, you know?” “No, no, it’s okay,” Steve said, still holding the child in his arms. “I thought you were a disabled student.” “I am,” the boy said. Before he could say anything in reply, several adults raced over to retrieve the child. One large young man, built like a refrigerator, approached, bristling with anger. “Put him down. What are you doing, pal? Why are you here?” He pulled the boy out of his grasp and handed him off to another woman. “Wait … wait, John. I saw the whole thing. This man saved Jeremy from getting hit by a car. He ran into traffic and grabbed him in the nick of time,” a young teacher intervened. She turned to Steve. “Are you Taylor’s father?” “Yes.” Steve was too shaken to say more. Something important had happened, something he didn’t understand. He sat down on the grass, unconcerned by the stares he received from the school staff. He was exhausted and didn’t know why. “Are you okay? Were you hit?” the young woman asked. “I’m Miss Stafford. I was Taylor’s speech therapist last year.” Steve just stared up at her. “You weren’t hit, were you? Are you injured?” Steve shook off his confusion and said, “No. No, I’m fine. How’s the boy?” He looked around at the gathering crowd as though he noticed them for the first time. He was about to stand up when the boy squiggled through the adult legs and approached Steve, now at eye level, still sitting on the grass. In a clear, enunciated voice, he said, “Thank you, mister. I feel better now.” Everyone turned at the sound of the boy’s voice and stared. Steve was growing more confused by the moment. “You’re welcome,” he managed. The boy turned to leave, his obligation fulfilled, and then turned back to Steve. “And thanks for the hug. That felt great.” Steve had no answer to that. He was stunned. Something had become clear to him in that instant. The boy had done something to him. And it hurt. He wasn’t sure how, but it left a profound impact on him. Miss Stafford, the woman who had introduced herself, knelt next to him. She was looking at him with a mixture of awe and concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit dazed.” Steve rose unsteadily and brushed the grass from his trousers. He reached up to massage his muscle where the boy had bitten him. He pulled his shirt away from his neck to examine the wound only to find no marks on his skin. He was sure the child had imbedded his teeth in a fit of rage and broke the skin, but there was no blood. He recalled the pinprick in his back, held his shirt away from his back, and contorted his body to look for any sign of a wound there—nothing. He’d acutely felt both insults to his flesh, but there was no evidence that either had ever happened. He realized everyone was staring at him like he was from another planet. He surveyed the crowd as though in a fog. Miss Stafford broke the impasse. She took Steve by the arm and led him away. “Come with me, Mister Wilson. I’ll take you to Taylor.” Steve allowed himself to be propelled away, numb. She accompanied him to her office, placed a call to someone, and directed the person to bring Taylor Wilson to her office. While they waited, she asked, “Do you remember me?” Steve looked at the woman. She was about thirty-five or so, with short brown hair and an engaging smile. She wore a practical white blouse tucked into jeans that hugged a generous figure and sneakers—a practical uniform for a teacher who probably experienced daily physical outbursts from her students when she challenged them to form words. She looked familiar, and Gina would have recognized her anywhere, in any setting. Steve was having difficulty recalling when they’d met. “It was at Taylor’s annual IEP meeting that we met,” she said. “Oh, the goal-setting deal we attend every year,” he replied. “Yes.” “Okay, now I remember. How are you?” “I’m fine. I’m more concerned about you. Are you feeling all right?” “I’m fine.” “Would you like some water?” “Yes, please.” She handed him a bottle of water from her desk, and he drank half of it down in one swallow. He looked at her and said, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” “Mr. Wilson, Jeremy is profoundly autistic. He does not have speech motility. He cannot form words. Or he couldn’t before today.” “Do you mean the little boy in the street?” “Yes, that was Jeremy.” “He spoke to me. He seemed normal.” “I know,” she replied. “Can you tell me what happened out there?” “Well, I was standing by my car, waiting for school to let out, and I saw the little boy, Jeremy, I guess, walk out into traffic. I wasn’t thinking. I just reacted.” “I saw that part. I was watching from the playground. I think one of the maintenance staff left the gate open. That got my attention. Then I saw you, what you did.” “Then you already know what happened.” Steve was becoming increasingly nervous. “That’s not what I meant. And I think you know that.”