I didn’t say anything for a minute or two, just watched with profound admiration. His patience and the intricacy of his work are astonishing, all the more so since he has rarely been outside the building except to the big lawn facing Amsterdam Avenue, which allows him a view of only part of the hospital. Yet all the sides—the ones he has finished, anyway—are in perfect proportion, with uncanny accuracy in the smallest details. But I suppose if any of us were to virtually ignore our relationships with other people, as he (and other severe autists) does, who knows what we might accomplish.
He knew I was there, of course. Though he rarely speaks, there were little signs: a desultory humming, an occasional shuffling of feet. Ten years earlier he wouldn’t have paid the slightest bit of attention to me. When I first tried to make some kind of contact with him he almost seemed fearful, and certainly resented the intrusion. More recently, he almost seems to be glad to have me around. Or at least tolerates my presence without noticeable annoyance. Maybe it’s a matter of wearing down his resistance—a point for every visit that doesn’t cause him undue distress. Whatever the reason, he sometimes gives me a hug when I leave him. He doesn’t say anything, or even look at me, but I can often discern a hint of a smile. Whatever he feels about this superficial contact (maybe it isn’t superficial to him!) I feel very good about it. As if it’s a small victory of sorts. I only hope he feels the same way.
When I gave him his brief hug and said, “’Bye, Jer,” before leaving the room, I expected his usual, “’Bye, Jer,” in return. Instead, without taking his eyes off his newest work, he whispered, “Fled.”
“You want to meet her?”
A pause, followed by a vigorous nod.
“Why, Jerry?” I asked him, not expecting an answer.
As if his throat were constricted, he stuttered, “I think she c-can fix me.”
I don’t know where he got this idea, and perhaps he didn’t, either. “But you haven’t met her yet, have you?”
He shook his head.
“Then why do you think she can help you?”
I thought maybe he didn’t understand the question until he grunted, “Howard.”
“Howard told you she can fix you?”
He nodded again.
I warned him that fled wasn’t like prot, who had broken through Jerry’s communication barrier years before. But he knew that already, or didn’t care. The main thing was that she wasn’t human, whom severe autists can often barely relate to. “Sure, Jerry,” I assured him. “I’ll speak to her.” It had been, after all, the first time I could remember him requesting anything other than matchsticks.
* * *
While traipsing around the lawn looking for fled I spotted a couple of patients staring up at the sky. Curious, I ambled over. Rick was telling one of our newest inmates that the sky was actually green, though some people see it as blue. “That’s why grass is green, Barney. It’s just a reflection of the light from the sky.”
It was a mystery at first whether Rick saw things differently from the rest of us or was simply an incorrigible liar. It now seems clear that it’s a combination of both. Regardless of whether he knows he’s lying or not, however, the outcome is the same: no one can believe a word he says. As if he were a used-car salesman, he is the most unpopular of all our inmates. Indeed, most patients are religious about telling the truth, at least their own truth, and they expect the others to do the same. Trust is a very important issue among our inmates, just as it is with the general public.
Prot once suggested Rick go into politics.
Rocky actually goes out of his way to avoid Rick, calling him, simply, “the fucking liar.” Fortunately, for all his bottled-up anger, Rocky has never physically harmed anyone, as far as we know. Otherwise, we would have to transfer him to Ward Four, which houses the sociopaths. One of the former denizens of that floor is Charlotte, whom I spotted watering the flowers along the back wall. A confessed killer of at least seven young men, hers is a classic case of a patient who almost miraculously responded to a new medication, and she is now as docile as anyone here.
While observing Charlotte I was almost tackled by Georgie. With an IQ of forty, which is well below even most autistic savants, his interests are focused exclusively on football. For several frenetic moments at a time he kicks or tosses a ball high into the air, then runs and catches it—over and over again until he is exhausted. The rest of the time he sits and stares at whatever captures his attention: a flower, a brick, a face. Though short and wiry he is nevertheless dangerous at full speed, and the other patients try to hug the walls when he’s active. When he is resting they are quite solicitous of his needs, quite unlike their attitude toward Rick.
The latter was delighted when Barney arrived at the hospital. But the ease with which he is deceived is not the reason Barney is a patient at MPI. Since birth he has never been known to laugh. He’s not suffering from a pathological depression, however, like former patient Bess, for example. In fact, he seems to be reasonably happy. It’s just that he sees no humor in any situation, no matter how silly. As a child he was unable even to smile at clowns, animals in human clothing, simple jokes. He made it through high school, albeit with difficulty, and his family, owners of a prominent dry cleaning establishment in the city, finally brought their nineteen-year-old son to us to see if anything could be done.
Though we don’t usually accept such harmless neuroses, the blank check offered by the family was too enticing to refuse (it allows us to take on a few charity cases as well). His psychiatrist, who happens to be my own son, is stymied, as are the rest of the staff. However, we were given only a limited amount of time to come up with a drug or protocol that might help him find a bit of humor in his life. A life without which, in the eyes of most people, including his parents, is no life at all.
Apparently understanding this sad truth, many of the other patients try to help us out with Barney—making funny faces, doing pratfalls and all the rest. So far, nothing has worked, not even a talking chimpanzee.
* * *
I went in to see Goldfarb. She wasn’t there, but Margie handed me a manila folder containing the information about the proposed television and magazine interviews. I flipped through the few pages inside.
As far as I could see, no harm could come from a magazine article. But the TV show was a different matter entirely. Apparently it was supposed to be a live “reality” show, with the patients going about their usual routines while interviews with the staff would be cut in wherever it was deemed appropriate. It’s true that prot had appeared on one of the popular talk shows, but his segment had been taped prior to telecast and, in any case, his was a very different personality from fled’s. What the hell would happen if this particular K-PAXian exposed herself live in front of millions of viewers? I didn’t like the odds on that. All such considerations would become moot, however, unless she agreed to appear before the cameras. As far as I knew, Virginia hadn’t yet spoken to her about it. That, apparently, was my responsibility.
“Is she here, Margie?”
“Who—Dr. Goldfarb or fled?”
“Fled.”
“I don’t know. Should I page her for you?”
“No, not yet. Any feedback on what she’s been up to lately?”