Patrick Speaks

            “Ok, so speech,” I say to my autistic brother, who is walking beside me around a park, “is the only way anyone knows what’s going on in someone else’s head. But, to make things more complicated, someone else could always be lying. So our connections are, potentially, seriously flawed, but it’s all we’ve got.”

My brother is quiet. Contemplative. He makes a few whispering noises. I pick up what he means immediately. “Absolutely, you’re right. The second problem is, that people don’t always say what they mean, or even know exactly what they mean. Sometimes they’re just reacting to what’s just been said. So speech isn’t quite reliable as a way to understand what another person is thinking.”

My brother clasps his hands together and nods them forward and back. He mutters more noises under his breath and then lets out a yell. And, of course, he’s right.

“Yes, there are other ways to know, in a way, what another person is thinking. Body language I guess. It’s just not exact. I mean, I can’t tell what you’re thinking based on your body language. You know, I bet if I could see your thoughts, I couldn’t keep up with them. You seem so distracted all the time.”

Pat ignores what I’ve just said and walks on. I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings. What I’ve said is what I think is true.

But then I think, that’s silly. There’s no reason to believe that my brother can understand me.

 

My brother, Patrick, was diagnosed with autism at the age of two. An early diagnosis, and thank God for that. Early behavioral therapy gave him the best chance. My Mom spent hours teaching Pat speech, spatial orientation, general manners, and everyday skills, but twenty five years later he’s still non-verbal. He can tell us he needs to use the bathroom, he can say “Momma” when Mom prompts him with “Who am I?” and he can ask for food when he’s hungry. If he says anything else, it’s a bonus.

So, knowing that, why do I bother to speak to my brother? Why go to the trouble? Well…why not?

 

Speech is such an interesting phenomenon. The only reason we aren’t amazed by speech is because it happens frequently: billions of times every day. But it is amazing. Consider a crowded bar. You walk in, look around at the several groups engaged in conversation. Let’s say you need some whiskey, two glasses, because it was a terrible week and you need some warmth. So you walk up to a bartender who is rubbing beer mugs with a rag. Pretty mundane so far. This is the amazing thing. This is what we take for granted. This is the magic trick. This is the spark.

“What are you having?” she asks. That simple sentence! It’s as complex as a Rube Goldberg device! Even if this is something automatic she says to every customer, she has responded to what she sees in front of her: a man in glasses with drooping eyelids who looks disoriented. Her brain reacts to this image. Neurons pop like firecrackers. Current zips down axons to spindly dendrites that release packets of neurotransmitters that make light more fireworks in other neurons. As a result of this reaction more complicated than a computer’s motherboard, her brain tells her mouth, her vocal chords, and her tongue to conduct themselves in a precise way. Such that she says, “What are you having?” And! What is crazier, she does so with full assurance that you will understand everything she has said! She does not anticipate any disrupted connections. You will reply in some manner to acknowledge understanding. Yet, the process, again, is as complex as a rocket’s schematics. The sound waves from her words enter your ears and vibrate the tiny bones inside, sending signals to your brain that interpret the words you’ve heard. And then you have to respond! You have to speak! And this happens so often, we consider it about as interesting as a speck of dirt. What a shame.

 

“Here’s a question, what do you think of me, Pat? Do you even know who I am? Or am I your ticket to food and the outdoors?” We’re in my Chrysler Concorde now. On our way to TGI Friday’s.

My brother makes some chirping noises, then coughs, and is quiet. He watches out the window as sparse trees on the highway pass by.

“That’s something I wish I knew. But maybe I’m being selfish. I mean, I do this for you, right? I don’t do this for me.”

He’s still quiet, he knocks on the glass a few times. Then pushes down on the button for the window. It lowers.

“Pat, please don’t do that, it’s cold out.” He puts his hands in his lap and looks forward, murmuring again. He could be a philosopher underneath. “Seriously, I do wish we could talk. I wish you could tell me what you wanted, or say my name without me wondering whether you actually knew what you were saying. I guess I’d feel like I’d know you.”

Pat’s still quiet, whispering. Then he starts fiddling with the buttons on the door again.

“Pat, leave that…” the door suddenly opens. He’s pulled the door handle.

“Pat! No! Close the door!” I pull over as quickly as I can. He gently pulls the door closed, but it’s slightly ajar.

“You can’t do that! Don’t open the door when I’m driving, Pat!” I reach over and close the door. He’s silent now. Not even whispering, just twisting his fingers together.

Then I feel guilty. Could he understand why I just yelled? Does he think I’m mean? Did any of the words I said reach him?

“I’m sorry, Pat. Please don’t do that. You could get hurt.” I sit for a moment. Try to calm down. Then I drive back onto the highway.

During the drive, I look over periodically to see what Pat is doing. I reach to the backseat and get him a slinky to play with. His head stays down as he examines the slinky rolling back and forth between his hands. We make it to TGI Friday’s without further incident.

 

My Mom is an eternal optimist when it comes to Pat. She’s dedicated her life to autism research. Right now, she works as a consultant physician for adults with autism and is conducting a study with my stepdad to examine the effects of a chemical in broccoli sprouts (yup, eat your broccoli, kids) on autism. She understands autism better than anyone I know. So when I talk to her about Pat and whether he can understand us—considering her knowledge and that she’s his mother—it’s not surprising when she says: “You have to assume higher functioning. We’ll never know what he’s thinking or if he’s thinking or if he cares. But then there are some days when he seems unbelievably clear. Like this time at the bowling alley. He walked into the women’s bathroom, and Peter, his aid, had to go in after him and awkwardly explain to the women who entered why two men were in the women’s bathroom. When they came back out, Peter told the story, and Pat laughed at exactly the right moment—right when he said Pat ran into the women’s bathroom. It was like Pat knew what had happened, and thought it was hilarious.”

My Mom’s usually very busy, so as she’s telling me this, she’s probably sorting through some papers, or searching the internet, or setting the table. When she speaks, it’s usually only for a few minutes before her brain tells her to take action. So after she finishes writing a check or watering some plants or filling out a patient’s chart, she continues: “It’s moments like that when I think, gee, maybe he does get it. Maybe he does understand. And why would I assume he doesn’t? What would the point of that be?”

I can’t do anything but agree as she rushes off to her next task. She’s right. We’d only be doing a disservice to Pat if we assumed he was lower functioning. If we assumed he didn’t understand anything.

When I was very young, I remember thinking that maybe Pat was an alien. Maybe the sounds he made were an alien language that I couldn’t understand. Maybe all of the sounds that we made sounded like an alien language to him too. I remembered thinking: maybe he’ll figure out our language someday…or we’ll figure out his.

 

My brother and I are leaving TGI Friday’s now. He’s eaten three orders of boneless chicken wings, a cheeseburger, and fries. He loves to eat. As we make our way to the parking lot, I reach into my pocket for my keys with my right hand…and I feel someone grab my left hand. It’s my brother. He grips my hand a little harder as we walk across the road towards my car. I’m confused at first, but then I can’t help feeling happy. I look over and Pat is twisting his other hand, examining each side. He pretends this hand holding is no big deal. We’re men. We don’t need to acknowledge tenderness.

But…it’s still nice. It’s a different kind of contact, and much more certain than speech. Even if he was taught to do this, there is a physical connection in this moment. All of my uncertainty leaves. We get into the car and drive back to the respite house where he lives.

 

On the way, I think about these tiny bean seeds I planted while I was in kindergarten. We nestled them in small plastic cups filled with soil. We placed them on the classroom’s windowsill and watched as they grew. Most of the kids bragged about the height of their sprouts, or how big the leaves were getting. I was more interested in the way the plants moved as the sun travelled across the sky. They bent and flexed, responding to the sun rays. In the morning they’d be tilted to the right; in the afternoon they’d be tilted to the left. In its own way, the sun communicated with those plants—and they responded.

 

When we arrive back at Pat’s house he runs inside. He’s anxious to sit on his comfortable chair. I walk in to say hi to all of the aids and to say goodbye to Pat, who is sinking into his plush chair, playing with a noisemaker filled with beads. “I’m leaving, Pat” I say. “Give me a hug?” He stands up and hugs me, then he steps back and waves. “Bye” he says.

“Bye,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.” Pat’s already back in his chair tipping the noisemaker up and down—it sounds like heavy rain dropping on a forest canopy.

I leave and sit in my car. I turn on the radio. Then I turn it off. I’ll never know for sure. I’ll never know what he wants or what he’s thinking. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m thinking. Or why I’m doing anything. Did I want those two glasses of whiskey and the many drinks that followed? Or was I reacting to exhaustion? Did I see my brother because I wanted to? Or because of an obligation? Do I love him? Or do I resent him because he’ll never be able to say he loves me back?

Then I think of his hug. And when he held my hand. And really, I don’t think I need anything else from him. That’s enough.

I turn on the radio: sports talk. Some nonsense about team ranking at the beginning of the season. Who cares? It’s meaningless noise. I turn it off again and drive away.