Devoted to Drew. Loree Lough

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ