Melinda’s Story

The Johnson children were already in high school by the time my family moved into the neighborhood, so I had never been invited over to play. My parents had attended a few dinner parties, but Katie Johnson would come babysit me and Joey on those nights. I found it a little ironic that I was now going to babysit at her house.

Except it wasn’t the Johnson house anymore, I reminded myself as I rang the bell.

The woman who answered looked younger than I had expected. She was still old, but probably closer to thirty, whereas my parents were in their mid-forties. She smiled through the glass door.

“Melinda?” When I nodded, she opened the door. “Come inside. I’m so glad you could stay with Dax tonight.”

I smile. “Yeah. No problem.” I glanced around as I stepped out of my sneakers. “Where is he?”

“In the playroom. I wanted to talk to you a little first. Can I get you a water or anything?”

I shook my head as I followed her to the kitchen at the back of the house. “No. I’m good.”

Mrs. Kennedy bit her lip. “Okay. Well, uh, so. Did your mom tell you anything about Dax?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Just that he has some developmental delays.”

Mrs. Kennedy nodded slowly. “He is on the autism spectrum. Do you know what that means?”

I winced slightly, but not out of fear. “Kinda? I heard that term thrown around a lot at my old school, but I never understood what it meant. Not really.”

“Well, Dax’s brain works a little differently than yours and mine. For example, he has a lot of sensory-seeking tendencies. You may see him climb on things or put things in his mouth.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Okay?”

Mrs. Kennedy frowned. “You mother said you took a babysitting course?”

I nodded. “Yeah. In middle school.”

“I used to teach a course like that. Do you remember learning that babies can choke on things that are too small? Like coins and marbles?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Well, by three, you might expect a child to learn not to do that anymore. But Dax’s brain doesn’t always make that connection. I found a penny in his mouth yesterday. A marble last week.”

What had I gotten myself into? It sounded like I was going to have to watch this kid like a hawk. But I smiled and nodded to show I was listening as Mrs. Kennedy continued.

“The other thing is that he’s nonverbal.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“He doesn’t speak. He can hear and we know he understands us. But he won’t speak. He gestures and grunts and uses some sign language, but only enough to get his point across. He doesn’t use complete sentences, even signing.”

I nodded. “My friend’s sister used to do the same thing.”

Mrs. Kennedy gestured to a room off the kitchen. A little boy sat in the middle of the floor building a network of wooden train tracks. I watched him set a piece, run an engine along it, then dig through a nearby box. A moment later, he added another piece, returned the train to its starting position, and repeated the process.

Beside me, his mother called out to him. “Dax? This is Melinda. She’s going to play with you for a little while.”

The boy never looked up. Had he heard his mother? She didn’t seem concerned. She turned to me, gesturing over her shoulder.

“I’m going to go see if my husband has an update on his flight. Why don’t you see if Dax will let you play?”

I nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

As I crept closer to the boy, I heard him humming to himself. I tried to make out the tune, but soon realized there wasn’t really a melody. I kneeled near him, on the other side of the track.

“Hi, Dax. I’m Melinda. Can I play trains with you?”

Again, no response. I examined the track. It started at a green station-like structure, curved in a semi-circle, then wiggled in a snake-like pattern, ending in straight pieces. There was only one engine.

As I watched Dax dig for another piece, I saw another train car. I fished it from the pile and put it on the track.

“Can I be this piece?”

Dax grunted angrily. With one hand, he snatched the train. At the same time, he shoved the other in my face. At first, I thought he was trying to pinch my nose with his thumb and first two fingers. As he quickly snapped the fingers shut onto the thumb, however, I recognized the sign for no. My roommate’s sister had signed it often enough.

I sat back slightly, holding my hands near my shoulders. “Okay. Sorry. Do you want help? What piece do you want?”

I held out a straight piece, but he batted away my hand. He didn’t want a curve, either. I pulled out a few more, placing straight ones in one pile and curved in another.

Dax’s eyes grew wide. He grabbed a piece in each hand, adding them both to the straight pile. In a few minutes, the box was empty, and we had four piles: straights, curves, ramps, and structures.

Dax returned to his track. Using the ramp, he built a bridge, which his engine traveled until it fell off the end.

Melinda’s Journal

Sunday, March 4

Over the past couple of years, I have babysat for a few of my neighbors. Isabella is in kindergarten this year. She always looks forward to my visits and usually has a long list of things she wants to play with me when I get there. The Dyson girls are five and seven. They are a little more spontaneous, but they also love when I visit.

But Dax is so different from the girls. He has no interest in playing with me. He is content to play beside me.

And I’m not allowed to play on my own. In trying to get him to play with me, I took a few pieces to build my own train track. He grabbed the piece from my hand, signed “no” in my face, and threw the pieces across the room.

If I’m literally just watching this kid today, this day is going to be endless.

Melinda’s Story

Dax continued building, running his train for nearly an hour. I was bored out of my mind, keeping an eye on him as I wrote in my journal to help pass the time. Eventually, Mrs. Kennedy appeared in the door, signing as she spoke.

“Dax? Do you want lunch?”

He turned to her, nodding his fist in the gesture I knew meant yes.

Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “What should we have?”

Dax signed something I didn’t understand. His mother frowned. “What about some yogurt?”

Dax glared at his mother, getting to his feet just to stomp one of them. He repeated the sign he had made before.

Mrs. Kennedy offered several other suggestions, but Dax refused them. Finally, she sighed and returned to the kitchen.

Dax didn’t follow her. He stood in the middle of the room, running his right thumb along the fingers on that hand and humming to himself. A moment later, I heard a distinctive grunt I recognized from the other children I had babysat.

Keeping my eye on Dax, I made my way to the doorway. “Uh, Mrs. Kennedy?”

She didn’t look away from the counter. “Yes?”

“Is Dax potty trained? Because I think he’s going in his pants.”

She wiped her hands on a towel with a sigh. “We’re working on the potty training. Are you okay changing diapers?”

I nodded. “Yeah, but uh, will he let me?”

Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “Let’s find out, shall we? Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”

She went into the family room, scooping Dax in her arms. He immediately tried to wriggle free, but she lugged him back to the front door and up the stairs. Did she expect me to do that when she left? Because I wasn’t sure I could.

At the top of the stairs were three rooms. Dax had the one in the middle. Mrs. Kennedy pointed to the dresser.

“The diapers and wipes are over there. There’s also a changing pad, which I only use with messy diapers. If he’s just wet, you probably don’t need it, but you can use it if you’re more comfortable.”

I expected her to lay the fabric mat on the dresser, as every other parent I had met did. Maybe the bed, like my aunts did when at my grandmother’s house. But Mrs. Kennedy transferred Dax to one arm and grabbed the changing pad with the other. Still wrangling her son, she expertly unfolded it on the floor and laid him upon it.

Dax didn’t seem to want his diaper changed. As Mrs. Kennedy removed his pants, he tried to roll away. I watched Mrs. Kennedy carefully so I would know what to do for the next diaper, but she moved so expertly, I wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. She used one hand to hold Dax’s ankles together as she removed the diaper and cleaned the mess, even as he continued trying to wriggle free. She moved so quickly that, before I knew it, he was wearing a clean diaper. She pulled on his pants and released him.

Dax ran out of the room. I followed him, catching him at the top of the stairs. I hurried past him, holding out my hand.

“Dax, you need to hold someone’s hand on the stairs.”

Dax shook his head, running down the flight, almost knocking me over on the way. As I chased him back to his trains, I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Would Dax take a nap? I sure needed one.

But he didn’t seem tired. A few minutes later, Mrs. Kennedy called us back into the kitchen. As Dax sat at the table, she turned to me. “Do you want something, dear?”

I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good.”

She pointed at the ceiling. “I’m going to get ready for work. Be right back.”

Dax was sitting behind a sandwich with some sort of chocolate nut butter spread. It surprised me that Mrs. Kennedy hadn’t sliced it.

I pointed to it. “Dax? You want me to cut that up for you?”

He didn’t answer. He brought the entire sandwich to his mouth and bit a hole in the exact center. I couldn’t help staring as he ate the sandwich from the middle outward. It was mesmerizing. Part of me wanted to take a video to show Walter. He would definitely get a kick out of this kid.

Before I could pull my phone from my pocket, though, Dax returned the sandwich to the table. Not the plate, but the table beside it. Making a W with his three middle fingers, he tapped his mouth.

I frowned. “I know that sign. White? Want?”

Dax glared at me. While I tried to figure out what he wanted, he climbed out of his seat and went to the sink.

I wanted to smack myself. How could I forget the sign for water? “Hey buddy. I can help you. Where does Mommy keep the glasses?”

Of course, Dax didn’t answer. He went straight to the sink. Beside it were three drawers with horizontal handles. Using them like rungs of a ladder, he scaled up to the counter in one motion.

That wasn’t safe. I rushed to catch him. But he didn’t fall. He opened the cabinet and took out a blue sippy cup. Sitting on the counter, he held the cup toward me, again tapping a W on his chin.

I reached for the cup. “You want water?”

Dax grabbed a second sippy. As he passed it to me, he made some strange sign near his cheek. I had never seen it before.

I bit my lip. “Dax, I don’t know what you’re saying. Here. Let’s get you down.”

Dax didn’t complain as I reached under his arms and lowered him to the floor. He went back to the table while I filled the blue cup with water. When I put it beside him, he pointed to the fridge and made that strange sign.

I looked inside, holding out a carton. “Milk?”

Dax banged his fist on the table and repeated his request. I returned the milk and held up the next carton. “Orange juice?”

But he didn’t want that, either. Nor did he want cranberry juice, plum juice, or almond milk. Since I didn’t think I should offer him wine, I had run out of options.

Dax didn’t seem to like that. He threw his water sippy cup as his mother entered the room.

She frowned. “Oh no. What happened?”

I sent her a pleading look. “He’s trying to ask me for something, but I have no idea what he wants.”

He did the weird sign again and his mother sighed. “Apple. He’s looking for apple juice.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t see any. I just raided your fridge.”

She went to a closet across from the stove. “I ran out this morning. But I think I—yes.” She pulled out a plastic half gallon. “Last one. I usually pour half a cup of water, then fill the rest with juice.”

As she filled the second drink cup, I bit my lip. “Uh, Mrs. Kennedy? Watching Dax? It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

I could see the pained look as she glanced at me over her shoulder. “I guess I’ll just call in sick again.”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t mind staying. I was just wondering. I mean, you’ll have to check with my mom and see if she says yes, but my boyfriend? He’s fluent in American Sign Language. It’s just, if he were here, he could probably help me understand what Dax wants. And I promise. As soon as Dax falls asleep, I’ll send Pat home. He’s staying at my place this weekend.”

Mrs. Kennedy glanced at the microwave clock with pursed lips. “Let me talk with your mother.”

She again left the room while Dax continued eating his sandwich like nothing had happened. A few bites later, the sandwich was gone. Dax climbed out of his chair. Instead of returning to the playroom, however, he went to the back door.

“You want to go outside? Okay. Let’s just—”

Before I could find his shoes, he had already opened the door. A shrill siren sounded. Covering his ears, Dax bolted into the backyard.

I couldn’t leave him alone, nor did I want to go outside in just my socks. Peeling them off my feet as quickly as I could, I shoved them into the back pocket of my jeans and followed Dax outside. Thankfully, the alarm stopped as soon as I shut the door behind me.

I was at the bottom of the steps when it sounded again. Mrs. Kennedy’s look of fear morphed into relief as she stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.

She gestured to my feet. “Isn’t it a little cold for bare feet?”

I nodded. “Yeah, but Dax didn’t give me a chance to get my shoes.”

“Which is why you could probably use a helper. Your mother said she will send Patrick over in a few minutes.” Mrs. Kennedy pointed to my feet. “Dax will probably stay out here until dark. Especially with the weather this warm. Why don’t you get shoes?”

I pointed to Dax. “Should I grab his?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “He won’t wear them.”

***

Mrs. Kennedy couldn’t stay much longer. While Dax climbed higher on his swing set than even I could, she told me about the list of phone numbers on the fridge. Most importantly, she stressed that she would be able to answer her cell most of the time. As a night nurse at a convalescent home, her evenings weren’t very busy.

Beside the list of phone numbers was a list of foods Dax would eat. Apparently, he was beyond particular. Pasta, but not spaghetti. Yogurt in a squeezable tube, but not a cup. Macaroni and cheese, but only the kind in the blue box with the powdered cheese.

I smiled. “Hey, I’m with him on that one.”

Mrs. Kennedy returned my smile. “Then feel free to make yourself some for dinner, even if he doesn’t want it.”

I smiled. “Thanks. And we’ll be fine.”

She didn’t look convinced as she opened the door. At the shrill noise, she closed it and turned back to me. “Oh, that’s the other thing. Dax runs away. He hasn’t done it in a while, but all the windows and doors have alarms. I’m going to turn off the one in the garage. I don’t want my husband to wake Dax when he gets home. But the rest will be on.”

I nodded. “We’ll do great. What time should I put Dax to bed?”

“Around seven, he’ll start slowing down. There’s a case full of DVDs by the TV. Pop one in and he might fall asleep on the couch. If not, then at eight, bring him up to bed and read him a story. Any of the books by his bed are fine.”

I nodded. “Sounds perfect.”

Mrs. Kennedy walked over to the playscape. “Dax? I’m going to work. You play nice with Melinda?” She held out her hand, extending her thumb, first finger, and pinky. “I love you, Dax.”

He copied her sign without looking at his mother. Instead, he zoomed down the slide and ran to climb up it again.

Mrs. Kennedy turned to me with a mournful sigh. “Someday. Someday he’ll say it back to me.”

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how. As she disappeared into the house, I sat on the back steps and watched Dax.

Pat’s Story

Pat will return in Episode 141.

Attention Hammerheads

Melinda is always trying to build her vocabulary. What were some words in this episode that were new to you? She will add them to her vocabulary journal.