"Goob?"
"It's a term of endearment. It means that I like you," she said with a wink.
The words were strangely uplifting. "In that case, I'd be glad to stay."
"So what's on your agenda today?" Taylor asked.
They'd finished breakfast, and Denise was walking him to the door. He still had to make it home to change before heading off to meet his crew.
"Same as always. I'll work with Kyle for a few hours, and then I'm not sure. It sort of depends on what he wants to do--play in the yard, ride bikes, whatever. Then it's off to work tonight."
"Back to serving those lecherous men?"
"A gal's gotta pay the bills," she said arc
hly, "and besides, they're not all so bad. The one who came in last night was pretty nice. I let him stay over at my place."
"A real charmer, huh?"
"Not really. But he was so pathetic, I didn't have the heart to turn him down."
"Ouch."
As they reached the door, she leaned against him, nudging him playfully.
"You know I'm kidding."
"I hope so." The sky was cloudless, and the sun was beginning to peek over the trees in the east as they stepped out onto the porch. "Hey, listen, about last night . . . thanks for everything."
"You already thanked me earlier, remember?"
"I know," Taylor said earnestly, "but I wanted to do it again."
They stood together without speaking until Denise finally took a small step forward. Glancing down, then up at Taylor again, she tilted her head slightly, her face drawing nearer to his. She could see the surprise in his eyes when she kissed him softly on the lips.
It wasn't more than a peck, really, but all he could do was stare at her afterward, thinking how wonderful it was.
"I'm glad I was the one you came to," she said.
Still dressed in pajamas, her hair a tangled mess, she looked absolutely perfect.
Chapter 18
Later that day, at Taylor's request, Denise showed him Kyle's journal.
Sitting in the kitchen beside him, she flipped through the pages, commenting every now and then. Each page was filled with Denise's goals, as well as specific words and phrases, pronunciations, and her final observations.
"See, it's just a record of what we do. That's all."
Taylor flipped to the very first page. Across the top was written a single word: Apple. Beneath that, toward the middle of the page and continuing onto the back side, was Denise's description of the very first day she'd worked with him.
"May I?" he asked, motioning to the page. Denise nodded and Taylor read slowly, taking in every word. When he finished he looked up.
"Four hours?"
"Yes."
"Just to say the word apple?"
"Actually, he didn't say it exactly right, even in the end. But it was close enough to understand what he was trying to say."
"How did you finally get him to do it?"
"I just kept working with him until he did."
"But how did you know what would work?"
"I didn't, really. Not in the beginning. I'd studied a lot of different things about how to work with kids like Kyle; I'd read up on different programs that universities were trying, I learned about speech therapy and the things they do. But none of them really seemed to be describing Kyle--I mean, they'd get parts of it right, but mostly they were describing other kids. But there were two books, Late-Talking Children by Thomas Sowell and Let Me Hear Your Voice by Catherine Maurice, that seemed to come the closest. Sowell's book was the first one that let me know that I wasn't alone in all this; that a lot of children have trouble speaking, even though nothing else seems to be wrong with them. Maurice's book gave me an idea of how to actually teach Kyle, even though her book primarily dealt with autism."
"So what do you do?"
"I use a type of behavioral modification program, one that was originally designed out at UCLA. They've had a lot of success with autistic children over the years by rewarding good behavior and punishing negative behavior. I modified the program for speech, since that was really Kyle's only problem. Basically, when Kyle says what he's supposed to, he gets a tiny piece of candy. When he doesn't say it, no candy. If he doesn't even try or he's being stubborn, I scold him. When I taught him how to say 'apple,' I pointed to a picture of an apple and kept repeating the word. I'd give him candy whenever he made a sound; after that, I gave him candy only when he made the right sound--even if it was just part of the word. Eventually, he was rewarded only when he said the whole word."
"And that took four hours?"
Denise nodded. "Four incredibly long hours. He cried and fussed, he kept trying to get out of the chair, he screamed like I was stabbing him with pins. If someone had heard us that day, he probably would have thought I was torturing him. I must have said the word, I don't know, five or six hundred times. I kept repeating it over and over, until we were both absolutely sick of it. It was terrible, truly awful for both of us, and I never thought it would end, but you know . . ."
She leaned a little closer.
"When he finally said it, all the terrible parts suddenly went away--all the frustration and anger and fear that both of us were experiencing. I remember how excited I was--you can't even begin to imagine it. I started crying, and I had him repeat the word at least a dozen times before I really believed he'd done it. That was the first time that I ever knew for certain that Kyle had the ability to learn. I'd done it, on my own, and I can't even describe how much that meant, after all the things the doctors had said about him."
She shook her head wistfully, remembering that day.
"Well, after that, we just kept trying new words, one at a time, until he got those, too. He got to the point where he could name every tree and flower there was, every type of car, every kind of airplane . . . his vocabulary was huge, but he still didn't have the ability to understand that language was actually used for something. So then we started with two-word combinations, like 'blue truck' or 'big tree,' and I think that helped him grasp what I was trying to teach him--that words are the way people communicate. After a few months, he could mimic almost everything I said, so I started trying to teach him what questions were."
"Was that hard?"
"It's still hard. Harder than teaching him words, because now he has to try to interpret inflections in tone, then understand what the question is, then answer it appropriately. All three parts of that are difficult for him, and that's what we've been working on for the last few months. At first, questions presented a whole new set of challenges, because Kyle wanted to simply mimic what I was saying. I'd point to a picture of an apple and say, 'What is this?' Kyle would respond, 'What is this?' I'd say, 'No, say, "It's an apple," ' and Kyle would answer, 'No, say, "It's an apple." ' Eventually, I started whispering the question, then saying the answer loudly, hoping he could understand what I wanted. But for a long time, he'd whisper the question like I did, then answer loudly, repeating my words and tones exactly. It took weeks before he would say only the answer. I'd reward him, of course, whenever he did."
Taylor nodded, beginning to grasp just how difficult all this must have been. "You must have the patience of a saint," he said.
"Not always."
"But to do it every day . . ."
"I have to. Besides, look at how far he's come."
Taylor flipped through the notebook, toward the end. From a nearly blank page with only a single word on it, Denise's notes about the hours spent with Kyle now covered three and four pages at a time.
"He's come a long way."
"Yes, he has. He's got a long way to go, though. He's good with some questions, like 'what' and 'who,' but he still doesn't understand 'why' and 'how' questions. He doesn't really converse yet, either--he usually just makes a single statement. He's also got trouble with the phrasing of questions. He knows what I mean when I say, 'Where's your toy?' But if I ask him, 'Where did you put your toy?' all I get is a blank stare. Things like that are the reason I'm glad I've kept that journal. Whenever Kyle has a bad day--and he does, quite often--I'll open this up and remind myself of all the challenges he's made it through so far. One day, once he's better, I'm going to give this to him. I want him to read it, so that he knows how much I love him."
"He already knows that."
"I know. But someday, I also want to hear him say that he loves me, too."
"Doesn't he do that now? When you tuck him in at night?"
"No," she answered. "Kyle's never said that to me."
"Haven't you tried to teach him that?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I want to be surprised on the day that he finally does it on
his own."
During the next week and a half Taylor spent more and more time at Denise's house, always dropping by in the afternoons once he knew she'd finished working with Kyle. Sometimes he stayed for an hour, other times a little longer. On two afternoons he played catch with Kyle while Denise watched from the porch; on the third afternoon he taught Kyle to hit the ball with a small bat and tee that Taylor had used when he was young. Swing after swing, Taylor retrieved the ball and set it back on the tee, only to encourage Kyle to try again. By the time Kyle was ready to stop, Taylor's shirt was soaked through. Denise kissed him for the second time after handing him a glass of water.
On Sunday, the week after the carnival, Taylor drove them to Kitty Hawk, where they spent the day at the beach. Taylor pointed out the spot where Orville and Wilbur Wright made their historic flight in 1903, and they read the details on a monument that had been erected to honor them. They shared a picnic lunch, then waded in and out of the surf on a long walk down the beach as terns fluttered overhead. Toward the end of the afternoon Denise and Taylor built sand castles that Kyle delighted in ruining. Roaring like Godzilla, he stomped through the mounds almost as quickly as they were molded.
On the way home, they stopped at a farmer's road stand, where they picked up some fresh corn. While Kyle ate macaroni and cheese, Taylor had his first dinner at Denise's house. The sun and wind at the beach had worn Kyle out, and he fell asleep immediately afterward. Taylor and Denise talked in the kitchen until almost midnight. On the doorstep they kissed again, Taylor's arms wrapped around her.
A few days later Taylor let Denise borrow his truck to head into town to run some errands. By the time she got back, he'd rehung the sagging cabinet doors in her kitchen. "I hope you don't mind," he said, wondering if he'd overstepped some invisible line.
"Not at all," she cried, clapping her hands together, "but can you do anything about the leaky sink?" Thirty minutes later that was fixed as well.
In their moments alone, Taylor found himself mesmerized by her simple beauty and grace. But there were also times when he could see written in her features the sacrifices she'd made for her son. It was an almost weary expression, like that of a warrior after a long battle on the plains, and it inspired an admiration in him that he found difficult to put into words. She seemed to be one of a slowly vanishing breed; a stark contrast to those who were always chasing, running, on the go, searching for personal fulfillment and self-esteem. So many people these days, it seemed, believed that these things could come only from work, not from parenting, and many people believed that having children had nothing to do with raising them. When he said as much, Denise had simply looked away, out the window. "I used to believe that, too."