Story by Nan Jacobs


            
Jackson's Treasure


            




            My friend Sherilee dangles her legs in the toddler pool; her
            three year old, Joshie, splashes by her knees. Several mothers
            lounge near her, conversing, sunbathing. Their respective tots
            cavort close by while a multi-colored cement clown gurgles a
            fountain of spray in the middle of the pool. Occasionally a child
            looks around and calls, "Mommy, look!"

            
I envy them the luxury to relax and chat
            as I watch my three-year-old Marco Polo impersonator reconnoitering
            the far perimeters of the small-town community pool park, a sunlit
            grassy square bordered by chain-link fencing and century-old
            trees. Dappled sun gleams off Jackson's floppy blond hair as
            he explores. He's oblivious to his separation from Mommy, indifferent
            to Mommy's full attention. I cast a wistful glance toward the
            sunny pool then trundle off toward my son in the shadows.

            
I try not to feel resentful toward Jackson
            for being different; for making me chase him when I want to relax.
            Resentful toward every single person in this park who watches
            me trail after my son without offering to take over so I can
            relax and chat, too.

            
Jackson points and chatters. "Ah-tee!
            Yook at da ah-tee!" He bounces from foot to foot. On a twig
            trapped in the untrimmed grass by the fence, hangs a Styrofoam
            cup, coffee-stained and squirrel-chewed. Jackson reaches toward
            it.

            
"No, Peanut, that's not hot tea,"
            I say. "That's trash. Yukky." He wails a protest as
            I pull him away.

            
I remember the day "Ah-tee" became
            his first word. His eyes gleamed like two copper pennies as he
            sat in the restaurant high chair and proclaimed, "Ah-tee,
            ah-tee!" when the waitress brought us coffee.

            
Hot tea... We're still waiting for "mama"
            or "dada".

            
Now he grumbles, "Not yukky. Ah-tee.
            You want ah-tee cup." When Jackson speaks, "You"
            means "I" and "I" means "you".

            
One of the kiddies yells, "Mommy,
            look at what me do!" I turn to watch. Little Joshie stands
            next to the spewing clown. He squeals as the cold shower splatters
            his back. The mothers applaud his bravery, and soon all the kids
            follow Joshie's lead. A chorus of "Mommy, look!" rings
            across the grassy slope to Jackson and me.

            
I gaze down at my bright-eyed son. He's
            still ogling the Styrofoam cup in the weeds. He's not interested
            in the kids, or the pool, or the clown. In a few years, the kids
            in the pool will be wielding T-ball bats, chasing soccer balls,
            learning to ride two-wheelers. Will Jackson ever want to do any
            of those things?

            
He tugs my hand; he wants that stupid cup.

            
How I wish he were a normal-- no. I don't.
            I will allow Jackson to be Jackson. He takes exquisite delight
            in one sweet-smelling pinecone in the woods, one broken clamshell
            on the beach, one red maple leaf in the yard ... one ugly Styrofoam
            cup in the park.

            
How dare I wish he'd fit a mold?

            
 

            
I can deal with not getting to lounge and
            chat. I can deal with no T-ball, no soccer, no two-wheelers.
            To me, Jackson's 'special needs' are a gift. A gift not to be
            recklessly torn open, nor the wrappings carelessly discarded.
            But for some reason I believe that if Jackson would only call
            me Mommy, we'll cope with whatever tune his different drummer
            plays for us.

            
Tears squeeze into my eyes. I blink away
            the glaze. When will you call me Mommy? I wonder. Can't you at
            least call me Mommy? Another trash treasure catches his attention.
            He pulls me toward it, we discover it's an old sock (even he
            says, "Yukky!"), and we move on.

            
Suddenly Jackson yanks his hand from mine
            and darts toward another damned cup in the weeds. "You want
            dat ah-tee!" He grabs it before I can stop him.

            
"No, Jackson, this is trash."
            I try to wrest it from his hand. "Peanut, if you want a
            cup, Mommy will get a cup at the food stand."

            
"You want dis cup. Dis cup."
            His voice quavers.

            
I inspect the cup. It's relatively clean.
            Still white, no gunk inside. We have death grips on opposite
            edges of the cup. If the thing splits, Jackson will grieve for
            it the way other kids mourn a lost pet.

            
Suddenly I laugh. "Oh good grief.
            Keep the cup. But no more trash picking. Let's go play in the
            pool."

            
Jackson clasps the cup like it's the Holy
            Grail.

            
We wander back to the pool. Jackson kneels
            on the edge, dips the cup in, pours out the water, dips and pours,
            dips and pours. He is content. At last I get to lounge and chat.
            I wonder how long the respite will last.

            
The other kids migrate toward him, curious.
            He ignores them as usual. Dip, pour. Dip, pour.

            
"Where'd you get that, Jackson?"
            an older one asks.

            
Dip, pour, dip, pour.

            
"Can I play with it?" a younger
            one asks. Katy, I think.

            
To my utter amazement, Jackson hands the
            cup to Katy. She dips and pours a few times, he holds out his
            hand, she gives him the cup.

            
"Where'd he get that?" she asks
            me.

            
I don't want to admit it's trash. "Tell
            you what, I'll go get some more." I ask Sherilee to watch
            Jackson. I rush off to the food stand, beg them for a stack of
            Styrofoam cups, and return with my booty.

            
I pass out the cups, and soon the kids
            are dipping and pouring. They pretend they're wizards casting
            spells on mermaids and each other. I know Jackson's indifferent
            to the others, but it makes me feel good that he's willing to
            share his space. Perhaps that's his idea of making friends.

            
The assembled mothers laugh about piles
            of expensive toys gathering dust while their kids play with empty
            boxes. I laugh along, but don't mention the five grocery bags
            full of toilet paper rolls we've accumulated. Jackson rescues
            the tubes from the trash and keeps tabs on them. Right now we
            have exactly four hundred thirty-three toilet paper tubes.

            
At age three, he can count to a thousand.
            But he doesn't know yet to say Mommy.

            
A shriek sends us moms three feet into
            the air. "Mommy, Jackson tored my cup!" Katy wails.

            
"Jackson, no!" I cry. Jackson
            has torn Katy's cup into pieces. He pours water from his cup
            onto one of the pieces. It sinks, then pops up. Jackson giggles.

            
Katy giggles, too. "Mommy, look!"
            She presses a piece under water, and it pops back up. Her mother,
            looking relieved, says, "Oooh!"

            
Suddenly Jackson, too, presses a piece
            under water. It pops up. "Mommy, yook!" he says. He
            sinks it again. "Mommy, yook!" This time he looks directly
            at me as he speaks. His eyes glow just like the first time he
            said "Ah tee".

            
A tear trickles across my cheek. The other
            moms console me. "It was only a cup, Suse." If only
            they knew.

            
Katy's mom adds, "Nobody hurt anybody,
            that's what counts."

            
"Mommy, yook!" I hear Jackson
            saying, and through the mist in my eyes I see a white cup bobbing
            up and down, like Jackson's future, up and down.

            
© Nan Jacobs 2000

            

            
Nan Jacobs, lives in Pennsylvania
            with her husband and her son, who has Asperger Syndrome--which
            is merely a different way of being-- and who has taught her more
            about life than anyone can imagine. Her essay, "Word Games",
            is published in "A Cup of Comfort for Parents of Children
            with Autism" (Adams Media, 2007) and a short story, "Twilight
            Whispers" will be available for download from http://thewildrosepress.com

            by the Christmas holidays in 2008.

            
Note from Nan:

            I have had some comments from people wondering what is "wrong"
            with Jackson (the answer is, obviously and emphatically, "Nothing!").
            The reason there is no logical place to "explain" Jackson's
            difference is because, at that age, although the parents know
            something's different about their child, they often credit those
            differences to the simple fact that individual kids develop at
            different rates. His mother, simply put, doesn't yet know what's
            "wrong"; in fact, she doesn't think of him as flawed.
            Just different. And their journey is just beginning.

            
"Normal is a knob on
            the washer." ~anonymous parent