Squeaks & the Touch of Snow

This is Luca, otherwise known as Squeaks, for that is his language. He's 4, but small as a 2 year old. He is autistic & supposedly deaf & supposedly of very limited vision.

He smells sour, like all the children here. The staff rarely bathe them...only wipe their bottoms & mouths as necessary. In part, this is due to the Romanian fear of air. It's 32 degrees outside & 82 inside. Every hospital/orphan smell is intensified & everyone sweats, especially the children & American do-gooders. During the communist days, there was no heat...families shivered for decades. Therefore, Romanians now want their heat goddamnit & they want it hot. Hence, the following rules to live by: 1) fresh air kills. 2) wet hair kills.  3) wet hair in the winter double kills. 4) if children are bathed, air will move across their wet skin & hair & they will die a thousand deaths. So, one must learn to hold & love & hug very stinky children.

Squeaks has spent his life in a crib, in his own world. He sucks both thumbs at the same time, butts his head against any corner he can find, thrashes in that institutionalized-child rocking motion, & squeaks. He drools copiously. He's a worrier...his worries are secret. It's easy to forget he's lying there in his crib, covered in drool, deaf & inaccessible...rocking & thumb-sucking & worrying.

I pick him up...solid, askew little boy. "Squeaks," I say, "you need a friend." He agrees, for after a mere hour of lap-sitting & head-stroking he turns into a soft snuggle-pup. He gazes into my eyes for long periods, this boy who doesn't make eye contact. He watches my lips & grows still when I whistle a song, this boy who is deaf. "Squeaks," I say, "there's more to you than meets the eye." We play a game where I whistle a bit, stop, then he bumps his fist very lightly against my chin, at which I whistle again. After about 15 rounds of this, he smiles & smiles some more, this inaccessible boy.

I carry him on a stroll down the long hospital hall, past the Psychiatre & Neurologie rooms. At the far end of the hall is a window, with bars on the outside. It has snowed considerably & there's a shelf of snow along the outside bottom ledge. I turn the forbidden latch & open the window. I scoop a little snow into my hand & show it to Squeaks. He examines it. I nudge his hand toward it. The tip of one finger touches it. He is so surprised & pulls his hand away. We have a little back & forth. Soon he voluntarily reaches to touch the snow...flakes stick to his fingers. He touches again & again, with great delicacy, & smiles a little secret smile.

A boy needs a friend who can whistle & find magic in a handful of snow.

-- la reverdere