Sedna…Immortalized

* I think I owe Tinkerbell (and all my readers) a post…

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I shuffled into the kitchen, squinting and pulling my hair up in a tight pony tail. He was seated in his chair, staring vacantly at the smooth wooden table.

“Darling,” I planted a kiss on his right cheek. He didn’t respond. So I simply reached for the cupboard where his favorite bowl was. Then I paused. “Frosties?” Yawn. “Honey, you want Frosties right? Or should I make you an omelet today? You can eat with Daddy…”

I tried to read his body language, but he didn’t move. He just inspected the table. Well, that in itself was a sign. That’s what Michelle told us. She said that everything Talal did – or did not do – was a sign. It was as though he communicated with us in code. His father and I were learning to crack this code …not because we wanted to, but because we had to.

I put the blue bowl in front of him, filled it with cereal and was just about to open a bottle of milk when I heard Mohammed walk in. I foolishly looked up with a big smile and froze.

“He’s old enough to fix his own breakfast.”

Stay cool. Go with the flow. I closed the fridge and held the bottle out to my son.“Why don’t you pour the milk on your cereal? Talal? Honey, take the bottle and…”

“STOP TALKING TO HIM LIKE THAT.”

His voice was so loud, the outburst so sudden, that I actually jumped and dropped the bottle. There was a white puddle on the floor and I automatically bent down to pick the larger pieces of glass.

I was slowly learning to accept these outbursts. He stood there, in the doorway, clenching and unclenching his fists, opening his mouth and saying nothing. But the sparks of fury were no longer flying from his eyes.

I watched him fight with himself. Every day was a battle for Mohammed. I wanted to hug him and tell him not to worry. That I will always be there and we’ll make it through. The three of us, together. But I didn’t want to step on his pride. Talal did that already. Unknowingly, he trampled all over his father’s pride.

Tap tap tap

Talal was still staring blankly at the table. But in his left hand he held a metal spoon. And he tapped. Slowly and rhythmically. Tap tap tap tap tap.

“Talal, I’m going to get you another bottle of milk,” tap tap tap tap, “and you’ll have your breakfast.” Tap tap tap. “Then we,” tap tap, “must,” tap, “hurry,” tap tap, “if you want to go,” tap tap tap, “to the beach.” Tap tap.

It took all my strength not to snap at him. I wanted to wrench the spoon from his hand and fling it out the window. I wanted to slap him and tell him to grow up. Or shake him by the shoulders until he cried. I was sick and tired of this. Why? Why couldn’t he be normal?

Mohammed was watching the scene and it made me nervous. I hate it when he simply stands there. Waiting for me to do something, and the moment I do, he snaps. If I do nothing, he still snaps. Why can’t he try to help instead of just criticizing?

I poured milk over his cereal, tap tap tap, started mopping up the mess on the floor, tap tap tap, filled the electric kettle with water, tap tap, took out two mugs…And he was still tapping. Insistently and at the same pace. Sensory spin-out, Dr. Michelle called it. And Mohammed was still watching. I felt torn between my son and my husband. I hated them both. It felt like I had to deal with two autistic children instead of one. Two children that I loved to death. Tap tap tap tap tap. It grated on my nerves. Tap tap. I wanted him to stop. I waited for the water to boil and for my husband to do something. Tap tap tap. Make him stop. Now.

“Talal. Enough.”

Tap tap tap

Mohammed mumbled something before he walked away. It sounded strongly like “fuck you”. Me? Did he mean me? Or did he mean his son? I didn’t know which was worse. Or did he mean both of us? Or did he curse fate? Life?

What? I wanted to scream. What did you say? I don’t think I heard you.