After fifteen minutes of being lost in this unfamiliar section of the city, I arrive at Oasis Street, hoping to locate the residence of my student, Allen, and his mom. My back aches, my neck is tight, and I’m frustrated. I park and see 301 Oasis Street on my right, and 303 Oasis Street on my left, but I’m looking for 302 Oasis Street. Exiting the car, I stretch and, staring straight ahead, I notice an isolated house less than half a block away. “No, it can’t be…please, no, don’t let that house be Allen's,” I mutter.
Ahead, on a narrow strip of weeds and gravel, is a leaning, two-story house isolated from other houses on Oasis Street by three sets of railroad tracks in the front and back of the house. Its exterior is robbed of paint and roof tiles, and dirt covers most of the windows, obliterating the need for curtains. “Allen can’t live there…. it's… not fair and…how do I get there?” I mutter to no one. I wish Victoria, our school counselor, hadn’t canceled tonight. I need her support, at least as a train spotter, to cross over these tracks.
Allen’s file lies on the car seat, and I flash back to the contents. Allen is nine years old, short for his age, thin with small bones and light sandy-colored hair. He had been born blind, with gastrointestinal issues that required immediate surgery. The doctor had decided to sew Allen’s eyelids shut, stating he found the mother incapable of the hygienic care needed to abate constant eye infections. If only early childhood services had been available then. I imagine Allen with large brown eyes, and I often yearn to look into his eyes to get a glimpse of what he is feeling. That surgery is just one more unfair event in his short life.
A short life that, until last year, was unstable. Allen was taken from his mother within a year of birth. Neighbors complained about his loud, continuous screams. He went into three foster placements until he was adopted. The adoption lasted eight months, and at age seven, Allen was placed back with his mother.
His first elementary teacher supported Allen and his family as he transitioned back home and formed a trusting relationship with the family. Allen learned to trust a guide and to ambulate by shuffling his feet as he was guided; he is non-verbal except for sad, loud sounds uttered throughout the day.
This is my first home visit and communication with Allen’s mom since he has been in my classroom. Allen is comfortable with me guiding him, and he clearly understands some requests and comforting tones. Like his first teacher, I question his diagnosis of severe disability and am eager to enhance his communication skills. Tonight, it’s my turn to establish a trusting relationship with Allen’s family, which starts with crossing these railroad tracks.
Images of train accidents pop up in my mind as I carefully step over the tracks, continually hearing but not seeing trains approaching. Diane, calm down. Train whistles are loud, and you will hear trains before you see them. A sarcastic voice pipes up, saying, oh sure, lots you know about train accidents. You’ll be in the news tonight, for sure. I clench my teeth and, holding my files tightly, step faster over the tracks, determined to get to the desolated house and off the rails.
Knocking loudly, I notice no lights in the upstairs or front windows. I mutter, “One more knock, and then I’m out of….” The door opens wide, and a young man, thin like Allen and looking about twenty or so, opens the door. My energy deflates as the door opens. I was hoping for a no-show.
“Hi, I’m Diane, Allen's teacher,” I say, holding out my hand. “Victoria couldn’t make it, but I’m here to see Allen's mom for a home visit. We scheduled the visit for tonight.”
“Mom had to go to work, so she's not here.” He shook my hand. “I’m Will, Allen’s brother. Come in, the electricity got turned off again, so…”
“Oh,” I say, “is your mom returning soon? Is Allen here? I want to say hi.”
Will opens the door wider and, walking into the front room. “Come on in.”
I feel my hair electrify around my ears, and some force is restraining me from crossing this threshold. Inner voices shout No, don't go in. Do not enter! A guy you do not know, no team member, no mom, and no lights! This violates protocol for a home visit.
While I am trying to get my throat unlocked to cancel the visit, Will, in a humorous tone, begins to talk. “Yeah, that little fella Allen is fast asleep already. He pretty much eats when he gets home from school and goes to bed. I pretty much take care of him.” As Will talks, I find myself crossing the threshold, listening to Will, trying to breathe, letting my eyes acclimate to the darkness.
We sit on opposite ends of a lumpy tufted sofa. Will is still talking, and I wrestle my attention back to him as he describes Allen’s home routines and offers a tour of the house. A cold shiver goes through me at the prospect of leaving the vicinity of the front door. I hope Will does not notice. I slowly rise from the sofa and follow as Will chuckles and talks about Allen.
The kitchen windows allow sunset streams to illuminate a table, chair, and the forties-style linoleum floor, sink, and plywood cabinets, all clean and worn. Will demonstrates Aaron’s morning and evening routines. I am stunned to see the shelves and refrigerator empty except for two bowels, one box of Cheerios, and one quart of whole milk. I manage to say, “Oh, Cheerios and milk. His favorites?” Will smiles, nods, and explains that Allen’s adaptive chair enables him to eat independently as Will prepares for his part-time job. Will’s tone as he chuckles and calls Allen “little fella” reinforces my perception that Will likes his brother and cares for him lovingly.
I adeptly follow Will upstairs, holding onto walls and handrails in the darker passages. Will opens Allen’s bedroom door, revealing Allen, who is sleeping curled into a tight ball on a twin mattress with no sheets or blankets. I long to tuck him in with sheets and blankets but distance that emotion by asking, “Does Allen wake in the night? Do the trains wake him?”
“No, that little fella sleeps through all the trains and whistles,” Will chuckles. “I got to shake him awake each morning. He grumbles, but we need to catch the bus. “
“How and where does he catch the bus? These train tracks seem to surround your place.”
“We walk between tracks to a crossing and a school bus stop. I pull him there in a wagon or a sled and wait for the bus. It's usually on time; then I go to work.”
Nervous about the time, I say, “Let's head down, and we can finish up, Okay?”
We sit on the sofa, and Will describes weekends fishing with Allen, adding, “That little fella just giggles hooking those fish, and waits real good as I haul it in.”
“Oh, I would love to hear Allen giggle. He must really like fishing with you.”
I am relaxed with Will now, and I invite him to come to the classroom to give us pointers, especially about Allen’s communication. I thank him for the tour and his time. “I hope to return and see Allen at home again, but I guess I better make that earlier.” We both laugh, and I quickly stand to leave.
Will stands and says, “Oh, there’s one more thing.”
“What is that?” I ask.
“It’s Henrietta, my pet. She’s very friendly.”
I vaguely see an aquarium on a coffee table and assume Henrietta is a hamster or guinea pig. “Henrietta is shy,” Will says as he lifts the lid, “so I whisper with her.” He returns to the sofa, saying quietly, “Most people think tarantulas are vicious spiders, but that isn’t true. Henrietta is quiet and loves to sit on my arm as I feed her before the train whistle blows.”
I freeze, watching a giant black tarantula crawl up Will’s arm. I cannot utter even a quiet word. My heart is pounding, the sound filling my ears and head. I struggle to breathe. My only thought is that Henrietta is climbing higher on his arm to jump on me more easily. My relaxed feeling from only minutes ago is gone, and I contemplate a run to the door, but I am afraid to move. “Will.” I say hoarsely, taking time to breathe. “I need to leave. Perhaps you can return Henrietta to her home, so I do not frighten her as I leave?”
“Oh sure,” Will says as he gently lowers his face as Henrietta nuzzles his cheek. Slowly, lovingly, he raises his head, picks Henrietta off his arm, and deposits her in the enclosure. “I’ll get her food now.”
“And I’ll leave before the whistle blows. I’ll see you again,” I say, taking a circuitous route around Henrietta toward the dimly outlined front door. There are no streetlights, and I look both ways as I quickly cross the tracks, listening for a train whistle.
Reaching the car, my body shudders as tears stream down my face. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and hit my steering wheel, pondering the unfairness of Allen and Will’s life. I drive home with the radio off, knowing any music would grate on my nerves.
Later, in my apartment, feeling safe, I’m relieved that Victoria didn’t make the visit, and grateful that Will is a great caregiver and loving brother. I write a note in my calendar book to schedule another home visit, adding a second note to get a book on tarantulas. I need more information and assurance about the temperament of tarantulas if I meet Henrietta again. Turning in for the night, I wrap my blankets around me, feeling their comfort, and wish this feeling for Allen.
Author: Diane Baumgart
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