Following Ezra (29 page)

“A lot of people are uncomfortable with this part of the Torah,” she says. “It’s about people who have a condition, for unknown reasons, that makes life hard and challenging for them and changes the way the community treats them. In our family we know very well what that’s like—to struggle with something that is challenging—personally, to the family and to the community.”

I tell a story. Recently we were in a restaurant in the neighborhood, and Ezra introduced himself to a woman at the next table. When she asked the meaning of his name, he told her that the word
ezra
in Hebrew means “help.” Then he told her something I had never heard before. “My parents gave me that name when I was a baby because when I grow up, I’m going to help them.”

“Ezra,” I say, “you have already helped us.”

At the luncheon following the service, I stand with Ezra and Shawn as she publicly welcomes the guests in the synagogue’s airy ballroom and then acknowledges a long list of people who have helped Ezra along the way: Dave, the gym teacher; Dawn, the preschool aide; his teachers and therapists; his grandparents; Ami and Noam. While she offers thanks and guests eat their bagels and pasta salad, Ezra crosses his arms and paces in little circles beside us, eyes on his shiny black shoes and the hardwood dance floor.

The music picks up, and the crowd sweeps Ezra to the center of the floor, where a small circle of family and friends begins dancing around him. That group becomes two, then three, then four concentric circles of loved ones, arms linked in another dance. Ezra raises his hands over his head and jumps on his toes. The boy who once seemed so alone, who has fled for years from human contact, spreads his arms, fingers extended, bouncing on his toes as his brothers, his parents, his grandparents, and dozens upon dozens of friends surround him with an ecstatic communal embrace.

Years before, we frequently came to this very ballroom on Shabbat afternoons after services for receptions just like this one. Back then, Ezra was so sensitive to the noise, his senses so overwhelmed by the crowds, that he would linger at the doorway; dashing in with both hands cupped over his ears to muffle the roar of the crowd, he would grab a fistful of cookies, then scurry outside to sit alone eating his treats. For a second, a thought strikes me: Now that same boy is jumping in ecstasy just a few rooms away from the synagogue’s preschool, the place where, a decade earlier, Shawn and I crammed our bodies into toddler-size chairs to hear a teacher explain something about our middle son: He wasn’t like the other children.

How right she was.

EPILOGUE

Nine days after the celebration, on an ordinary Monday afternoon, I am at the computer in my home office when I hear the squeaking brakes that always announce the arrival of Ezra’s yellow school bus. I peek out my office window and catch a glimpse of my son, red backpack slung over his shoulders, jogging up the front walk in the sunshine.

I hear the front door swing open and the rapid footsteps as Ezra dashes into the house. Almost every day that sound is followed by the slam of his knapsack hitting the hardwood foyer floor and then his sprint to the den and the computer. Today is different.

“Abba?” I hear him shout.

“Hi, Ez!” I call back.

A moment later, he’s at my office door.

“Abba!” Ezra says quickly. “We forgot to go to Beverly Drive!”

“What?”

“I remembered something: We forgot to go back and get the lump on Beverly Drive!”

I smile, amazed that he has remembered our talk from a couple of weeks earlier, and even more impressed that he has let it go for a week. (Of course, it helps that he has already used a few gift cards to acquire the coveted three-volume
Star Wars
set.)

“When should we go?” I ask.

“We have to go
now
,” Ezra says.

I slip the leash onto Sasha, and we head out the door. Ezra, in blue jeans and a navy T-shirt, strides rapidly twenty or thirty feet ahead of me. I hold the leash of the dog, who is trotting to keep up with Ezra, following him as he makes the turn to the left, onto wide and tree-lined Beverly Drive. I trail the two of them, watching boy and dog bound up the boulevard a few blocks until we are approaching the familiar spot.

“Where is it?” I call to Ezra.

“Over there!” Ezra says, pointing up ahead.

I play along. “I don’t think it’s here,” I say. “It’s a little bit farther.”

Ezra runs to a spot in the grass.

“Over a little,” I say, pointing. He moves. “There! I see it!”

He leans over, pantomimes grabbing something off the ground, then slaps his right palm to his ear, as if he’s shoving something into his head. He makes a whooshing sound, blowing air through pursed lips.

“Back in my brain,” he says.

I nod, smiling. “I’m proud of you,” I say.

He turns around, grabs the leash from me, and heads back toward home, picking up right where he left off two weeks earlier. With his dog at his side, he walks and chatters about
Star Wars
books, gift cards, and the new book he has in mind, an illustrated guide to reptiles. And I follow Ezra home.

I am grateful to my son Ezra for allowing me to tell his story, and for his cheerful assistance along the way. When I couldn’t quite pinpoint when a particular event occurred, I would ask him. “That was in April of 2004,” he’d say, “a Sunday, three weeks after the release of Disney’s
Home on the Range
.” If you ever consider writing a memoir, I highly recommend enlisting the help of someone with a superhuman memory.

I also suggest a talented agent, and I was privileged to find one in the remarkable Betsy Amster. She was an enthusiastic champion and cheerleader, even joining Ezra and me on a memorable visit to the Oregon Zoo, where she showed good humor in following Ezra . . . into the bat exhibit.

I am indebted to Tracy Bernstein, whose skillful editing and guidance greatly improved every page. Tiffany Yates offered meticulous copyediting, Mimi Bark created a cover with exactly the joy and whimsy I hoped for, and Alissa Amell designed the pages with flair.

This is a family story, and I am blessed to have a supportive and nurturing clan. My parents, Lora and Jim Meyer—to whom I dedicate this book—never fail to overwhelm me with their generosity, thoughtfulness, and wisdom. Sandey and Del Fields, my loving in-laws, consistently backed and cheered my efforts and helped on the home front when I headed off for writing retreats. The four of them are exemplary grandparents to Ezra and his brothers, as well as topnotch researchers: A week rarely passes without one of them pointing me to a new article or broadcast about autism.

Many parts of this book had their origins in pieces I wrote in Kelly Morgan’s writing workshop. I am grateful for Kelly’s gift of gently coaxing creativity and I thank the members of her Thursday night group for their helpful comments. Thanks, too, to Christopher Noxon, Tracy Miller, and Laura Slovin for honest and helpful critiques.

I had written about hundreds of families for
People
magazine when a colleague there, Patrick Rogers, suggested that I write about my own. The resulting article became the seed of this book, and I am indebted to Patrick as well as Betsy Gleick and Larry Hackett for their fine editing and support.

I was fortunate to enlist the talents of four friends, each of whom offered thoughtful and thorough editing of an early draft. Trudy Ames, Tom Booth, Mary Hanlon, and Andrea King went above and beyond to help me find the heart of the story and make the pages sing. I cannot thank them enough for their efforts. Bruce Frankel offered valuable advice and moral support in the homestretch.

Many people provided quiet space to work when I needed it. For the gift of solitude, I am obliged to David Myers of UCLA; Chris and Darrell Cozen; and Jennifer and Daniel Greyber and Camp Ramah in California.

I have gained insight and perspective about my son from many of the caring professionals who have worked with him over the years, among them: Dr. Ricki Robinson, Esther Hess, Dave Rabb, Dawn Farber, Sharon Asarch, Elaine Hall, Mara Fiore, Amira Hanna, Camp Ramah in California’s Tikvah staff, and Amit Bernstein and Howie Hoffman of Media Enrichment Academy. From early on, Elana Artson provided valuable advice and wisdom.

I am grateful to Temple Beth Am and the members of its Library Minyan for providing a home every Saturday morning where Ezra can peruse his animal books amid warmth and prayer.

My sons Ami and Noam are extraordinary brothers, sons, and individuals. I benefited from Ami’s excellent wording and design suggestions, and Noam proved to be an eagle-eyed proofreader. I thank them both for their patience and for their excitement about this project. Ami and Noam are growing to become exactly what Shawn and I tell them each day to be: mensches.

People often ask me what you’re supposed to call the husband of a rabbi. My answer: lucky. No words can express my gratitude to Shawn, who has shared every step of this journey. She has been unwavering in her faith in me, her encouragement, and her willingness to listen carefully as I created this book. Shawn frequently exhorts her students to “do a close reading of the text.” That’s exactly what she did to this one, and in the process she helped to make it much better. More important, she brings meaning, light, love, and laughs to every day.