Raphaela's Gift

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Copyright 2011 Sydney Allan

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To my late father, John Allan Spotts, Jr., the man who showed me how a real hero lives.

To my husband, David, the man who showed me how a real hero loves.

Special thanks to: the dedicated staff at the Option Institute's Son-Rise Program, for their generous assistance in researching the care and treatment of autistic children.

In order to tell this story, I have taken some liberties with Raphaela's progress. I hope those readers who care about this sort of accuracy will forgive me.

Summer, 1998

Every new father lives on edge, watching his baby grow, scrutinizing every milestone, and hoping he never learns something is wrong.

Doctor Garret Damiani saw that fear whenever he delivered a patient's diagnosis. Now, through an ironic twist of fate, he sat on the opposite side of the desk and had to confront his worst fear.

Autism.

The word hung in the air, like the scent of rush hour exhaust fumes in summer. Pushing aside the vertical blinds and staring out the wide window but not seeing anything, he held his breath, hoping the suffocating weight of the word would fade. Could there be a mistake? This simply wasn't happening. Not to his baby girl!

"Garret, are you all right?"

"Yeah," he answered, not sure, who'd spoken. The voices of his soon-to-be ex-wife, Marian, and Tom Hailey, the psychiatrist in practice with him, sounded muffled. He raked his fingers through his hair, hoping to dislodge the muck from his brain. "I'm fine."
Why my daughter? Why Raphaela?

"Autism isn't a death sentence, Garret. You know autistic children have options," said Tom.

Turning from the window, Garret looked at his partner, who sat in a high-backed leather chair. This time Tom's impassive mask, the one he wore when he delivered devastating news to a patient's family, was directed toward
him
. "Sure, options. We can select the best residential program, or maybe, if we're lucky, get by with around-the-clock home care--"

"Ella could do better than you think,” Marian interrupted. “She's only three years old, for God's sake. Let's at least listen to what Tom has to say.” Her voice was low, but full of frantic hope.

Garret looked at her. She sat across the desk from Tom, the giant chair threatening to swallow her. Physically, she was diminutive, but her prodigious personality compensated for her lack of size. Her red-rimmed eyes and quivering lip sent an unwelcome charge of anger through him. The brimming tears, the sincerity, were all an act, he told himself. A lie. And now, with the news of his daughter's disability still ringing in his ears, he couldn't stomach it.

Nauseous, Garret resumed staring out the window. "Ella will probably be lost in the damnable world she's smothered herself in for the rest of her life.” The glossy world outside the window lost its appeal, and he ambled across the room to the only empty chair, next to Marian. He felt her eyes upon him, but he refused to look at her. Seated, he looked at Tom. "Don't soft-pedal. I know the statistics."

Tom met his gaze. "I'm not going to be any softer or harder on you than I'd be on anyone else. Of course, you know about autism. And you
should
know her condition is no one's fault."

"Yeah.” But a part of him still wondered. No one knew what caused autism. The disability was a largely unexplored field of study.

Tom shook his head. "So why do I get the impression you're blaming yourself?"

Annoyed, but not sure why, he stared down at Tom's empty desktop and said, "You're mistaken. I'm not blaming anyone. Autism is a learning disability, a communication disability. Whatever label you prefer.” When he glanced up, he caught Tom's doubtful expression.

Garret's fickle regard wandered off again, flitting around the office. He leaned back in the chair and listened to Tom and Marian discuss treatment options.

No surprises. No matter what they did, Raphaela would never live a normal life, be able to function in the world independently. The best he could hope for: his little girl would enjoy periods of lucidity. The worst: she'd remain mute and detached from the world.

He hated God. More so, he hated the demon named Autism. It had sunk its fangs into his sweet daughter and sucked the future from her. His heightening rage concealed behind the guise of mild interest, he followed the conversation but did not speak. What could he say?

Marian started crying, and he couldn't look at her, knowing he'd likely blow up. The hysterics had to be an act. She hadn't seen Raphaela for weeks--since Christmas. With each sniffle he heard, his anger mounted. Should he leave? As if Tom had read his mind, he walked around the desk to Marian, and the crying ceased, relieving the awkward moment.

Determined to distance himself from Marian, Garret returned to his post at the window. As he stared at slushy grid locked highways and glass and steel office buildings, he pictured Raphaela, her bright blue eyes glazed over, unable to understand the world around her. The truth was, he'd known something was wrong for months. But, like any parent afraid to accept the obvious, he'd denied there was a problem.

What could he do to reach her? Had anyone successfully battled the beast? His professional experience and research in communication disorders suggested the opposite.

He found this situation agonizingly ironic. Education and experience were liabilities instead of assets, stealing hope. And the money he'd hoarded in the bank wouldn't do a damned thing to help her either.

As Marian talked to Tom, Garret imagined Raphaela traveling back and forth between his home and Marian's. Autistic children were not adaptable. Every visit would be traumatic. If possible, he needed to change Marian's mind, convince her to give their marriage one more shot, even though it was the last thing he wanted.

"Tom, do you mind giving us a few minutes alone?" Garret interrupted.

Tom shook his head, stood, and walked to the door. "I'll be down the hall if you need me."

"Thanks." After Tom shut the door, Garret turned to Marian and choked down the bitter words sitting in his throat, instead saying, "You sure you want to go through with the divorce, I mean after today?"

Marian ground her palms into her eye sockets then, dropping her hands to clutch her purse to her chest, looked at him. The answer flashed in her eyes before she spoke a word. "I have to."

"She won't be able to handle a move. You know that, don't you?"

"I know.” She sounded defeated.

"She needs stability. How can you walk away from her?" He spoke slowly, calmly even though inside he was shouting. His nerves were on fire, his head throbbing.

Marian dropped her gaze to her hands, her knuckles white, her fingers clenched around her purse strap. They trembled as she fiddled with the leather; wound it around her slender wrist.

Garret returned to his seat, swiveling the chair to face her. "I'm willing to forget about the divorce if you want--forget all about Michael." He swallowed, hating the feel of the name in his mouth as he spoke it. "You can come home. We'll work things out. For Ella's sake. Can't you…for her?" He didn't plead, merely presented the facts. When she didn't answer, he added, "I know you love Ella, and I believe you loved me once. Let's see if we can find that magic again."

Marian looked toward the door. "I don't know. So much has happened--"

"It's the right thing to do. I'm willing to work through our problems."

She raised her head, eyes brimming with tears. A ray of sunlight sliced through the window blinds and flashed in the wetness. "It's too late for that now. Damn it, Garret, if you'd done what was right years ago, we wouldn't be talking about divorce now."

He leapt from his chair. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? I've always put my family first. Now you're telling me it's my fault you're sleeping with another man? This divorce isn't about me. It's about you."

She tossed her purse aside and stood to meet him head-on, not seeming to care the top of her head barely met his breastbone. "Okay. If you want to believe that, be my guest. It's all about me. My fault. I can't pretend I love you when… I'm in love with someone else. There. Feel better?"

"No." He studied the face he'd fallen in love with ten years ago. Where had things gone wrong? "Was our marriage so bad? I mean, we never argued."

"You're right," she said, nodding. She swiped at her tear-smudged face with the sleeve of her sweater. "We didn't fight. And we didn't talk, didn't touch. Didn't share life. You lived your life, and I lived mine. That's not my idea of marriage."

"We can change, live differently."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. You can't change who you are. You don't know how to let anyone close. Never have. In all the years we've spent together, I've never seen genuine pain, weakness, need in you. You're always hiding."

Her words stung. "What do you call this? What about today?" Of course, he felt pain and need, and he was the king of weakness. She didn't know him at all. If she did, she wouldn't be turning her back on him--on their daughter--now. If she were a caring parent, she would at least try to reconcile.

"You're still hiding. You sit here while Tom and I discuss Ella's prognosis and don't bother paying attention. Plus, you won't let yourself have any hope. Would you ever allow yourself to think maybe she'll be one of the miracles you read about in those worthless psychiatric journals you have stacked on your bookshelves?"

Her words floated on the surface of his mind for a moment before sinking in. When they did, they struck hard, pelting him like hail. He wasn't letting himself hold onto the slightest glimmer of hope for their daughter's future. How could he? Especially knowing what he did about the odds. He was more likely to win the lottery--and he never bought a ticket. Still, he was the one thinking of Raphaela, not his damn love life, like Marian was.

"I'm trying to be practical. Practical about Raphaela's prognosis, practical about our marriage. That's what adults are. Mature, realistic, responsible.”

"I'm sorry. I can't be practical," Marian muttered. She sighed. "I know how hard this must be for you, especially after finding out about the divorce, but they are two different issues. I didn't plan it this way, and I'm sorry for the rotten timing. But I'm not sorry about my decision." She tipped her head and her expression softened. "Look, I know it would be best for Ella if we could work out your problems, but it's just not possible. Can we at least work together to find a way to make our new situation comfortable for her?"