Kristy and the Secret of Susan (3 page)

Then there are our associate members, Logan and Shannon. As I mentioned before, they don't come to meetings. They're just reliable sitters we can call on if a job is offered to the BSC that none of the rest of us can take. Believe it or not, this happens from time to time. (In case you're wondering, Shannon Kilbourne is a friend of mine. She lives across the street from me in my new neighborhood. And she's the only one of us club members who doesn't go to Stoneybrook Middle School. Instead, she goes to a private school.) And that's how we operate our club.
"Order! Order, please!" I called.
My friends stopped talking. Claudia turned away from the window, which she'd been about to peer out of again.
Everyone was sitting in her usual place. I was in the director's chair, as I mentioned; Jessi and Mal were sitting on the floor, leaning against Claud's bed; Claud, Dawn, and Mary Anne were sitting in a row on the bed, leaning against the wall; and Stacey was sitting backwards in Claud's desk chair, her arms draped over the top rung. (Sometimes Stacey sits on the bed and Dawn sits in the desk chair.) Since it was Wednesday and not Monday, Stacey didn't have to collect dues. So I asked, "Any club business?" Six heads shook from side to side.
We waited for the phone to ring.
We'd lined up three jobs when, at 5:50, the phone rang for a fourth time. I answered it. "Hello, Baby-sitters Club." "Hello," said an unfamiliar voice. "My name is Mrs. Felder." "Oh, Mrs. Felder," I said. "This is Kristy Thomas. I used to live around the corner from you." (Even though I didn't really remember Mrs. Felder, maybe she remembered me.) "Hi, Kristy," she replied warmly. "I'm calling because I heard how wonderful your babysitting business is. And I've got a daughter, Susan. She's handicapped - autistic actually - and she's been living at a special school, but now she's home for a month, waiting to be transferred to a new school. I don't work, but I'd like a break from Susan three afternoons a week if possible. Just for a couple of hours each time so I can get out and go to the store, that sort of thing. Do you think any of you would be able to take on a job like that?" "I'll have to check," I told Mrs. Felder. "I'll call you right back." I hung up the phone and explained the job to my friends.
"Gosh," said Mary Anne, "that's going to be tough, scheduling-wise." "What did you say is wrong with Susan?" asked Jessi.
"She's autistic. I think that's the word Mrs. Felder used. But I'm not sure what it means." "Retarded?" suggested Claudia.
I shrugged.
"Well, anyway," said Mary Anne, "Kristy, it looks like you're the only one of us who could sit for Susan three times a week for a month. You don't have any lessons or anything, and if you went to the Felders on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, you wouldn't even have to cancel a Krushers practice or the sitting jobs you've already got lined up." "Hmm," I said. "Charlie has to drive me over here for meetings on those days anyway. Maybe he could do it right after school instead of at five-thirty. Then he could pick me up at the regular time. Let me call Charlie." So I did, and he said he could work that into his schedule. Then he added, "For a small additional fee, of course," but it turned out he was only kidding.
"Well, this is good news," I told my friends. "I can't believe we scheduled this so easily. Mary Anne, pencil me in for Susan for the next month, and I'll call Mrs. Felder back." I dialed the Felders' number. "Hi," I said. "This is Kristy Thomas again, president of the Baby-sitters Club. I'm happy to tell you that I will be Susan's sitter for the next month. We worked out all the details." Mrs. Felder didn't sound as happy as I'd expected. In fact, all she said was, "That's fine. But I think you better meet Susan before you make a final decision about the job, okay?" "Okay," I replied uncertainly.
We decided that I would go to the Felders' on Friday before the next BSC meeting. What kind of child was Susan? I wondered. Why did Mrs. Felder think I might not want to sit for her? I was dying of curiosity.
Chapter 4.
Not far from Susan Felder lives a family, the Braddocks, with a deaf boy named Matt. Jessi once had a long-term sitting job for Matt and his sister, Haley - just like the one I was about to begin (maybe) with Susan. I remember Jessi saying how nervous she was the first time she rang the Braddocks' doorbell. What would Matt be like? she'd wondered. She knew he communicated using sign language. Would Jessi be able to learn enough sign language to talk with him? Would he be difficult to sit for? How would he react to a stranger?
Now I knew how Jessi had felt. Charlie had just dropped me off at the Felders', calling out the car window that he would pick me up after the BSC meeting. He had driven away, and now I was standing on the Felders' front stoop, my finger poised to ring the bell.
What would Susan be like? All I knew of her was what I had seen when she'd been out walking - a reluctant-looking little girl who made strange gestures and movements. And I knew she'd gone to a "special" school. But what kind of school exactly? Mrs. Felder had hinted that I might not want the job once I met Susan.
I had looked up "autistic" in the dictionary. I couldn't find the word, but I had found "autism." The definition said something about childhood schizophrenia, acting out, and withdrawal. That was no help. Then I looked up "schizophrenia," but I was more confused than ever. The definition mentioned "withdrawing from reality." For heaven's sake, I am always withdrawing from reality - every time I daydream. And my stepsister, Karen, believes in ghosts and witches, but there's nothing wrong with her. I would have to wait and see what Mrs. Felder said.
I rang the doorbell.
I could hear a piano playing. It stopped when the bell rang. A few moments later, Mrs. Felder was at the door.
"Kristy?" she said.
"Yes," I replied. "Hi, Mrs. Felder." "Goodness, you've grown," was her reply, as she held the door open for me.
"Really?" I said. "Thanks. I'm still the shortest person in my class, though." "I guess I haven't seen you in awhile. I knew your family better when David Michael was little. Your mom and I tried to set up play dates for him and Susan, but Susan was already . . . different. Even then. She's eight now. How old is David Michael? He must be almost eight." "Yup. He's seven and a half," I replied.
Mrs. Felder nodded. She had led me into the living room, which was bright and sunny. A grand piano filled almost a quarter of the room. And walking restlessly back and forth in front of it was the little girl I had seen out Claudia's window.
Susan.
She was wringing her hands in front of her and making clicking noises with her mouth. She didn't look at either her mother or me.
"Susan?" said Mrs. Felder. "Susan? . . . Susan!" Susan continued walking and flapping and clicking.
"Susan!" said Mrs. Felder more loudly. "Come here, please." Like a sleeper waking from a dream, Susan turned and walked toward us. Her eyes were fixed on some point above our heads.
"Susan, this is Kristy," said Mrs. Felder.
"Hi," I said, getting my first close-up look at Susan Felder. And I saw that she was beautiful. Her .eyes were wide and deep brown, and her hair, which was almost as dark as Claudia's, fell in soft curls to her shoulders. She could be a model, I thought.
Since Susan hadn't answered me, I said, "Hi," again.
Susan, still staring into outer space, wrung her hands a few times. Then she turned and flapped her way back to the piano.
I looked at Susan's mother. My eyes must have been question marks.
"She doesn't speak," said Mrs. Felder. "She could, but she doesn't. She can sing, though. Come on. Let's sit on the couch and I'll tell you about Susan." I almost said, "In front of her?" but I realized that Susan probably would not be listening.
Mrs. Felder and I sat down, and I said, "I looked up autism in the dictionary, but I didn't understand the definition." Mrs. Felder smiled. "I'm not surprised. There's a lot more to autism than anyone could fit into a dictionary definition. The best way I can describe it to you - and the symptoms vary from person to person - is that Susan is in her own world, and she doesn't seem to want to leave it. She doesn't communicate with anyone, she exhibits the strange behavior you see now - wringing her hands, clicking her tongue - and she rarely makes eye contact with anyone. Also, she doesn't much like to be touched or hugged, even by her father and me." "What caused it?" I whispered, awed.
Mrs. Felder shook her head. "No one is certain. What we do know is that autistic symptoms always show up by the time a child is three - usually earlier, that most autistic people are boys, and that the syndrome is rare." "Will Susan get better?" I asked.
"Maybe. Some educators and doctors believe that if an autistic child starts acquiring meaningful language by the time he's five, he can become much better. That hasn't happened for Susan. She can sing, but she has no meaningful language. Even those children who do acquire some speech will probably never be what most people consider 'normal.' They might be able to live in a group home, work part-time at a job or in a sheltered workshop - but that's about it." I just nodded. I understood what Mrs. Felder wasn't saying: Susan's future looked bleak.
Just when I was beginning to feel terribly sad, though, Mrs. Felder spoke again. "We're somewhat encouraged, her father and I," she said almost proudly, "because Susan is autistic but she's also a savant. That means she has some very specialized talents." "Really?" I asked, intrigued.
"Yes. Although Susan is untestable, her IQ is thought to be below fifty, which is extremely retarded. But you should hear her play the piano." Mrs. Felder smiled. And I began to feel hopeful instead of sad. "She's really remarkable," Mrs. Felder went on. "She astonishes everyone - her teachers, her doctors, even music teachers. She can usually play any new piece of music after hearing it only once. Just like that - she's got the whole thing memorized and she can play it. She can play long, long scores, and any type of music - classical, ballads, show tunes, you name it. She can even play something she's only heard played on another instrument, such as the violin." "How does she do that?" I asked. I was amazed.
"Nobody is sure. I do play the piano myself, and when Susan was little I used to entertain her by sitting her next to me and teaching her simple songs. But then she just took off. Believe me, I can't do what Susan does.
"Oh," Mrs. Felder continued, "if a piece of music has words to it - in any language - Susan can also memorize the song after hearing it once, and sing it while she plays. She has perfect pitch. We don't think the words mean anything to her, they're just more things to memorize, but singing and playing the piano seem to make her happy. She'd play all day if we let her. In fact, her musical abilities are the reason she's between schools right now. We're in the process of transferring her to a school with a strong music program. Ifs about an hour outside of Stoneybrook. The teachers and Mr. Felder and I are hoping that, through music, Susan can acquire some meaningful language as well as some social skills. We feel this is the best way to reach her. Of course, we want her to study music for its own sake, too.
"One more thing," Mrs. Felder went on. "One other peculiar talent. Susan seems to have a calendar in her head. Although no one has ever explained days, weeks, months, or years to her, she can tell you the day of the week that any date fell on, as long as you don't go more than sixty years into the past or more than about twenty years into the future. She found a perpetual calendar once and seems to have memorized it." "You're kidding!" I exclaimed.
"Nope," said Mrs. Felder, looking proud again, but mystified, too. "I'll show you. Think of a date that's important to you." "Okay," I said. "Um ... the date Emily, my adopted sister, was born." "Do you know the day of the week that happened?" "Yes." "All right. Tell me just the date." I told her. Mrs. Felder called Susan over and told her.
"Monday," said Susan in a monotone voice without hesitating. Then she flapped her hands and ran back to the piano.
"That's right!" I cried. "It was a Monday!" "Susan is correct about ninety-five percent of the time." Mrs. Felder paused. "But if you ask her how she is, what she wants for dinner, if she has to use the bathroom . . . nothing. No response. She never initiates conversations, either. She just does not communicate.
She can be very trying at times, too. Stubborn. Especially if you want her to stop playing the piano. But she's never violent. . . .Do - do you still want the job?" "Oh, yes!" I said. I guess you can tell by now that I was thoroughly fascinated with Susan. I'd never met anyone like her. I'd never even heard of anyone like her. I was also feeling just the teeniest bit angry, though. Susan was very special. That was obvious. But everyone treated her like some kind of outcast. Her parents were taking her out of one away-from-home school and putting her in another. Why couldn't they keep her with them? There are schools for handicapped kids around here. Day schools like the one Matt Braddock goes to in Stamford. There are also classes for handicapped kids in the public schools. And why didn't her parents try to help Susan make friends? She couldn't talk, but neither could Matt, and he had plenty of friends. The kids in his neighborhood learned some sign language so they could play with him.
I decided that I would not only take on the job with Susan, but that I would use the month I had with her to show the Felders that she could live and learn and make friends at home. She did not have to be an outcast.
"That's wonderful," Mrs. Felder said. "I'm delighted to find someone who will watch Susan for me. It takes a dedicated, patient person. So - Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from three-thirty to five-thirty, right?" "Right," I agreed.
"That will be a perfect break for me. And don't worry. Susan won't be upset when I leave. She never is. She has no connection to me or to anyone." We'll see about that, I thought. But I just smiled and said, "Okay. That sounds easy." "Would you like to take Susan outside for awhile?" asked Mrs. Felder. "It's only five o'clock. I know your meeting doesn't start for half an hour. You can have a dry run with Susan while I'm at home." "Sure," I replied.
"Okay, Susan, come here," said Mrs. Felder, standing up. "Let's put your sweater on. . . . Susan? Susan!" Was it always difficult to attract Susan's attention? I wondered about that as I watched Mrs. Felder button Susan into a sweater. (I guessed that Susan couldn't do that herself.) When Susan was ready, I took her hand and started to lead her to the back door. She pulled away a little, but then she allowed me to take her into her yard. Mrs. Felder was right. Susan didn't so much as glance at her mother. She just followed me. Could she tell her mother and me apart?