The Lost Landscape (21 page)

What will become of Lynn, do you think?

What will become of Mom and Dad?

IT MAY BE DIFFICULT
for others to understand, very little of this was ever discussed in our family, at least not among my parents and my brother and me. By degrees Lynn Ann became my parents' unique and in a way sacred responsibility, as it is said children afflicted with Down's syndrome are particularly loved by their parents; not as a “problem” but as a sort of “gift.” You might ask after Lynn in the most casual and sunny of ways—“How's Lynn?”—and the answer was likely to be “Good.” But the matter of Lynn Ann Oates was a private one, and such privacy was inviolable.

None of my friends from high school or college would ever meet my sister. My husband Raymond Smith would never meet my sister. For nearly fifteen years my parents lived in a kind of quarantine with my sister; few people visited them, for few would feel comfortable in a setting in which a seemingly deranged/retarded girl roamed freely, ran in and out of rooms. Or perhaps my parents simply didn't want anyone to visit, which is equally likely.

Until her final illness, my grandmother Blanche continued to visit Millersport bearing her symbolic gifts. My grandmother deeply loved her son and his family, for she had no family otherwise; what
we knew of her remarriage, after her young, handsome Irish husband Carleton Oates had abandoned her decades before, did not seem happy, and did not bear examination. (Is it my family's reticence, or is this not-wishing-to-violate-another's-privacy commonplace?) Perhaps it was an expression of love, respect, dignity that you did not ever ask any question that would embarrass another, or suggest that a facade of domestic happiness was not altogether sincere.

Certainly, no one spoke of Lynn in any way other than casual. In my memory, any discussion of Lynn was not welcomed at all.

What will become of us! We are badly in need of help.

FOOLISH TO HAVE LEFT
my paperback copy of Henry James's
The Golden Bowl
on a table in my parents' living room. I'd come home to visit for a few days and unthinking left some of my books where Lynn could find them. All of the books were destroyed but it's only
The Golden Bowl
I recall, the irony, the pathos, James's great web of words, printed words, as impenetrable to my sister as Sanskrit would be to me, and for that reason richly deserving of destruction.

Or, more plausibly: my rampaging sister destroyed the book not knowing it was a
book
or even that it was
Joyce's book
but only that it was an object new in the household, therefore out of place, offensive to her sense of decorum or order.

It is painful to recall: my sister would tear pages in her fists, she would tear at the pages with her teeth. She would make high-pitched strangulated cries, or she would grunt, in her misery, frustration, desperation. She would not ever—not once—so much as look at me, though she must have sensed my presence.

(Though she could not have known how uncannily she resembled me, and I resembled her.
Like twins separated by eighteen years.
)

It was inanimate objects my sister would attack, generally. She would never attack me.

(And yet—one day, she might have attacked me. As a pubescent child, older, taller, stronger, very likely Lynn would have attacked me, as she would one day attack my mother.)

How vivid it is still, the ravaged copy of
The Golden Bowl
with its eloquent, elaborate, and all but impenetrable introduction by R. P. Blackmur. Badly torn, and the lurid imprint of small sharp teeth on what remained of the pages.

“Oh, Lynn! What did you
do
.”

I was acutely aware of my mother in the kitchen doorway a short distance away, who'd come to see what was wrong. If words were exchanged between my mother and me at this time I have forgotten those specific words.

Very likely my mother had suggested that it was my own fault for having left the books in that vulnerable place where Lynn would find them. And of course this was true. If there was
fault
here, it could only be my own.

In the kitchen my excited sister was on her feet but hunched and rocking from side to side making her strangulated
Nyah-nyah-nyah
sound. It was not laughter, and it was not derisive or taunting—it was purely sound, devoid of meaning. At this time Lynn might have been eight, nine, ten years old—a child who grew physically, but not mentally.

The confrontation with
The Golden Bowl
had been the child's triumph but it had left her dangerously over-excited, there was the danger that she might attack something else now, or someone.

Still, they kept Lynn at home until she was fifteen. And taller and heavier than my mother, and very excitable. And dangerous.

And that would be the last time I saw my sister, at about the age of fifteen.

IT WAS REPEATEDLY SAID
of her—
But Lynn seemed perfectly normal as a baby. She was so beautiful! She gave no sign.

Was it so, Lynn had given no sign? Who can recall, so many years later?

In retrospect, we see what we are hoping to see. We see what our most flattering narrative will allow us to see. But
in medias res
we scarcely know what we are seeing, for it happens too swiftly to be processed.

For it came to be a story told and retold—no doubt, recounted endlessly by my parents to doctors, therapists, nurses—of how when she'd been very young, two or three years old, Lynn had fallen and fractured or broken her left leg. For many weeks she had to wear a cast. She'd been walking, or trying to walk; now she reverted to crawling, or dragging her leg along the floor. She wept, she rocked her little body from side to side in the very emblem of child misery. Later it was speculated (by my parents, but also by others) that, at this crucial time in her development, whatever progress Lynn had been making—learning to walk, to speak, to communicate—was retarded.

It was said of the afflicted child—
She thinks she is being punished. How can we make the poor child understand, she is not being punished?

How make her understand, she is loved?

Possibly, the heavy cast on Lynn's leg had something to do with her mental deficiencies, which grew more evident with time. Yet possibly, the cast on Lynn's leg had nothing at all to do with her mental development.

Some years later it would be suggested (by one of the numerous specialists to whom Lynn was eventually taken) that “autism” is a form of schizophrenia caused by bad mothering.

Bad mothering
. It is very hard for me to spell out these cruel and ignorant words.

Carolina Oates, the warmest and most loving of mothers, made to feel by (male) “specialists” that she was to blame for her child's mental disability!

For years we were distressed by this crude “diagnosis.” We knew that it was not true—my mother was not “cold and aloof” as the bad mother is charged; but this pseudo-science was confirmed by the general misogynist bias of Freudian psychoanalytic theory in which the mother (alone) is the fulcrum of harm—the mother who “causes” her son's homosexuality, for instance. (And what of the father's role in a child's development? Has the father no corresponding responsibility, or guilt?) The fraudulent diagnosis hurt my mother terribly, and surely entered her soul. You do not tell a woman who is already distressed by her child's disability that it is her fault.

So many years later I am upset on behalf of my gentle, soft-spoken and self-effacing mother who'd given as much as any mother might give in the effort of a futile and protracted maternal task. My mother was not so much upset as crushed, shamed. And this for years.

Blaming the mother for autism, indeed for schizophrenia or homosexuality, would seem no less reprehensible than the popular treatment of the 1940s and early 1950s for bad behavior of another kind, the lobotomy, now thoroughly discredited.

The misogyny of science, particularly psychology! Those many decades, indeed centuries, when the medical norm was the white male specimen and the female a sort of weak aberration from that norm, when not openly assailed condescended to, pitied, and scorned. Do you know that the much-revered “Father of Modern Gynecology” J. Marion Sims (1813–1884) was a doctor who experimented upon his African-American female slaves, without anesthetics, over a period of years; that he performed gynecological operations, without anesthetics, on Irish (i.e., non- “white”) women who were too poor and uneducated to protest? By the by,
the revered Dr. Sims also experimented on African-American infants. If you know these lurid facts, perhaps you also know that there is a statue of the Father of Modern Gynecology still in Central Park, New York City—indeed, Dr. Sims is the first American physician to have been honored with a statue. And so for me to lament the crude, careless mistreatment of my mother by “specialists” in child development in mid-twentieth-century America in western New York State is surely naïve.

Decades later in the twenty-first century a newer, neurophysiological examination of the phenomenon of autism suggests that the condition isn't caused by bad parenting of any kind but by congenital brain damage.

Neurochemistry, not “bad mothering.”

Still, the old misogyny dies hard. You will still find plenty of people including presumably educated clinicians who will tend to blame the mother for a pathology of the child.

In recent years there has been a populist, anti-scientific movement against vaccinations, based upon the (erroneous) belief that vaccinations cause autism in young children; more widely, and more convincingly, neuroscientists believe that the causes of autism are manifold: genetics, environment. No single factor will “cause” autism but there are conditions that are likely to increase the possibility of autism. Yet unaccountably, at the time of this writing, incidents of autism seem to be on the rise in the United States.

Those of us who know autism intimately have long been baffled by high-profile cases of “autism” in the public eye. Dustin Hoffman in
Rain Man
, Temple Grandin as author, speaker, animal theorist. Such individuals seem very mildly autistic compared to my mute, wholly disengaged sister who was never to utter a single coherent word let alone give public lectures and write best-selling books. (But Temple Grandin's ingenious invention of a “hug-box” to hold her,
who shrank from human touch and contact, might have been an excellent device to contain my sister's fits of excitement and distress.)

It is even being proposed, in some quarters, that autism might be celebrated as a kind of “neurodiversity.” Just as a considerable number of deaf persons do not wish to be made to hear, but prefer the silence of sign language to oral speech, so there are those, among them Temple Grandin, who believe that autism should not be eradicated, if any cures might ever be developed.

This is a romantic position, but it is not a very convincing position, for one who knows firsthand what severe autism is. Even if autism could speak, from its claustrophobic chambers, could we believe what autism might say? And how responsible would we be, to act upon that belief?

3.

IN 1971, WHEN LYNN
was fifteen years old, my father at last arranged for her to be committed to a therapeutic care facility in the Buffalo area for mentally disabled individuals like herself, who had become too difficult to be kept at home. This was a decision very hard for my parents to make though it would seem, to others in the family, belated by years—long overdue.

One day, my sister had “turned on” my mother in the kitchen of my parents' house. Since neither of my parents wished to speak in any way negative or critical about Lynn, and did not willingly respond to queries about their safety in continuing to keep her at home, I never learned details of the attack. But I had long worried that something like this might happen, and that my mother, who spent virtually all of her waking hours caring for my sister, might be badly injured; at the very least, my mother would be exhausted and demoralized.

You could not simply say to such devoted parents—
But you have to put Lynn in a home! You are not equipped to take care of her.

My normally reasonable father was not reasonable when it came to discussing this domestic crisis. It was not advised to bring the subject up, for Daddy would quickly become defensive and incensed. To speak in even a hushed and apologetic voice was to risk being disloyal, intrusive. The strain on my mother, who was Lynn's primary caretaker, day following day and week following week for years, was overwhelming; eventually her health was undermined. I would one day learn that my mother was taking prescription tranquillizers to deal with the stress of taking care of Lynn, and this with my father's approval. My father, of course, spent most of his time at work—out of the house.

By this time my parents were living in a small ranch house they'd had built on the original farm property; the old farmhouse and the farm buildings had been demolished. My Hungarian grandmother Lena Bush had died. My brother Robin—that is, Fred, Jr.—was in his late twenties, married, and living some miles away in Clarence, New York. The old life of the farm, the life of my childhood, was irrevocably lost and in its place, it sometimes seemed, a surreal nightmare of domesticity: my beloved parents, no longer young, in a single-storey clapboard ranch house like so many others on Transit Road, obsessively tending to their mentally ravaged daughter who so uncannily resembled the elder daughter whose place she had taken.

It must have been a relief for my parents, particularly my mother, when Lynn was at last committed to a therapeutic facility—yet at the same time, a kind of defeat. They had tried so hard to keep their daughter at home; they had not wished to concede that something was wrong with her, and that she might be a danger to others as to herself.
They had loved Lynn no less than they'd loved their older daughter and their son Fred and this love for Lynn would never abate.