Authors: Nikki Sex
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”
― Plato
~~~
Renata Koreman
I’ve spent all of my life being suspicious. Guarded, hyper-alert and constantly nervous, I observe everyone closely, always trying to discover if they might hurt me. I need to protect myself.
After all this time, I think I know things about people.
I don't understand why the Frenchman bothers to take me into his home or why he’s offering me money. I don't even know why he's being nice to me, or why he seems to respect my needs.
He wants me for some reason of his own.
This Frenchman is dangerous, but somehow I can’t believe he’s a bad man. I don’t think he’ll hurt me. Maybe it’s some sort of inborn sixth sense. Maybe I’m just more aware of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ vibes. I get feelings about people from deep in my gut.
My instincts are usually right.
In either case, he’s much better than this new uncle of mine, who suddenly and reluctantly entered my life. At least the Frenchman doesn't hate me. I know Uncle Bob does.
Eyes lowered, I nod my head. I agree to stay, for now. Until the first chance I get, when I can sneak away.
“Tres bien!”
he says cheerfully. “Be comfortable. I will return very soon.”
With a purposeful stride, he walks out, softly closing the door behind him.
In an instant, I’m on my feet. I move to his desk, open the folder with my name on it and begin reading.
To: Dr. J. Johnson
From: Dr. D. Suresh
Dear Doctor,
Thank you for sending me this deeply disturbed, emotionally delayed and damaged young woman, Renata Koreman.
After conducting exhaustive tests measuring the electrical function of her spinal cord, brain and the nerves in her limbs and muscles, I have found no evidence of lesion, abnormality or disorder.
Renata was first diagnosed with Autistic Spectrum Disorder (ASD) at the age of eight for qualitative impairment in social interaction:
(a)
A marked impairment of non-verbal behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze and facial expressions.
(b)
Failure to develop peer relationships.
(c)
Lack of development of spoken language.
(d)
Absence of spontaneous or shared enjoyment.
Her mother is deceased, her father incarcerated. She was placed with a foster family at the age of twelve. She ran away after one year. It is believed she was surviving on the streets, until recently when she was found in a semi-catatonic state by the police.
We have staff currently searching for familial relations.
This young woman appears to read but there is no evidence of comprehension. She is incapable of completing an IQ test or following basic instructions. Renata is sexually active yet does not appear to have the ability to understand the potential consequences of the act nor does she have enough intelligence to give consent.
For her safety, in her current condition, it is my opinion she should be kept in a supervised home or in a locked ward.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. D. Suresh, Department of Clinical Neurophysiology
I give a mental snort.
Autism again.
I’ve been told that I’m autistic all of my life. What does it really mean? I’ve read and reread the definition countless times. To me it means I’m too afraid to look anyone in the eye. To me it means something stops me from being able to speak.
It’s not that I don’t “feel” normal emotions like the books and doctors say.
The way I see it, I feel
far too much
.
I feel everything.
Fear is my own personal brand of paralysis. It stops me from talking, from meeting anyone’s gaze, from fitting in, and from being like everyone else. Unfortunately, I’m always afraid.
Does that make me autistic?
There’s
something
very wrong with me—I do know that.
For a moment, I recall Dr. Suresh as he talked to me as if I was two years old. Why would I have spoken to him, even if I could? There was no way I was going to do his tests. He gave me no reason to trust him.
I quickly read through the rest of my file. Renata Koreman: Age
:
17. Height: 5’10.” Weight: 116lbs, Skin: fair. Hair: long, blonde. Distinguishing marks or tattoos, none.
I flick through old welfare, doctor and school reports, which contain more of the same crap. A seven-year-old police record and 911-responder call sheet takes me completely by surprise.
Jagged, painful images slam into my consciousness, taking my breath away.
I shut my eyes.
Unspeakable pain and intense memories cause instant nausea. A tragic event from years ago suddenly slams into the present. Vivid and intense, it burns like a branding iron, scalding me—mind, heart and soul.
My stomach twists and I gag. I may throw up.
I take slow, deep breaths. My hand trembles unsteadily as I close the folder.
With years of determined practice, I successfully put,
‘The day that must not be remembered’
out of my mind.
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK…
When I recover my composure, I open my eyes and look around. I still feel off balance and disoriented, but I’m alone in the stranger’s study. I’m safe. It’s OK.
Curious, I scrutinize the Frenchman’s desk.
‘To: André Chevalier’
is printed on one envelope in block letters.
I remember now.
With politeness and courtesy, the Frenchman introduced himself the moment I first came into this room. André spoke directly to me, as if I was a normal person. I sure as hell hadn’t expected that.
“A-A-An-d-d-dré,” I stutter, trying out the name. It’s a good name. “A-A-André.”
I hear the sound of the door closing. With a blast of adrenaline spiking my veins, I immediately step away from the desk and lower my gaze. He’s close enough that I catch the heavy scent of his cologne. It smells incredible.
I see André’s black leather shoes, standing motionless near the entrance to the room.
Frozen to stillness, my eyes remain fixed on them.
“
Ma petite
,” he says quietly. “I am most honored you have spoken my name.
Most honored.
It is auspicious, is it not? We shall deal well together. If you please, will you come with me? I will take you to your room.”
He turns and walks away, moving toward the other door.
Even though I’m scared and embarrassed to have been caught looking through the things on his desk and stuttering his name, I follow him. As I go, I'm memorizing the layout of the place. I’m quick. If I have to, I’ll run.
André chats as he walks in a graceful, self-assured stride. He tells me about the people who work for him and the kind of food he likes to eat. He goes into excessive detail concerning braised beef with red wine and mushrooms. Then he expounds upon cream filled desserts.
All of this is peppered with incomprehensible French words. His verbal barrage is accompanied by continuous arm waving.
Kind,
I realize with wonder. Is it genuine? Is he for real? Everything he does seems to have purpose. I think he’s trying to put me at ease and make me feel comfortable by talking of common things.
He’s trying to be nice to me,
I think, and my eyes burn with unshed tears.
André’s inexplicable thoughtfulness reminds me of my foster brother.
A pang of fresh loss stabs me, mixing in with my fear. Jamie’s death
hurts.
I push the recent memory away, along with its excruciating pain.
We walk down some stairs where he finally opens the door to a large bedroom.
“Ma belle,”
he says. “I will leave you now. This door can be locked from the inside. Lock it and know you are safe. I will return with an evening meal. As you can see, there is a computer, the television, a desk for writing if you wish and the bathroom. I have left an e-reader on the table. There are oh-so many books on it, but you may freely download more. You do not need to come away from your room unless you are quite comfortable to do so.”
He closes the door behind him as he leaves. I hear his footsteps fade.
I lock the door.
The room is spacious with a king-size bed and big tub in the bathroom. After a while, I take a bath, then a shower. The shampoo smells like strawberries. Pajamas and a bathrobe are there, but I don’t use them. I dress in the clothes I was wearing, ready to leave at any moment.
I check and find I can open my bedroom door. Nothing is keeping me here.
Turning, I look around. The room looks so comfortable and the door is locked. I hop on the bed—it feels divine—and turn on the TV.
I can’t slip out until nighttime anyway.
André returns later and knocks, telling me, “Dinner is served.”
I unlock and open the door.
He smiles but doesn’t speak as he hands me a tray of food. It smells delicious. Still smiling, he bows his good bye—as if I’m a queen or someone special. Then he turns and walks away.
My stomach rumbles and I realize how hungry I am.
Why is he doing this? I don’t understand him. It feels incredibly weird to be treated this way. It's confusing.
I bring in the food, set it on the bed and turn to lock the door. André has left me alone, as promised. I can make my escape at any time. I look at the food, the e-reader and the bed.
Just for tonight, I think I’ll stay.
“Human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.”
—Ernest Hemingway
~~~
Renata Koreman
For the next nine days, three times a day, the strange Frenchman comes to my bedroom door with food. Later he returns and takes the tray.
One day he brings me clothes in my size
:
jeans, a thick jacket, running shoes and T-shirts. They're so much nicer than anything I've had before, well-made and stylish. I love my new ‘Mambo’ T-shirt.
He asks for nothing. He says nothing. He’s so weird. He's so generous.
At night, I’ve snuck out of my room and looked all over his two-story penthouse apartment. I know where everything is—I've memorized the entire layout. Some doors are locked, but not the front door. I even called the elevator up to make sure I can escape.
I keep telling myself I can leave at any time. But I never go.
On the tenth day, André comes to my room after dinner with a large cardboard box. The box has small holes in the side and is tied shut with a bow of thick red ribbon.
“It is a gift,
ma petite
. A gift for you.”
When I open my present, despite years of learning not to react or show emotion, my eyes grow wide. I draw in a quick breath of surprise and pleasure.
I stare down into the box with disbelief.
André has brought me a little kitten. There’s a patch of white on his chest and on his two front paws; other than that, he’s pure black. He’s so
beautiful.
Emotion rolls through me. It’s too much! I can’t contain it, but I can’t move. I’m not alone. I stand there, unable to cry—but wanting to feel the wonderful, cleansing release of it.
I’ve never had a pet of my own.
His kindness makes me even more suspicious. Why has he done this? What does he want?
He reaches down into the box and picks up the tiny bundle of fur, placing the kitten into my hands, where he mews anxiously. He’s so tiny! I must seem like a huge scary monster to him.
His claws dig into me until I hold him more firmly. The poor thing is terrified—I of all people can understand that.
I pull him against my chest and begin to stroke him. Within moments, he’s purring. He's warm and soft, vibrating against my skin. It's such a soothing sensation. Moments pass in this blissful state.
“Ma belle?”
André questions in a cautious, inquiring tone.
For some reason, I’m suddenly free of my self-imposed, long term restrictions. Is it because of this kitten? To my surprise, I find that for more than a fleeting moment, I can actually meet his gaze.
“This tiny creature is yours to care for,” he says. There’s a softness in his dark chocolate eyes. “You will need to give him much love and attention. This pleases you, no?”
I nod and can no longer meet his gaze. That’s OK. I want to look at my kitten. As usual, I can’t speak, but more than ever, I wish I could. If I were able to say something, what would I say? Thank you?
He’s given me a generous and extraordinary gift.
I pet the kitten and realize what’s first in my thoughts. If I could speak, I’d ask André, ‘Why?’ I’m still waiting to find out what he wants.
A long moment passes while we stand across from each other. Entranced, I continue to pet this soft little ball of fur. It’s sad to be all alone. No one should be alone. Does he miss his mother?
I’ll be his mother.
I’d be a good mother and love him with all my heart. I realize with wonder that my lips have curled just slightly upwards. Strangely, it feels safe to smile… even with André in the room. I continue to pet my new friend.
“Renata,” he says quietly.
I stop petting and my smile fades. Eyes downcast, I freeze and pay attention.
His voice is soothing, deep and soft. “Listen to me now, and I will tell you something I have learned in life,” he says gently. “I have found, Renata, that sometimes when a person gives up on ‘humankind,’ they can often find trust and love in animal kind.”
An avalanche of strong emotions fills my heart. That odd squeezing sensation is there again—a painful, yet pleasure-filled pressure constricting my chest.
I hug my kitten while his words echo in my mind:
when a person gives up on ‘humankind,’ they can often find trust and love in animal kind.
I
love
this innocent kitten so much my chest aches, but in a good way. The truth is bittersweet, like the words André shared with me. I believe what he says. I know it's true. I
feel it
.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes. I’m unable to meet his eyes.
I nod.
“Very good, Renata,” he says, as if I’ve spoken—as if I’ve thanked him. This time I did want to say thank you.
How does he do it? Can he read my mind? Most likely, he’s just observant. It's as though he 'gets' me. It’s so strange to have someone really
look
at me. This candid scrutiny of André’s is a completely new experience.
How does he seem to be able to understand me?
I don’t understand myself.
It’s disturbing and embarrassing, yet it’s beginning to feel comforting to see André every day. He leaves me alone; he gives me food, privacy, respect, kindness, clothes, a soft bed and now a pet.
I think I'm beginning to like him and I’m beginning to trust him… just a little.
Maybe.
“This is a very lucky little kitten, I think,” he says in a low voice. “Good night, sweet girl. Remember to lock your door so you will know yourself to be safe.”
I nod once more.
He bows his good-bye again but doesn’t demand a response. He treats me as if I’m a person—like I’m
real.
This show of humanity from a rich stranger, is beyond what I’m capable of believing in.
As he departs, my bedroom door shuts softly behind him, leaving only a trace of André’s wonderful cologne. I quickly move to lock it. I’m glad the Frenchman is gone. He’s completely out of my realm of experience. I don’t know how I feel about him.
But now I’m alone with my kitten and I’m so happy!
I’m different from other people—I know that. Everyone else can easily laugh, cry or openly display their frustration. I can’t show my emotions in front of anyone. It’s something I’m incapable of doing. Being able to meet someone’s eyes or talking—it’s what normal people do.
I wish
I could.
But I smiled in his presence. It’s such a little thing, but big for me. What does it mean?
Now he’s gone, I find the invisible bindings that hold my feelings so tight and deep inside of me, suddenly let go. Rocking and petting my kitten, I’m overcome with emotion.
I finally begin to cry.
I’ll call him Mitten,
I decide.
My little kitten Mitten.
I don’t make a sound, but warm tears of joy trail down my cheeks as I cuddle my new friend. The sense of relief and safety, combined with the warmth and love I feel while holding my purring kitten is overpowering—but in a good way.
I decide to stay here again… just for tonight.