your muscles are all tight. We need you to relax so that it will be easier for your throat to speak.’
He shook beneath my fingers. And crikey, he was an ugly kid. I had sort of gotten used to that, but looking at him eyeball to eyeball, it was difficult to miss.
‘Open your mouth. Wide.’
Sweat beaded up but he opened his mouth slightly.
‘Big! Like this.’ I demonstrated with a great big gape. ‘I want you to do exactly what I do. And I’m going to keep my hands against your voice box there to see how your muscles are doing. Relax. Relax, Kevin, I won’t do anything to hurt you.’
I made the exercises up on the spot. I had never used anything like them before nor was I certain where to feel for the voice box. However, where my hands were seemed to be a likely enough place. We both had our mouths wide open like preying sharks. It would have been a wonderful opportunity for a mouthwash commercial.
The whole thing was an incredible con game. Maybe most of psychology is. It wasn’t a lie, really. While I maybe didn’t actually have any special exercises, I reckoned any sort of exercise ought to help. And while I had no real idea where the voice box was, I still could feel tense muscles, and if he could relax, that surely would be a help. So, it wasn’t really a lie, just a sort of middle-sized humbug. And probably nothing was wrong with that. But it was a little sobering to consider when one was sitting with one’s hands around a kid’s throat.
‘Relax, Kev. You’re all tense. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Trust me. Relax. Here, put your hands on my throat. Feel what the muscles are like? Feel how relaxed? Here, now, touch yours. See the difference? We want to make yours feel like mine.’
So there we sat with our hands round one another’s throats, as if we were in mortal combat. In a way, I suppose we were. I had him open his mouth wide and move it around and around. He had to take deep breaths, hold them, let them out slowly. He waggled his head from side to side, felt my muscles, felt his, felt mine again, waggled some more to relax. All the time I kept talking confidently, like I did this every day, and I kept changing the exercises rapidly so that he had to concentrate to keep up.
‘Okay, Kevin, now with your mouth open like that, breathe out real slowly, like this.’ I demonstrated, putting enough pressure into my breath to make a very softly whispered ‘haaa’ sound. Kevin, who had one hand around my throat and one around his own, also breathed out slowly. But there was no sound.
‘Good. Do it again a little harder. Feel those muscles relax. That’s what we’re trying to do, relax those muscles there. Get down in your diaphragm, use that more. Do it again.’ A bit of a lie there to distract him from the sound. I demonstrated, putting on a big show of using my diaphragm.
This time the sound was audible when he tried, but he was so caught up in what we were doing that he did not notice it. Quickly I tried to distract him further by letting him compare the muscles in our throats again. Were they the same? Yes. Good. Do it again.
I continued to breathe a whisper into the ‘haaa,’ each time a little louder but still soft enough that it was as much a breath as a whisper. I wanted the gradations in loudness to be virtually undetectable.
Kevin kept up with me, imitating the same gradations of sound. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He had ceased shaking. In fact, both of us were so absorbed in the act of making our breaths comparable that I don’t believe either one of us remembered at that instant why we were doing it.
‘Okay, harder now. Feel your stomach so you can see if your diaphragm’s pushing. Like this. Haaaa. ’A definite whisper.
‘Haa—,’ went Kevin and then he caught what I had done. His whisper died midbreath. His face reddened, his eyes bulged. I still had him by the throat but he abruptly broke my grip. Back under the table he went.
I leaned down to peer at him. ‘Hey? Come out of there. Come on. You were doing fine. Let’s try again.’
Kevin was way back under there, rolled up in a ball as he had been on the very first day.
I slid off the chair and came down under the table too. Touching his shoulder, I smiled at him. ‘You were doing just super. Did you know that? You were really doing a great job. Let’s give it another go.’
Beneath my fingertips I felt muscles rockhard with tension, then there was a little tremble and Kevin exploded. Bang! Like a volcano he went off, leaping up on his feet and knocking the table backward off his shoulders. Chairs toppled. My box and all its contents flew. Around and around the room Kevin tore. He banged into walls, scrabbled over furniture, tripped and stumbled to his feet again.
Startled, I leaped up too. He was a great big kid and he made a frightening sight in that wild state. It was at that moment that I realized exactly how little I knew Kevin-under-the-table. He might as well have been an animal, like my dog at home, whose problems I could only guess at because our worlds were so different and we could not communicate much of anything to one another.
Back and forth Kevin went, the crablike scuttle still evident in his gait. He was screaming, at least he would have been screaming, if he’d made any noise to go along with it. His mouth was wide open and he grimaced violently but all that came out were staccato puffs of air. Tears washed over his cheeks. Snot ran down into his mouth.
Suddenly the door opened behind me and the aide stepped in. He muttered under his breath when he saw us and slammed the door again. Within seconds four men converged on us like a division of the Marines. They marched in, tackled Kevin and threw him spread-eagle to the floor. Behind them came a nurse. She had a hypodermic needle in hand. While the men restrained Kevin, she whipped down his trousers and administered the shot.
All the while, Kevin struggled. Thin and wiry as he was, he fought a good fight, and it took all four men to hold him down.
Unused to being rescued from my crises, I just stood there, struck dumb with surprise. I hadn’t realized Kevin and I were so much out of control. He had been upset, sure, but we’d stayed in the confines of the room. He wasn’t hurting me, or me, him. And he wasn’t doing anything that should cause deployment of the Marines and the psychotropic tranquilizers.
Kevin was taken up to one of the seclusion rooms at the far end of the ward. It was a tiny room with a thick wooden door and long green things, which looked like futon mattresses, hanging from the walls. A padded cell. The only window was a small grate in the door. Kevin had been stripped to his underpants so that he would not hurt himself and was now flinging himself back and forth against the padding.
I went up to the ward and stood there, watching him for a few moments. Then I went down to Dana Wendolowski’s office.
Dana gave me a sympathetic smile when I came in. ‘I heard,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry about it. He does that sometimes.’
‘He does?’ No one had told me that.
‘No one knows why. They don’t really seem to be tantrums. I don’t know. He just has them. We give him a shot, put him in seclusion for a while and he gets over them eventually. They never last long. And he can go a long time between them.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said and leaned back in the chair. I didn’t see at all.
After another cup of coffee, I returned to the ward. A number of aides had collected around the desk there watching me as I came through the double doors.
‘He
