Chapter 12 - THE WORD BOARDSpeech therapist Ellen Porter brought the communication board.
Bright white laminated plastic.
Large printed words.
YES.
NO.
PAIN.
WATER.
HUNGRY.
TIRED.
BATHROOM.
AFRAID.
FAMILY.
HELP.
Beatrice stared at it.
Ellen placed it on a stand.
“Your speech may take time, but communication doesn’t have to wait.”
Beatrice’s eyes filled.
Tyler sat beside her.
Monica stood in the doorway.
Gavin had left for work.
Ellen began with simple prompts.
“Look at YES.”
Beatrice did.
“Look at NO.”
Correct.
“Look at WATER.”
Correct.
Within twenty minutes Beatrice could indicate basic needs consistently.
Tyler was thrilled.
“She can talk!”
Ellen smiled.
“In a new way.”
After the session Tyler stayed beside Beatrice.
They practiced.
“Hungry?”
NO.
“Water?”
YES.
“Tired?”
NO.
Tyler pointed to FAMILY.
Beatrice smiled faintly.
Then his finger moved accidentally over AFRAID.
Beatrice’s expression changed.
Tyler noticed.
“Grandma?”
Her eyes remained on the word.
AFRAID.
Tyler’s stomach tightened.
He pointed at himself.
“Tyler?”
NO.
“Dad?”
NO.
He hesitated.
“Mom?”
Beatrice looked directly at YES.
Tyler stopped breathing.
“Grandma, are you afraid of Mom?”
YES.
A tear slipped down Beatrice’s cheek.
Tyler reached for her.
The floorboard creaked.
Monica stood behind them.
Neither had heard her approach.
Her eyes moved from Tyler—
to Beatrice—
to the board.
And stopped on one word.
AFRAID.
No one spoke.
Then Monica smiled.
Too calmly.
“Grandma needs rest.”
Tyler stood.
“We’re practicing.”
“You’ve practiced enough.”
“She said she’s afraid of you.”
Monica’s eyes hardened.
“Go upstairs.”
“No.”
“Tyler.”
Beatrice’s left hand moved.
She touched Tyler.
He looked at her.
One squeeze.
It’s okay.
He reluctantly left.
Monica waited until his footsteps faded.
Then turned toward Beatrice.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Her gaze dropped to the board.
“You’re making this worse.”
Beatrice stared.
Monica lifted the communication board.
“You need rest.”
She carried it away.
That evening Tyler searched the therapy room.
Nothing.
Bedroom.
Nothing.
Kitchen.
Nothing.
He asked Monica.
“Where’s Grandma’s board?”
“I put it somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“She was getting overwhelmed.”
“The therapist said she needs it.”
“I’m her caregiver.”
“No, you’re not.”
Monica stared.
“What did you say?”
“You’re stopping her from talking.”
Tyler ran upstairs before she could answer.
The next day Ellen called asking how practice was going.
Monica said:
May you like
“Wonderful.”
The board remained missing.
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