Brontosaurus and Other Stories

Brontosaurus

Jacob spoke his first words at the breakfast table, the day after he turned six. On his breakfast plate stood an intricate double-frosted dinosaur made of pop tarts and banana, three dimensional and freestanding, a marvel of breakfast engineering.

"Brontosaurus," Jacob said to his breakfast sculpture. A moment later he followed with "Tyrannosaurus," and then leaned in to bite the head off his poptartosaurus. Jacob sat back up and looked at his father snarling, his teeth covered in raspberry-flavored pop tart filling.

Higgins felt surprised, relieved, and slightly disgusted. He wanted to ask Jacob where he learned those multisyllabic words, but suddenly Higgins was the one who couldn't speak. By the time his son turned six Higgins had given up hope of hearing Jacob say anything, and barely spoke himself anymore. He spent hours in silence wondering how his son would make it through life without the use of words.

Jacob always had a fascination with animals, but especially dinosaurs. Whenever he saw one in a picture book he would reach out and touch it with his finger. After his first words that morning Jacob began speaking the names of many other types of dinosaur. His entire spoken vocabulary consisted of nothing but dinosaur names, and eventually, his father began to understand what each meant. Tyrannosaurus meant he was hungry. Iguanodon meant he was tired. Triceratops meant he wanted to go play outside. But Brontosaurus seemed to mean nothing and everything at the same time. He said it whenever he was excited or throwing a tantrum. He would walk in circles repeating it over and over like a monk in a trance. Sometimes he would just look at Higgins with sleepy eyes and say Brontosaurus, and Higgins knew it was Jacob's way of saying I love you.

Things hadn't always been so quiet in the house. Higgins and his wife Lulu used to speak to Jacob after he was born, baby talk and other types of first-time parental pandering. Higgins personal favorite was who's got a belly button as he poked Jacob like a little marshmallow. They doted and squealed the way most first time parents do, but Jacob barely noticed. They thought he might be deaf or mute, but doctors assured them his hearing was excellent. Perhaps there were other issues doctors told them. Perhaps he was on the spectrum. They soon noticed other complications. Jacob never laughed or smiled, and as soon as he learned to walk he started spending hours pacing in circles. Still, Higgins and Lulu were hopeful, and she would sing and read to Jacob and talk to him daily. But one day something broke inside of her and her hope went away.

Higgins often thought back to the night Jacob was born. Lulu's water broke minutes after they said their I dos, and Jacob entered the world in the lobby of city hall. Lulu's labor lasted only 23 minutes, and Jacob had practically leapt from her womb. But even more surprising Jacob hadn't cried at all. Higgins had wrapped his son in a Welcome to Ketchum sweatshirt the presiding judge had provided and stared lovingly into his son's eyes. Jacob just looked back at him, no tears, no crying, nothing but Jacob's cloudy blues gazing back at him like a mute little sage. For Higgins, this moment was as vivid as if it was still happening.

Later, as the paramedics rolled Lulu and Jacob toward the ambulance, she grabbed Higgins' hand with desperate strength and told him she would never divorce him. For a moment he mistook this for an impromptu vow, but then she continued. She said she hated long goodbyes, and if there was ever a problem she would just leave.

On a Tuesday about 17 months ago Higgins noticed his wife's luggage and jewelry box were gone. He found her wedding ring sitting on the bedside table with no note. It took a while for the truth of the situation to sink in, and even now it was still sinking. He woke up every morning and looked out his bedroom window with a sad hope, imagining her pulling back into the driveway with a perfect explanation of the entire absence, so their tragic autistic life could continue as if nothing had ever happened.