Nameless Problems

Manchester, England, 1945

I once had a child—a beautiful boy, but unlike the others: too unlike. When someone is as different as he was, no one can accept, no love can flow, save a mother’s. A mother’s love transcends all boundaries.

I discovered I was pregnant many years ago, in 1890. It was not a joyous revelation. Shameful though it was, I had no husband. The father of my child had been a mere sailor passing through my humble Liverpool. As I discretely bid him farewell early in the morning, I knew I would never see him again. It had not bothered me at the time, but when I knew a babe was growing in my womb, I realized what difficulties lay before me. I was an unwed mother, with no husband, parents, or money to speak of.

But I did have a brother: sweet James, forgiving younger brother, who opened his home to his scandalous sister, Fiona. Even with a wife and family of his own, he managed to clear a space for me to stay, and nourished my body, as I grew larger and larger with child. At times, I’d hear his wife urging him to return me to the streets where I belonged—what a wretched woman she was, attempting so earnestly to cloud James’s weak mind. Many times this worked, but not where I was concerned. Despite their nightly arguments, James never requested I leave.

Nine months later, my boy was born, and there the story truly begins.
* * * * * * * * * * *
April 1st, 1890

My child was born today. I, Fiona Clarke, age seventeen, became a mother. But according to my brother, the child was almost lost.

“Fiona,” came James’s soft voice from my doorway. Sweaty and slightly delirious from pain of labor, I raised my head slightly off the pillow to look at him.

“The baby…he’s very small.”

“What do you mean, James? Is he alright?” My voice was hoarse from all the screaming I’d done a few hours previously.

“Yes, but you see…Charlotte thinks it would be a good idea to have him baptized now, just in case…”

“Just in case what? My child has nothing wrong with it,” I retorted angrily, then softened. Poor James. It was not his fault. “But if you feel it best.”

“Alright. But what shall his Christian name be?” James hesitated ever so slightly before uttering the word “Christian.” I was sorely reminded of his feelings toward me, and my lifestyle.

“Nathaniel,” I said after a moment. “Nathaniel…James.”
April 25th, 1890

It’s been quite a time since I last wrote, but I’ve been busy recovering from the pregnancy and nursing my child.

It was a bit frightening at first. My child, Nathaniel, is so tiny, I thought I’d break him each time I picked him up or set him back down. James cannot afford a bassinet, nor can I, so the baby sleeps in the small cot with me. It’s so strange to have something so small to cuddle and love that is mine—all mine, but it is also a great responsibility. Without my body, his would wither and fade away.

Sometimes in the night, we’ll both be awake, and I’ll simply gaze into his gray-blue eyes that seem so oddly vacant, rarely filled with any sort of emotion—though when he cries, it is so difficult to soothe him. But this child I’m more than hopeful for. I just know he’ll have a bright future, with proper schooling and a respectable career, unlike his mother. He’ll make me proud, I know.
June 16th, 1895

After five years, I’ve rediscovered this humble book of thoughts. The time could not be more opportune, for much has happened and I have much to say.

I’ve left James’s home. I could not remain with that spiteful wife of his any longer. About six months following my son’s birth, we packed up our few belongings and went to stay in a room above a butcher’s shop. I work in the shop to support us, and the butcher’s wife kindly looks after my son during the day.

My child, my dear Nathan, is very hearty and healthy. He plays well with himself and obeys me most diligently. But there is something…different about my boy that I can no longer ignore. If I try to embrace or hold him, he grows uncomfortable, shies away, and struggles. I don’t understand. I’m his mother. Why should he dislike my touch?
July 7th, 1895
I must record this following incident:

Nathan and I were visiting the port so I could purchase some fish for supper. As I haggled over the price of some halibut, Nathan strayed from my sight to the edge of the pier. No one watched him and he fell into the ocean. I heard the splash and made a bit of a scene; a kind fisherman dove into the water and rescued him.

But the strange part of my story is this: when the fisherman set my son before me, of course I knelt to embrace him, but as my arms closed around his wet body, he shrank away.

“Nathan!” I cried in frustration, throwing my arms around him once again. He forcefully pushed me away, and I began to weep from the rejection, but also from relief that he was alright. He seemed quite unaware of my tears, but as I made to embrace him a third time, he uttered a most hideous groan and shrank to the floor of the pier, covering his ears with his hands and rocking back and forth.

Like this he remained for some time, not allowing anyone to touch him, until suddenly he uncoiled and announced he should like to go home.

He is alright now, tucked away in bed with a fire in the hearth, but why would he not let me touch him? Had the intensity of the situation shaken him, or does he truly resent me? I don’t know. What is wrong with my child?
September 2nd, 1896

Today was my son's first day of grammar school, though nothing, I'm very sorrowful to report, went as planned.

Although Nathan's always been quite obedient towards me, he has a bit of trouble minding others. I've seen glimpses of this; if an older person tells him to move or fetch them something, he'll starkly refuse and I always blush with embarrassment. But I'd always hoped, pretended, that this would be no great problem. What a fool I am.

From what the poor teacher told me when I came to fetch him from the schoolhouse, he'd refused to obey her when she asked his name, claiming he did not have to talk because he did not know her. When the teacher rapped his desk with her crop as a warning, he made that same hideous groaning sound he made on the pier. The teacher began to reprimand him for making such ugly noises and poor Nathaniel began to shout, trying to drown out her words.

"Don't talk to me, don't touch me," the teacher told me he chanted over and over.

He would not obey when the teacher told him to rise; she struck him across the knuckles with her crop, and my son flew out of his seat and proceeded to kick her in the shins, shouting, in a fit of passion, it seems. After the entire class was upset and the teacher was slightly bruised, he curled into a ball on the floor.

That was how I found him, rocking back and forth, back and forth, making soft moaning noises and stiffening whenever someone tried to touch him.

"All we can do is wait," I told his teacher, feeling ashamed and unfit. I know what she must think of me: young, unwed (not even a respectable widow), and unable to keep her only son under control.

After some time he uncurled from his fetal position and came to stand beside me. I was informed coldly then that he was no longer welcome in the school, and that if he were to receive an education, I'd have to administer it myself.

What is wrong with my child?
March 16th, 1900

Welcome to the brand new century, dear log. Let us pray this one shall hold more positive happenings for my humble family.

My son is now ten years old, a healthy boy, stronger than most his age. The problems I've mentioned in the last few entries have not waned…in some ways, they have grown worse, but I am the only one to deal with them, as I've been teaching Nathan myself for four years now, and we have little contact with anyone else. I fear we've become a pair of pariahs in our tight-knit community: I, the wanton, husband-less mother; he that strange, untouchable boy.

I fear for my son's safety, at times. Once, when he was in the courtyard behind the shop playing marbles, a group of boys his age came and began to mock and throw stones at him. I watched from the window for a period, hoping, as any mother would, that he'd stand up for himself—but he scarcely seemed to notice their presence and simply continued with his solitary game. His powers of concentration can be so uncanny at times. When a stone struck him on the temple, I was more than obliged to go out and chase the boys away. Their ridiculing laughter seemed to echo within the confines of my mind long after they'd gone. Nathaniel seemed entirely unashamed; unaffected, even.

Even my sweet brother has shied away from us. In previous years, we'd receive invitations for Christmas suppers and Easter luncheons; now, he does not even allot us a sideways nod when we see him at mass. I feel I cannot blame him, and yet…he is my only brother, and he has forsaken us.

In any case, my son has proved himself quite the capable scholar. He is learning far more than I ever did, and seems to store each tidbit of information in some secret part of his mind, where it can never be erased. Even the most obscure information, especially in the areas of mathematics and science, he seems to recall with great zeal. I am proud of him, and only wish he would allow me to touch him.

Other mothers do not hug their boys often, so perhaps I am only obsessed by the notion of what I cannot do. Many times—before bed, in the mornings, when he's impressed me, when I'm feeling tender—do I desire to embrace my son, but anytime I try, he becomes uncomfortable and pushes me away, sometimes even curling up in a ball on the ground. Because of this extreme reaction, I've learned not to try anymore.

What's stranger than this, though, is his entire lack of regard toward my feelings. If ever he finds me crying, he seems entirely apathetic, almost as though he does not comprehend what tears or sadness mean. It is not only when I am sad, either; if I laugh, he rarely returns the sentiment, only asks why I am making that curious noise.

I love my son so, but I don't understand him. I simply cannot. I fear something is wrong with him…but I know he is not insane, that he does not belong locked up with lunatics. He functions almost exactly as any other person would, save a few odd traits. Isn’t there any sort of middle ground between madness and lucidity?
August 12th, 1902

My creeping fears of the past now have been justified: I know my son is not welcome in this town.

I sent him with a bit of money to pick up a few things from the market for supper. He returned some time later with the requested items, but also with a bloodied, dirtied shirt and a few cuts and abrasions on his bare skin.

"What has happened to you?" I asked urgently.

He seemed unconcerned. "People were brushing against me in the crowd and I began to make noises, I suppose. I few older boys must have heard me because they dragged me down into the street and began to beat me. They only stopped after a few elderly people began to shout at them for obstructing the pathway."

He spoke with such emotionless, measured syllables, I even felt a bit frightened.

"Nathan," I cried. "Doesn't this bother you? Are you hurt?"

"No," he said quite evenly. "I am fine. If you'll take this food, I'd like to go play marbles now."

"No!" I exclaimed unhappily, snatching the food from him. I cupped his cheek with my hand and he winced, as if the contact hurt him.

"It is not alright for people to do this to you. Don't you understand?" I demanded. "You should be safe walking into town on a simple errand.”

"Mother, please don't shout at me." He seemed unaffected by how upset I was.

"I'm not. I'm sorry," I hastened to reply so he would not begin that horrible groaning. "Just allow me to take that dirty shirt and clean your cuts, then you can play marbles."

"Alright," he said warily, "but please don't touch me."

As I gingerly tended to his cuts and soaked his ruined white shirt in cold water, my mind ran rampant with fears. He is twelve now. Soon people—men—would no longer hesitate to hurt him on the grounds of his being a child. I could picture the horrible scene: he on a harmless walk, they ganging up and overpowering my poor son…and I would be entirely unable to protect him! For in their eyes, I'm nothing but an aged harlot, worthy of no respect.

What am I to do? Where else am I to go? People are the same everywhere.
January 29th, 1904

Somehow, the gossip has made its way to me: the town thinks my son is insane, that he belongs in an asylum.

We've been a hot topic of discussion lately, as my son has been in more confrontations than ever before. The older he gets, the less people are restraining their hate.

I was shopping for some preserves when I heard the latest snippet: that a certain group of young men were planning to ambush my son sometime in this next week. I am lucky, in a way, to hear these horrible things beforehand, for at least I can prevent him from venturing out when he is in danger. But I know the more he evades them, the angrier they grow, and I will not always be able to hear every meditated plan.

I grow so frustrated at times, with myself, with Nathaniel, with our situation. No matter how I attempt to impress on him that he is in danger, that he must be careful, he seems unable to understand why I worry so.

"I'll be alright. I can defend myself just fine."

"Yes, but just the same, please stay in tonight."

He'll stare at me uncomprehendingly, murmur his assent, then go off to play a game.

But a mother's loving hands can only reach so far into her son's life, even with a different son such as mine. As much as I wish my love and well-intentioned wishes could protect him from the evils of the world we share, I know they cannot. I know he is slowly becoming a man, a man who must defend himself, whether he understands why he must or not. Time is merciless, and I'm afraid.
March 4th, 1906

My son, my Nathaniel…he has killed a man. Oh God, how it shakes me to my core to even pen those words! My poor unfortunate boy of fifteen has snuffed a life out with his own hands.

He has been taken away from me…the townspeople mobbed around him…I, his own mother, only knows fragments of his horrible story…

I know he was walking about town, and that I'd begged him to stay in. He refused, desiring to walk to the general store for some candy. Along the way, a group assaulted him. This…this is not so unusual anymore, but I suppose this group was especially vicious, for my son retaliated…he struck a boy with his fist. This both angered and excited the small mob, and they began to gang up on him…my son, always too strong for his age, grabbed one by the neck, they believe, and choked the life out of him.

“Self-defense,” I wanted to cry, “he knew no better!” He was provoked, egged-on, blinded by rage, but they would hear none of it.

All around me swirled the faces of the town figureheads: the doctor, the shopkeeper, the reverend, the sewing circle ladies and their children, all accusing my son and I: it was all our fault the boy was dead; we never should have stayed in their town.

They carried my son away and I caught one final glimpse of his gray-blue eyes: they were filled, for the first time, with an emotion: fear, but not the type one is used to. It was a most basic, primitive fear; one that grips any living thing if they know their very life is in jeopardy.

Oh, my poor son, my poor Nathan! God have mercy on him, for he knew no better!

This is all I know at the moment.
April 3rd, 1906

I know his fate, now. My son, who turned sixteen just two days ago, has been committed to the county asylum in Lancaster. Upon his arrest, he was professionally diagnosed with introverted Parkinson's disorder, for his rocking to and fro in times of distress. Funny they made no mention of his other strange qualities.

It's doubtful I shall be able to visit him, as he's been deemed insane, and therefore dangerous. I don't suppose there is anything more to say, except that he continues to live, against what I'd previously feared.
* * * * * * * * * * * *

You now know the story of this pitiable spinster. I'm a very old woman now, without another child nor husband nor brother. I left the sea following Nathan’s arrest to move inland to Manchester, where I could finish out my life in comparative peace.

I never saw Nathaniel again. If what I heard is to be believed, he died only a few years after his committal. Although in my mother's heart, I pray it not to be true, I know it very likely is; the insane, even those wrongfully labeled as such, are not the best-treated individuals of our world.

It was a horrible fate even a mother's blind adoration could not save him from. Ignorance can overpower even the purest of all loves.

Since I lost my dear son, I've become an avid studier of the emerging psychiatric field. It’s been a bit slow at times, as people have more important things to worry about, what with the war. I'd discovered nothing in relation to my son, until just very recently.

An American psychiatrist named Leo Kanner has described the following set of conditions: lack of emotional understanding, socially withdrawn, intellectually developed. Sounds dreadfully like my dear Nathaniel James.

He even has found a name for it: autism. An ugly word, don't you find?

Fin