Finding Fargo

For years, I fought fiercely for my autistic son. When he came back, I was still driven and relentless. Now, celebrating his 17th birthday in this strange city, I must learn from him the art of softness, and forgiveness.

By Ann Bauer

Jul 19, 2005 | For his 17th birthday, my older son asked for a trip to Fargo, N.D.

A rigidly logical and uniquely random boy, he had first consulted the road atlas he received last Christmas and keeps by his bedside to read in comforting bits, like a book of poetry. Then he went online and brought up a colorful Yahoo map so he could chart each area within a 300-mile radius.

After considering the options for a couple days, he chose Fargo because it is exactly four hours from our home in Minneapolis, because it is to the west -- in the direction of Seattle, which he very much wants to visit -- and because he had never been there. I was making dinner when he shuffled into the kitchen, head averted, and presented the request to me in his typically desultory way: spiraling from his desire to leave town and practice driving on the highway to the fact that we could stay in a hotel, have pizza for dinner and shop for new jeans with a 34-inch inseam. "I've decided," he spoke into his shoulder. "For my birthday, on Saturday, if you don't have too much work to do, and you think it wouldn't be too far, I'd like to go to Fargo."

I took a sip of wine, half a dozen questions fighting for space in my head. We couldn't have pizza here? Are you sure you want to go north in winter? How much homework do you have this weekend? Couldn't you find some place closer? And, Fargo? Why?

I opened my mouth to ask. But luckily, by the grace of some passing ghost or because I'd been slowed infinitesimally by the wine, I actually paused before speaking. I looked up -- nearly a foot to the face of the man-size person he has become -- and saw that my son's eyes were darting, the way they do when he is nervous. He'd researched, made a decision and spoken it aloud. This had cost him.

So instead, I turned toward the stove, pushing down the impatience that rose inside me and stretched like some stubborn jungle cat whenever I thought of an entire weekend's worth of writing, housework and spinning classes lost so that we might drive through miles of flat, ice-covered fields in order to reach ... Fargo. I pictured a town as brown and inelegant as its name, squat buildings like fortresses, a constant buffeting wind. "You're sure?" I asked. "That's what you want?"

He nodded, timidly. I stirred the spaghetti sauce and worked to gentle my voice. "OK, that sounds good. We'll leave early, get some breakfast on our way out of town." I was envisioning the New York-style coffee bar in Uptown -- our final glimpse of civilization, not to mention the last decent espresso I'd get all weekend. "Make sure you pack your homework. And your swimming suit. I'll try to find a hotel with a pool."

He drew a deep breath and coughed, the way he often does before speaking. "That sounds nice," he said, then nodded exactly twice and tucked his head between his broad shoulders. The blond curls he's had since he was a baby had grown thick and wild; they were creeping down his cheeks into the beginning of a beard. I made a mental note to get him a haircut and shave in Fargo. We probably would find an old-fashioned barbershop there, and if nothing else, it would kill an hour.

He shuffled toward the stairs, bound for the bedroom where an antiquated double-tape-deck stereo hangs, speakers spread like bat wings, above his desk. But at the door, he turned around and faced me, eyes raised to meet mine with something that resembled confidence. "I like Perkins," he said. "For breakfast."

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In an early review of my first novel, Garrison Keillor called it "a story of mother love and ferocity and doggedness." A close friend of mine read the quote on Amazon.com and sent me the following message: "Congratulations! Great blurb. Fierce and dogged ... I couldn't have said it better. He sure nailed you!"

"No, he nailed her," I responded. "He was referring to the mother in my book. I've never even met Garrison Keillor." But, of course, we both knew that wasn't the point.

I spent my 20s scrapping like a street fighter. First there was the matter of supporting three babies who came before my husband and I were ready, then the sudden, horrifying withdrawal of our older son when he was not quite 4 years old. I rejected the initial diagnosis of autism, certain there was a way to restore the bright, beautiful child who had suddenly become vacant and mute, chewing on his clothes and gazing at a palm that he flapped in front of his face like a delicate bird. For years, I sought alternative treatments -- biofeedback, nutritional therapy, chiropractic and kinesthesia -- and charged into schools demanding, no matter how impenetrable his stony silence seemed, that my son be treated like any other child.

Next Page: I was certain if I worked fast enough, hard enough, he could be retrieved and retrained in time to catch up with his peers

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