Daniel Isn't Talking by Marti Leimbach Page A

I inhale deeply and I have this strange feeling as though I’ve sucked all the flavour from the air leaving Daniel nothing for himself. But he doesn’t appear unhappy about it. Every ounce of concentration is focused on the shiny surface of chocolate that coats the cookie, the crumbs that linger on the wrapper. ‘Say cookie,’ I tell him.
    Emily throws her hand over her face. ‘They’re called biscuits , Mummy,’ she says.
    â€˜OΚ, fine.’ Right, of course. They are called biscuits. How can I expect him to say ‘cookie’? How silly of me. I look at Daniel again. He is reaching for the biscuit, staring at my hand as though it is the grabber in one of those machines at amusement parks that pulls a random toy from a stack of others by means of a mechanical arm. He does not look at my face or appear to be estimating whether he can persuade me to relinquish the biscuit.
    â€˜Biscuit,’ I say. But he seems to pay no attention whatsoever to my words. I just want him to try, to make anattempt, to give some sign that he wants to talk to me. But Daniel does nothing, says nothing. He reaches for the cookie and then kicks out because he cannot have it.
    â€˜Biscuit,’ I whisper. Oh, why can’t he just try to say it? He strains against the seat belt in the trolley seat, leans over the bar. I take a step back and now he’s furious, kicking his legs, pushing the handle of the trolley with both hands while rocking his body back and forth. He’s crying so loudly that people are looking, which makes me a little panicky. I move the trolley along with one hand, holding the biscuit packet away with the other. One of the many bits of advice I read in parenting books when I was pregnant was that when a child is having a tantrum the best thing you can do is remove him from the scene. If you are outside, go indoors. If you are indoors, go outside. I can’t remember the logic of why this works, though it certainly seemed to work for Emily when she used to tantrum. She was always so interested in the world that moving her to a new spot within it commanded her attention. But Daniel doesn’t care that we’ve moved past biscuits and cakes, past sweets and crisps, and are now skirting the back of the store and turning toward the frozen-food section. His cheeks are red; his hair suddenly sweaty. There’s a heat coming from him that is almost as noticeable as the tremendous noise he makes, his eyes tearing, his fists pounding the trolley in a way that really must hurt. It pains me. By the time we reach the frozen vegetables, I am nearly crying myself.
    â€˜This is Tantrum Sindy,’ says Emily.
    â€˜Sindy?’ I try to smile. ‘Where did you learn that name?’
    â€˜Sindy dolls. I want one,’ she says.
    â€˜Of course,’ I say absently. My mind is racing. I keep trying to placate Daniel, And I keep asking myself why Itry so hard. Isn’t it enough that I get around the shop without staring at all the other boys Daniel’s age, sitting in their seats or skipping along beside their mothers? Without watching them as they talk – pointing at the things they’d like to eat, asking questions about whether they can go to see the toys – envying them, sometimes dangerously close to crying out right there in public my own desperate desire to hear Daniel speak? Whenever Daniel produces even the most incomprehensible sound, I drink it in like someone who has crossed miles of desert with no water. I am desperate to hear him. I know what he’ll sound like – if he ever decides to talk at all. He’ll sound like all the other little boys I know. He’ll have the same squeaky, high-pitched voice that I hear all around me. And yet I am desperate for this voice. I am pleading with him now to please stop crying.
    â€˜Have the biscuits,’ I say finally, stabbing through the packet with my thumbnail, spilling out dozens of disc