Zully and Carlita, Kieletta's mom (not their real names), talk softly in Spanish while Kieletta and I make faces at each other. Kieletta is thirteen and has Downs Syndrome. She and her parents moved to Akron from Puerto Rico about two years ago, seeking better treatment for complications that had arisen from Kieletta's condition. Puerto Rican doctors had said she had Multiple Sclerosis, but the physician here said it's something called Downs Syndrome Dementia.
To me, however, Kieletta seems like a pretty normal Downs kid: a little shy, but warm and funny and eager to learn new things. As I scribble notes about the examination room into my notebook, Kieletta is increasingly curious about me. I tilt my notebook to the side so she can see my inky scratches. She screws up her eyes and examines the paper, then she pats the paper with her palm and motions for me to give her a sheet. I tear a clean one out and hand it to her. She motions for my pen. I hand it to her.
I take out another pen and write in large block letters: I LIKE TO SCRIBBLE. Kieletta's English is limited, as is some of her cognitive ability, but she begins to diligently copy what I have written, one letter at a time. Her paper rests atop a magazine in her lap, over the brightly flowered skirt she wears with black tights and a purple turtleneck sweater. When she gets to the k, she falters. I write a letter k all by itself, a little larger than the other words. Perhaps her vision is poor and she simply cannot make it out?
After peering closely at my notebook, one eye squinted shut and the other popped wide, Kieletta sits up straight with a look of triumph on her face. She moves her hands around and points to her own chest. Yes, I say stupidly in English, like your name! She traces the letter on her paper and finishes the word with an e.
I then write in my notebook again for her to see: I LIKE = MI GUSTA. She begins to copy the letters, but realizes my lesson before she finishes. Her close-set hazel eyes look deeply into mine. I say "mi gustan" and touch her tall, tan boots. She smiles at me, turns to her mother and says something in Spanish that I cannot understand. Carlita smiles at me, though, and says, "Si! It means 'I like,' mi gusto." We all laugh and Zully looks really proud of me. Kieletta says something more to Zully.
"She really likes you," Zully answers my inquiring look. "And it's a real privilege, because she doesn't always like everybody."
I meet Kieletta's lopsided grin with sincere gratitude. "Gracias," I say, with as much meaning as I can.
We continue our copying routine for most of the hour we spend waiting for the doctor. I draw a snowman, a flower, a sailboat in waves full of little fish. Kieletta dutifully copies each one, a single shape at a time, until an image emerges and she laughs with delight. When I draw a simple block-like house, she is enthralled. She copies it over and over, making a row of asymmetrical houses with spiky chimneys emitting plumes of scribbly smoke.
Eventually, she puts down the pen and shakes her right hand out as if it hurts. The dark skin on her tiny hands and arms is so ashy, I wish I had some moisturizer to give her. I make one last drawing, a silly smiley face with curly hair and bucked teeth, but her interest in drawing is gone now. She holds up the pen with the cap end toward me. I pull off the cap and she turns the pen around for me to place the cap over the nib. She puts the pen and her folded-up sheet of drawings carefully into her little gold purse, which I notice is empty otherwise.
I am surprised how gratifying this young woman's approbation is to me. Her mother is polite and pleasant with me, her father was cool and a little guarded in the waiting room. Kieletta, however, seemed warm and comfortable with me almost immediately. Is it just the sweet, trusting nature of Downs Syndrome? I have limited experience with people who suffer this affliction. One of the bag boys at the grocery store I frequent has Downs; he is always talkative and enthusiastic as he works, responsive to the smallest gesture of kindness. A few patients who came to the doctor's office I used to work in had Downs, and they were similarly friendly in a quick, innocent way.
I think it's the utter lack of guile or pretense that strikes me about people with Downs, Kieletta in particular. She has no hidden agenda, no selfish goal. She simply sizes up a person from their behavior toward her, then reacts in a completely honest way. How rare and refreshing that is.
When the doctor finally arrives, he looks like an ice cream man: short and stocky, he is dressed in white from head to toe. His bald head emerges from his collarless shirt and lab coat like a fudge-icicle. He is preceded through the door by a bulky wooden cart, as high as his rib cage, that contains a wireless modem and laptop computer. He plugs the modem into the wall socket and conducts his entire examination from behind the cart, one white Doc Martin resting on the floor of the cart like the footrest at a bar.
This posture seems remote at first, especially since he directs his gaze almost exclusively at the computer screen, even as his questions are directed at Zully and Carlita. The nature of his inquiry is comprehensive, however, and his sonorous voice sounds gentle and concerned. When Zully mentions that Kieletta has been having headaches every day for over a month, the doctor's deep brown eyes narrow with concern and he leans his elbows on the cart, moving the intensity of his gaze from the computer to Zully, Kieletta, and Carlita. He asks about Kieletta's eating habits, how much caffeine she drinks, when her regular bedtime is. Zully's genuine concern for her clients is evident in her rhythm of translation. She asks Carlita the doctor’s questions softly, sometimes restating so the question is clearer. I cannot understand the language, but there is no mistaking Zully's seriousness and focus. It's as if these were family members, not clients. A pattern emerges: both Kieletta and her father snore heavily, and both have fatigue throughout the day. Perhaps sleep apnea is the culprit? I notice that the doctor is wearing cufflinks shaped like red and white candy.
I have to leave before the doctor is finished with his examination, and I slip out as unobtrusively as I can. Kieletta waves and smiles at me when I put my hand out to shake hers. I touched her on her shoulder earlier and she seemed a little upset by the contact. I wave and smile back.
Outside the office, Kieletta's dad is nestled in an overstuffed chair by the elevator, peering sleepily at his cell phone. I touch his arm and he starts.
"Hola; gracias," I say haltingly as I motion behind me to the doctor's office.
"Is okay?" He smiles guardedly at me.
"Is okay," I answer with relief. I really need to study Spanish more. As I drive home, I cannot help but feel good. There is something deeply gratifying about the approval of an innocent.
