Normally, I wouldn’t have been driving home. I went to church early to set up (we meet in a high school). Normally, I would have stayed for Sunday School and the sermon to then tear down. But my wife was home with our sick daughter and our son wanted to come to church. So, I skipped my class that morning to drive home to pick him up.
The way home is a state route turned highway. It’s mostly commercial and travels faster than the speed limit. Think of Brambleton Avenue in Roanoke. Mercifully, there is less traffic on a Sunday morning, though one is not alone, nor is it slower. Ahead, I saw a person coming onto the highway from a residential street. They were on the shoulder but floated into the highway.
I slowed down and lo, the person was of elementary age. Behold, he has Down Syndrome! So, he might be in middle school, assumed younger as we perceive them—already thinking younger (as we perceive it) as we assume. Still, his special need was apparent: he was not where he should have been and naïve to his danger. I turned around as I wouldn’t have for a homeless adult with a perceived mental illness.
Another good Samaritan had stopped by the time I parked and told me what he yet gathered from the boy, which was: nothing. The boy wasn’t a reliable communicator, as we currently label it in the disability services field. That is, what he could say was either unintelligible or not useful to solve the problem we three were in.
I called 911 (at 9:11, in fact) and told them where we were and what was going on.
I told the boy my name but never heard his. The boy didn’t think twice about following my lead to my car’s passenger side, on the shoulder and away from the road. He sat in the seat and buckled himself, though I had not told him we were driving anywhere; I did not plan to. I saw the pizza slice charm on his Crocs and showed him the pizza slices on my socks. His Crocs and pajamas gave me no clues to where he should be, besides in bed.
At some point, with the police thought to be on their way, my fellow citizen seemed to feel he was without a thing to do and said, “If you’ve got it from here, I’ll just go on and get my truck washed as I had been heading there.” I told him, “As long as you trust me with the boy (the three of us being strangers), I’m fine with that.” I had expected him to stay, maybe hoped for it. I couldn’t leave a situation like that without closure.
I talked to the boy, trying to understand and be understood. I told him the police were coming and that they’d be good guys to help him get home. I didn’t know what he might think when they arrived and likely drove off with him.
He stayed buckled the whole time, mercifully. But of course, his arms were free. In boredom, he opened the glove compartment and tore the napkins and threw the vehicle paperwork and manuals out of the open door. He put his hand on the gear shift but since I had turned the car off, it was locked. Which was a relief, because of another story for another time. He opened the console and found CDs and pens and car light bulbs and tossed those out too. I was able to pull items away from him I didn’t want torn up, like my Bible. But the half-peeled arm rest on the console was a lost cause. It’s still off to this day as a reminder of that lost boy.
Eventually, in jest, he threw his red Crocs at me which I placed on the roof. He stayed in my car and we made silly noises at each other which he laughed at and I fake-laughed at, willing every car I saw on the horizon to be police or to slow down to ask me if I had car trouble or—and this was my biggest wish—to stop at the sight of their son’s shoes. None did.
Then, a car pulled out of the same residential street I saw the boy come from. The driver honked frantically and I knew exactly who they were. They knew I’d know. I waved frantically and she pulled up behind me so quickly I was afraid she’d hit my bumper.
His mom ran out to him and exhaled “Is he okay?” As she took in that he was safe and in front of her I asked him if she was his mommy but got no answer. He only watched her recover herself, anticipating the change of shift between caregivers. She thanked me as she took him to his rightful seat and didn’t find it necessary to say more, though I wanted a swapping of stories, for closure.
I called 911 at 9:50 saying his mom had found us; they didn’t need to come. They asked how I knew it was his mother and I explained her reaction could only have been from a mother who found her lost son alive, by a highway. I had no reason to think otherwise—didn’t think to think otherwise, either.
Two minutes after I hung up with 911 the second time, a detective (I presume) called asking about the car and which way it went. After a half hour of waiting, I was discouraged they weren’t the first responder. So, I hoped all the more that my testimony didn’t alert Child Protective Services she might be a concern.
And I began thinking of the infinite what-ifs.
Epilogue:
More than a month later, I attended an Autism Acceptance Breakfast hosted by my company. At its conclusion, a woman approached me showing me a picture of her son, “Did you save my son?” I believe we were both too awed at the coincidences in all of it to say more than that.
Scot Bellavia
