𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 12
(𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
Plankton is still in the
corner, his body huddled
small, his arms wrapped
around his knees. He's
still facing the wall, yet
his antennae twitched at
the sound of their approach.
Karen's eyes fill with
concern as she sees her
husband's form, so vulnerable.
"Plankton," she says softly,
her voice barely a whisper.
"Can Chip come in to talk?"
Plankton's antennae twitch
again, and then, very
slowly, one hand moves from
his knee to form a
sharp, clear 'no' in the air.
It's a gesture that Chip
doesn't know, but Karen does.
It's a sign Plankton learned
from Sign Language, a way
to express his needs without
voicing words.
Chip looks at his mom,
confusion etched on his
face. "What's that mean?"
he whispers. Karen's heart
clenches at her son's
innocence. "It means your
dad needs more time," she
explains gently. "He's
signing 'no' in Sign
Language. It's a short
way of saying he's
not ready for company."
Chip nods slowly, his eyes
never leaving Plankton's
silent form. He's never seen
signs before. This is new
to him. But, his dad's not
deaf or hard of hearing, right?
Karen sees his confusion,
so she decides it's time to
explain. "For him, it's not
about hearing," she says.
"He's learned a few signs
to communicate when
his words fail him." Chip's eyes
widen in realization. "But why
does he do that?" he whispers.
"Because sometimes, sweetie,
his brain gets really, really
tired," Karen says, her voice
soothing. "And when it's
overstimulated, trying to talk
can be really hard. So he
can use his hands instead.
But he only knows a few signs,
not full sentences."
Chip nods slowly, his eyes
still on Plankton. "But...
but what signs does he
know? Can you teach me
what signs he might use?"
Karen nods, her voice
gentle. "Of course, honey.
He knows the alphabet
but I'll teach you how to
say yes and no.."
They go and sit on the floor
outside the bedroom door,
Karen teaching Chip the
few signs that Plankton had
learned. "This one's for 'yes,'"
she says, moving her hand
up and down. "And this one's
for 'no,'" she continues, two of
her fingers tapping the thumb.
Chip mimics her movements,
his eyes focused, determined.
He practices these signs, his
hands a bit shaky at first.
But as they go through them,
his movements become more
confident. Karen's heart
swells with pride. Despite
the situation, she's grateful
for this moment—a chance
for her son to learn and grow,
to understand his father
a little more.
After a few minutes of
practice, Karen suggests they
try again. Chip nods, his
eyes determined. Together,
they enter the room. Plankton
hasn't moved.
"Dad?" Chip says softly.
Plankton's antennae flick
towards them, but he
doesn't react. "I know
you're upset," Chip
continues, his voice
trembling. "But I just want
to tell you... I love you."
Plankton's body stiffens. He's
listening, Karen knows, but
his response is slow to come.
"And I know you love me
too," Chip adds, his voice
getting stronger. "But sometimes,
it's hard to tell. Can you...
can you just tell me if
you're okay?" He pauses,
his hand hovering. Plankton's
antennae twitch again.
This time, he forms a
different sign—one that
Chip doesn't recognize. It's a
quick movement of his hand
out to the side, then back to
his chest, his fingers
splayed. Karen's eyes widen
in understanding. "He's
asking for space," she whispers
to Chip. "That's his way of
saying 'I need to be alone
right now.' It's okay," she
says, her voice soft. "He just
needs some time alone."
Chip nods, his eyes never
leaving Plankton's form.
He raises his hand, his
fingers mimicking the sign
his dad had just made.
"Space," he asks, his voice
uncertain. Karen nods, her
eyes filled with relief. "Good
job," she whispers.
Plankton's antennae twitch
again, and this time, he
slowly turns his head to
look at them. His eye
met Chip's, and for a
moment, there's a flicker of
something—understanding,
maybe? Chip's heart jumps.
"I know you're okay," Chip
says, his voice hopeful.
Plankton's hand moves again,
forming the 'Space' sign.
It's clear, deliberate. Chip's
heart sinks.
Karen sees the confusion
on Chip's face and steps in.
"Chip," she says gently, "he's
asking for space. That's his
way of saying 'I need to be
alone right now.'" She pauses,
swallowing hard. "It's okay.
We'll give him that."
Chip nods, his hand dropping
to his side. He feels a mix
of disappointment and
relief. "Okay," he whispers,
his voice small. "Good night."
Karen gives his shoulder a
comforting squeeze before
Chip left their room. Karen
turns back to Plankton.
"I'm sorry for earlier." Karen
says. "I know that must've
been traumatizing for you.
I wasn't thinking clearly
and I hurt you. I just felt
the need to protect. But I
didn't do so in a way that
made you feel safe. I
should've known better.
I'm sorry."
Plankton's body relaxes
slightly, his antennae still
twitching. He moves his
hand again, a new sign.
It's not one Karen taught
Chip, but she knows it
instantly—it's 'I understand.'
Her heart clenches at the
sight of his attempt to
comfort her, when he's
the one in pain. She nods.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Want me to tuck you in?"
With a quick, precise
movement, Plankton signs
'Without Touching'. Karen nods,
understanding his need for
his personal space, even in this
intimate moment. She watches
as he shifts, his eye never
leaving hers. She respects his
boundaries, even though it's hard
not to want to comfort him
with a physical touch.
Then, with the same
deliberate care, he forms
the letters 'T', 'R', 'Y', 'I', 'N', 'G'. It's
not a full sign, but it's
enough. 'Trying to forgive',
he's signing. Karen's eyes
fill with tears. Her heart
swells with love for him,
for his willingness to communicate
despite the barriers that autism
can put between them. She
mirrors the sign back to him,
showing she understands.
The room remains quiet,
their silent conversation
speaking volumes. Plankton's
body finally relaxes a little
more, his shoulders dropping.
He signs 'Good night' with
his hand, his movements
precise and clear. Karen
mirrors his gesture, her own
hand shaking slightly. "Good
night," she says, her voice
barely audible.