“What concerns us is this. Eric, while he is as bright as he can be, has clear audio processing issues and an obvious fine-motor issue, in that he seldom does an adequate job of transferring data to paper.”
“I see,” I said.
Dr. Moore looked to Ms. Daniels, who now got into the act. She opened a folder on her lap and produced a writing sample. “This is average work in my class.” She handed me a page of written work by another student. “This is Eric’s work.”
There was no comparison. Eric’s work was sloppy and impossible to read. The other child’s work was at least twice in volume and easily read, although it did contain spelling errors. Eric’s work had no punctuation or capital letters. The other child’s work did.
“Well, quite a difference, I agree, but what does it mean?”
“Well, it means that he needs to be seen by an occupational therapist.”
“I see.” I saw no such thing and she knew it.
“Second, I’d just like to finish going through the results with you. Please understand that here at the Smith School we are not equipped for LDGT kids. We do not have time in our curriculum to offer occupational therapy, social skill workshops, or the therapies that Eric needs.”
“What is LDGT?” I said.
“Learning disabled, gifted, and talented,” Ms. Daniels said in her smug little way.
I began to breathe deeply, trying to compose myself. The compliment of gifted and talented hardly made up for the learning-disabled part. Dr. Moore could see that I was becoming upset.
“Mrs. Levine,” she said, “Eric is a wonderful child. There are many ways he can learn to compensate for these issues. It’s just that the Smith School doesn’t offer those services. I’m afraid we do too many children a disservice by keeping them here. They simply fall through the cracks.”
“You know,” I said, “you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not willing to just have him put through one battery of tests at this school and then put him in some school for kids with problems! I’d have to be way more convinced than this.”
“We understand, Mrs. Levine,” Dr. Moore said, “and we encourage you to have our findings checked out with another professional. Here is a list of colleagues that I’ve known for some time; they all specialize in children. Or you can use anyone you like.”
She handed me a piece of paper and my hands were shaking.
She continued, “I think it would also be important to reassure you that it is not our intention to just ask you to remove Eric today or even this school year. I’d like to suggest that for the present, we find a good OT to work with him.”
“That sounds fine to me,” I said, not knowing what in the hell an OT did.
“We go one step at a time, Mrs. Levine.”
One step at a time. Learning disabled. Fine motor. Audio processing. I couldn’t get their words out of my mind. They were telling me that Eric had to leave their school! What if they were wrong? They had to be wrong! I’d take Eric to another doctor. Tomorrow!
As I walked down Madison Avenue toward home, I looked into the faces of passersby. Did they have a child like mine? Had they found solutions? The words followed me home and tortured me all afternoon. How in the world would I find the courage to tell Richard? I wanted to take Eric and run away.
MISS LAVINIA’S JOURNAL
Having children just might be the most thankless job in the world.Trip came to me again for money and made no mention of the other loan.This time it was ten thousand. I can’t just keep on handing it to him so I said, Trip, darling, are you snorting cocaine? Now, I know that sounds like an awful thing to ask a person, but I needed to know. He just looked at me like I had two heads and denied it. Something is definitely going on. And Caroline? Something is up with her too. I can just feel it in my bones.Thanksgiving is around the corner and I haven’t heard from her in a month.
Eight
Becoming Mom
1995
IT wasn’t enough to love Eric with all my heart. I began to realize he wasn’t mine—just that on loan thing from heaven they talk about in parents’ self-help books—but that I had to help him to prepare to succeed on his own and I had to do a million things to help him leave me one day. Looking ahead to the day that some woman would want Eric for her husband gave me one of those rare moments to pause on the wheel of life. I began to see for the first time how Mother felt about Frances Mae—that she had raised and loved Trip only for Frances Mae to steal him away. That Frances Mae actually slept with him and gave him children must’ve driven her nuts when she thought about it.
I knew that I had to make Richard see that although Eric had learning style differences, he was every bit as worthy of his father’s love and affection and respect as Harry was. Learning style difference—that’s what they called it now—it was a kinder label. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like the educational system was salivating to label children something. So, in the interest of balance, I planned a family excursion that included Harry.
I arranged for a rental house in the Poconos for the weekend. The single best feature of living in the Northeast was the splendor of the fall colors. The following weekend promised to be the peak of all Mother Nature could offer.
I packed puzzles, games, music, hiking clothes, and camera equipment. In my own halfway vegetarian style, I made a wonderful Irish stew with lots of carrots and potatoes and froze it. Then I made two quarts of bolognese sauce for spaghetti for the boys and one quart of marinara for me. At the last minute I threw in two quarts of meatless chili. All of this went into a large cooler with frozen plastic bricks of ice to keep it and the other groceries cool.
I took Eric to the Gap and bought him great-looking sweats and jeans to wear and even went so far as to give Richard specific instructions for Lois to pack for Harry the same things. I insisted to myself that when I came clean with Richard about Eric’s learning evaluation, it would be in a setting that would give both of them the maximum emotional elastic. I was also determined to have the weekend go well.
We packed the rented Jeep with all our duffel bags and gear and made our way through the Lincoln Tunnel to Route 80 west. Richard drove; Eric and Harry were to be the copilots, sharing maps with preplotted routes in yellow highlighter. I gave the boys snacks of juice boxes, bananas, and cheese crackers. They were getting along fine.
“When we get to the Poconos, I get to pick my bedroom because I’m older,” Harry said.
“No, you don’t,” Richard said, “I’m the oldest! I get to pick!”
“Bad news,” I said, “the condo only has two bedrooms—ha! One has a king-size bed and the other one has bunk beds! But there is a pull-out couch in the living room if anybody wants it.”
“Not me,” Eric said, “I’ll take either bunk. I don’t give!”
“You don’t give what?” Harry said.
“A damn,” Eric said.
“Eric!” Richard said. “In this family we do not use foul language.” He did not say it in a mean or severe way, but very kindly to minimize Eric’s embarrassment in front of Harry. A gentle reprimand. Two points for Richard.
“Sorry, Dad,” Eric said, “I should have said that it doesn’t matter to me where I sleep.”
“Right,” I said, “or you could have said, ‘I don’t attach condemnation to my feelings about in which bed I sleep.’”
“Condensation?” Eric said.
“No, son, condensation is moisture gathered from the air, condemnation is when you damn something,” Richard said.
“You cursed!” Harry said. “Condensation! Jeesch! Even I knew the difference!”
“Yeah, well, I’ll bet the people in the place of condemnation would like some condensation!” I said.
Eric started to giggle. Just like my father had done with me, I played the word game with Eric all the time. Richard just shook his head. Harry sucked his teeth and looked out the window.
“Or consideration and compensation!” Eric added and reached over the seat and f
ingered my shoulder.
“Good one!” I said. We drove on.
We left Route 80 at Tannersville and found Hutch’s Real Estate’s office. They gave us the keys and a small map and off we went to find the house. It was in a small subdivision, an A-frame cabin on a lake. The small yard was filled with trees in all the colors you could dream to see in autumn. Sugar sap maples of bright red and orange, towering oaks with leaves of gold. Every time a breeze blew over the water, a rush of leaves swirled through the air in spirals. It was absolutely perfect.
We unloaded the car and moved in. The boys took their things to their room and Harry came running out minutes later, with his Nintendo to hook up to the television.
“What do y’all want for supper tonight?” I asked. “Spaghetti or stew?”
The boys both voted for spaghetti and I took the containers out to thaw. I had made two things that ninety-eight percent of all American boys eat. And I had brought homemade garlic bread—everyone liked that.
I could see Richard through the sliding glass doors. He was out on the deck, looking over the water. It was truly beautiful in the late afternoon light. I opened a bottle of white wine, half filled two goblets, and went out to join him. He took the glass, smiled, and put his arm around my shoulder, squeezing it. He was still wearing his leather jacket and I had on a thick pullover sweater with a turtleneck. We looked as happy as any couple could, except that I was searching for the moment and method to reveal Eric’s test results to Richard. No question about it, I was dragging my feet. Then, in a moment of confidence, I decided to just spill the beans.
“Well, Richard?” I said.
“Hmmm? I wonder if they have a canoe anywhere.”
“Probably, and that might be fun! Listen, at some point this weekend, I have to talk to you about something—maybe we can steal a few minutes away from the boys.”
Now I had his attention. “What’s going on, Caroline? Something wrong?”
“Maybe, maybe not. The Smith School ran some tests on Eric and I’m unsure of how to interpret the results.”
“I spoke to them. That old battle-ax called me—Dr. What’s-her-name.”
“Judith Moore. She called you?” I was flabbergasted! How dared she? “What did she tell you?”
“Come inside with me, sweetheart.” Richard pulled the sliding door open and we stepped inside. He closed it, stepped around me, and went to the boys’ room. “I want you boys to go and gather firewood, okay? Get plenty of kindling!”
In minutes, they were outside with a canvas-handled wood blanket, happily picking up sticks and small pieces of wood. I watched them from the kitchen window; they seemed to be getting on fine. Richard opened the refrigerator and refilled our glasses. I took mine with shaky hands.
“Look, Caroline, I’ve known since Eric was very small that he had gifts and he had other issues. I could tell by the way he struggled to learn to write his name. I could tell by a thousand things he did and didn’t do. I knew it was only a matter of time until it all came out, and here we are.”
I searched his face for some emotion but for Richard, it was a fait accompli. If he had known all along, it explained his attitude toward Harry. Harry was his pick of his litter. Eric was somehow damaged and he had neglected to nurture him, the same way a mother in the wild disengages from the runt. I thought my heart was being wrenched in two.
“So that’s it?” I said. “You’ve known this all along and never said a word to me?”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he said.
I sat down on the couch and was too stunned to say anything! I put my forehead on the heel of my hand and looked at the floor, trying to understand the weight of Richard’s knowing and how he viewed the truth about Eric. I looked up at him.
“Richard, you are either stupid or cruel or both!”
“Don’t speak to me that way, Caroline. I am not stupid and I am not cruel.”
Oh, but you can be, I thought. “Richard, this is classic shoe-maker’s children syndrome. . . .”
“I don’t believe I’m familiar with that one, Caroline.”
“It’s the one where the shoemaker’s children go without shoes. Surely there must have been things we could have done early on that would have helped Eric?”
“Caroline. I guess that, like you, I didn’t want to have to face it.”
That was easy to understand and yet I wondered why Richard’s choice of words always smacked of ice and why I would always rush to anger. Maybe men were more pragmatic and maybe I was overly emotional. We looked at each other and then outside to the yard where the boys ran together. I tried to calm myself.
“It just seems so unbelievable to me,” I said. “Look at them.”
Both boys were running all over the yard and racing to see who could gather the most wood. It was normal friendly competition, sibling stuff. There was no visible issue or difference between their abilities to perform this simple task, and yet, Harry was much older. Harry was smaller and dark like Richard and Lois. Eric looked like my brother and father—long and lanky and blond. They looked like equals to me.
“I always used to wonder why you didn’t insist that Eric play soccer,” he said. “It would’ve been so good for his grapho-motor skills.”
“I didn’t know it; that’s why.” If you had said something . . . My thermometer began to rise.
“Or why you didn’t find more friends for him. I mean, Lois may be diabolical, but at least she understood that children need to gain social skills, not just vocabularies.”
“Richard, you can’t possibly be blaming me for Eric’s learning issues, are you?” By now it was a struggle not to raise my voice.
“No more than I blame myself for denying they existed. Look, Caroline, Churchill was dyslexic; so was Thomas Edison. So are over fifty percent of the folks these educators and evaluators identify as gifted and talented. If you ask me, there’s something drastically wrong with the educational system, not the kids.”
“Well, if liking Eric’s teachers was a requirement, I’d flunk everything.”
“Bottom of the pile. Horrible creatures. We will figure it all out. Don’t worry. Come on, let’s go and help them carry all that wood. Looks like they picked up half of Pennsylvania!”
Richard went outside and I went to grab my camera. I don’t know what was the matter with me. If Richard wasn’t stressed to death over Eric, then why was I? I just kept thinking that if I’d only known sooner—if! The light of day was beginning to fade, stars were already visible in the dark sky. With the sun at my back I put them all together on the tiny dock with the lake behind them and clicked away a roll of film. In those photographs would be the memories of this weekend and talking to Richard about the truth.
Friday and Saturday, we set the table, made the meals, cleared the tables, washed the dishes. Eric and I did most of the work, Richard read, and Harry spent a lot of time in the yard kicking his soccer ball around by himself. If you asked me what that all meant I’d say that Eric certainly appeared normal, Richard was uninterested, and Harry was not really with any of us in his heart.
It was Saturday night, right before eight, that Eric came down from the attic with an old telescope. He took some paper towels and wiped off the dust, folded it over his shoulder, and went outside in the dark. From the living room, I watched him walk down to the dock and set it up.
Lights twinkled in the distance from homes on the other side of the lake. It was a perfect night to be in the mountains—fifty degrees and clear. I wiped the last of the crumbs from the counters, put on my jacket, and went outside to join him. Two lightweight metal folding chairs were leaning against the shed so I carried them down to the dock.
“I’ll bet we’re not the first people to do this from this dock,” I said. “The chairs were right there by the door of the shed.”
Eric mumbled uh-huh and continued to focus the lens. “Wow!” he said.
“What?”
“Look, Mom! I can see the moon!” He wa
s very excited and wanted me to look. “I’m going to get Dad and Harry!”
“Okay, you do that!” I said. I watched him running up to the house and all the while I worried how a child so full of life, so curious about everything, who tried so hard to please, could have these troubling issues. I watched Eric through the windows, trying to convince Richard and Harry to come outside and join us. Finally, Richard got up and reluctantly came outside, Eric pulling his arm all the way to the dock.
“Sit here, Dad,” Eric said, “I wanna show you something!” Eric adjusted the lens and then stood back. “Look! See the moon?” Richard said that indeed he did. “See that giant dark spot? Galileo thought it was the ocean so he named it Mare, which is sea in Latin.”
“Did you learn that in school, son?” Richard asked.
“Nah. Learned it from the Discovery Channel,” Eric said.
“You let him watch television?” Richard said.
“Don’t you live in the same apartment?” I said, with wide eyes. “Eric and I watch it every Sunday night.”
“And you wanna know why the craters always look pretty much the same?” He didn’t wait for us to respond. “Because there’s no atmosphere to move the dust around! Hardly any gravity, either, to pull stuff to it! And did you know that the minerals on the moon are the exact same chemical composition as the rocks on earth? Basalt! Yep, all from volcanoes! It’s true!”
Richard stood up and put his hands on Eric’s shoulders. “Son, that is absolutely fascinating! What do you think it implies? About the origins of the moon and earth, I mean.”
“Dunno. That they come from Mars?” Eric was grinning from ear to ear. “That maybe a billion years ago, a big chunk of Mars got loose and hurled itself into space? I dunno. What do you think, Dad?”
“I think that’s a question for you to answer when you grow up, Eric, that’s what I think. Come on, let’s go build a fire,” Richard said, “it’s getting chilly.”
“And roast marshmallows?” Eric said.
“Yes,” Richard said, nodding his head. “And roast marshmallows.”
Plantation Page 9
