by Gary Braver
“It’s burning,” Dylan screamed. “Fire!”
I’m going to lose my fucking mind, Martin thought, as he shot to the stove, turned off the gas, and pulled the pan off the burner.
Suddenly the smoke alarm went off, filling the house with a hideous electronic wail.
While Dylan yelled, his hands to his ears, and Rachel stood by the sink crying, Martin pulled out a kitchen chair. Yup! Any second now I’m gonna hear a snap like a celery stalk, and then I can join the chorus, screaming and blubbering. Yoweeeee!
He punched off the alarm.
The pancakes looked like smoking hockey pucks. Martin felt the crazy urge to laugh, but pushed it down. Instead he tore a couple of sheets off the paper-towel rack and handed them to Rachel. While she dried her face, Dylan insisted that she hold her finger up so he could kiss the boo-boo.
Just another normal little breakfast scene in the happy Whitman household.
“I think you’re going to make it,” Martin said, looking at her finger, “thanks to ole Dr. Dylan here.” He winked at his son. The tip of Rachel’s index finger was a white crust of burnt skin. Martin tousled his son’s hair. “You made her feel better already, right?”
Rachel nodded and caught her breath. She smiled thinly and gave her son a hug.
Seeing Rachel pull herself together again, Dylan rapidly repaired. “Am I going to be a doctor when I grow up?”
“I don’t see why not,” Martin said. “You’ve got the touch. Now maybe you should go upstairs and put the other shoe and sock on, okay, Doc?”
Dylan looked to Rachel. “Take two ass burns and call me in the morning,” he said, and headed upstairs. It was something Martin said all the time.
Rachel nodded, then headed for the stove to clean the frying pan. Her body had slumped into itself again.
Martin came over to her and gave her a hug. She let him, but it was like hugging a dead person. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure?”
She nodded.
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing to tell,” she whispered.
“I don’t believe you. And you don’t believe you.” He kissed her on the forehead. “You never were a good liar.”
Her eyes filled with tears again. “You’re going to be late for your meeting. Say hello to Charlie.”
He nodded. “I love you, woman, but I wish you’d let me in.”
She hugged him weakly, and he left.
He was right: She never was a good liar.
Rachel watched Martin pull out of the driveway. She cleaned the pan and made another batch of pancakes. When she was done, she called Dylan down. And while he ate, she got dressed.
A little before nine o’clock she dropped Dylan off at DellKids and headed toward Rockville, which was nearly forty miles south of Hawthorne. They had thought of finding a local pediatrician, but Dr. Rose had attended Dylan since his infancy. And Rachel liked the man. More importantly, Dylan liked him. He was a warm and gracious man who never rushed through an examination.
To get to the highway, Rachel headed down Magnolia Drive, trying to ease her mind against the fugue playing inside her head.
Had the MRI results been normal, the doctor would have called himself and just said things looked fine. If there was a problem, he would surely have called himself—unless he didn’t get the chance because of the emergency. Maybe he wanted to talk to her about some special learning programs for Dylan.
Yes, think Special Program, she told herself. Special Program. Nice and normal. No problems. No tumors. No …
It was her idea to have the scan in the first place, and Dr. Rose had agreed—a good precautionary measure since the procedure was easy and noninvasive.
Normal procedure. Normal precaution.
That was what she had told herself. Her cover story to herself.
As Rachel drove along, she felt the onslaught of an anxiety attack. She tried to concentrate on the scenery, tried to distract herself by taking in the arborway of maples and oaks and the seaside mansions that clutched the rocky coastline—mansions with their driveway entrances of granite pillars, some surmounted with large alabaster pineapples that forbade you to enter. The road opened up to a sea view and a scattering of shingled homes with deep and closely cropped lawns, sculpted hedges, and trellised gardens festooned with rose blossoms. In the distance, powerboats cut quicksilver plumes across the harbor under a brilliant blue sky.
It was all so perfect. All so good and pure. And now she was going to see if she had destroyed her son.
As she drove down Route 93 toward Rockville, her mind tripped back.
It had started rather casually—like the occasional cough that develops into pneumonia or the dull ache in the left arm that throbs its way to triple bypass surgery. The prelude was a casual note that came in the mail one day early last fall:
Dear Mrs. Whitman,As you know, we have a parentlteacher’s conference in two weeks, but
I’m wondering if we could meet sooner—possibly next week,
No big problem, but I’d like to discuss Dylan’s progress …
It was signed Karen Andrews, Dylan’s teacher. They had enrolled him in a Montessori preschool in Plymouth because the place had one of the best reputations on the South Shore. It also had an admissions waiting list two years long. Not taking any chances and determined to get the very best for their son, Rachel and Martin had entered Dylan’s name when he was eighteen months old. He was four when he started.
She could still recall how excited he was—how excited they all were. For weeks before opening day, they would lie down with him at bedtime and he would count the intervening days. When it finally arrived, Rachel had dressed him in blue plaid shorts, a white polo shirt, and new white and blue striped sneakers, of which he was very proud. With his hair, a shiny chestnut color, parted neatly on the side, and his big green eyes and sweet pink mouth, he looked positively gorgeous. Because of the occasion, Martin took the morning off so they could all go together. Rachel believed in rituals, and this occasion was tantamount to Dylan’s first birthday or Christmas.
Before they headed off, Rachel had directed Martin and Dylan into the front yard where she shot a roll of color prints. Later she would select the best shots and put them in a special album of first-schoolday photos, documenting Dylan’s progress from then to college.
The note arrived in mid-October—the sixteenth, to be exact. Ms. Andrews wanted to set up a conference with Rachel and Martin. They agreed on a day; but because Martin was unexpectedly out of town, Rachel met with the teacher herself.
Karen, a sincere and dedicated woman, began by saying that Dylan was an adorable and sweet child, a view shared by the entire staff. She also went on to say that he loved music and had a beautiful voice, and that he was popular with the other children. “He’s very sociable and very caring of the other kids,” she said. “He also has a great sense of humor, and gets the kids laughing.”
Rachel nodded, thinking this was leading to a complaint that Dylan was too much the class clown, working up the other kids to rowdiness. It wouldn’t take much to encourage him—just a couple of laughs to put him on a roll. But would clowning around be reason for a parental conference? “So what’s the problem?”
“Well, his language.”
“His language?” Maybe Dylan had picked up some swears from Martin.
“He seems to have some difficulty accessing and processing words. Each morning we go to the big wall calendar and put a Velcro star on that day. But first we recite the days of the week in unison. Dylan doesn’t know them. He doesn’t remember from day to day. He also doesn’t know what year it is, even though it’s written down in large letters and we do this every day.”
“Is that so unusual at his age?” It was possible that he was just a little behind the other kids. Martin himself didn’t learn to read until he was eight.
“No, but he also has problems with comprehe
nding What? Where? When? questions. If I ask him ‘What day is it?’ he’ll just repeat the question. Or if I ask ‘Where are the crayons?’ he’ll just answer ‘Crayons’ or repeat the question. He doesn’t seem to understand some basic language concepts. I mean, you must have observed these things at home.”
She had but thought it was just his age. That he would grow out of the problem.
“The same in reading group,” Ms. Andrews continued. “To make story time interactive, I read a few sentences then ask the children what they think about this or that or what do they expect will happen next. And we go right around the circle so each child gets a chance to respond and be rewarded for his or her input. But when it’s Dylan’s turn, he often won’t recall what the story was about or what’s been said about it.”
Rachel began to feel an uneasiness grip her. “What do you think the problem is?”
“Well, it could be several things. It’s possible he’s experiencing some emotional difficulties at home.”
“I can assure you that we’re happily married,” Rachel said defensively. “And if my husband and I have a problem, we make it a point not to discuss it in front of Dylan.”
“I’m sure. But my point is that Dylan has some kind of LD problem.”
“LD?”
“Learning disability.”
“Learning disability?” She uttered the words as if testing a foreign expression.
“He seems to be developmentally delayed. One possibility is that he’s dyslexic. Or he may have some form of ADD—attention deficit disorder. These problems are not uncommon. Twenty percent of all schoolchildren have some form of disability. But it’s something that can be tested for and dealt with very effectively.”
“You mean drugs? Ritalin or whatever?”
“That or other effective drugs. But I think you should consult your pediatrician and look for specialists to evaluate him. Maybe a neurophysician.”
Rachel felt her insides clutch. Learning disability. Dyslexia. Developmentally delayed. Attention deficit disorder. Ritalin. In a matter of moments her son had graduated from class clown to a child suffering neurological dysfunctions.
While she sat there, Rachel’s mind had scrambled for explanations—external realities that she could point to.
The environment. She had taken every precaution possible. Their first house had been built in 1935, and had tested positive for lead paint. So they had the place stripped of every square inch of old paint—which cost a fortune. Then they had all the asbestos insulation removed from the basement heating pipes and replaced with a nontoxic substitute. She had even tested the house for radon gas, finding it perfectly safe. Although Rockville water came from a local reservoir, Rachel took no chances and had spring water delivered to the house every two weeks.
Television. Even though she had restricted Dylan to maybe an hour or two a day—and exclusively to PBS children’s shows—she would sometimes catch him watching it on the sly. God knows how all the rapid-fire cuts could mess up a child’s brain development. Maybe Dylan had a special susceptibility to all the flash, compromising his powers of concentration. She knew Martin would resist because they already had fights over letting Dylan watch sporting events and comedy shows. “It’s quality time—what fathers and sons do,” he had protested. “Sitting passively in front of a baseball game broken up by two hundred beer and car commercials isn’t quality time,” she had shot back. “If you want some quality time take him to Fenway Park or go in the backyard and play catch.” Two hours after her meeting with Karen Andrews, Rachel had their cable TV service terminated in the family room. Martin grumbled for days.
Looking back, she realized how futile all that ramrod determination now seemed. Because the problem went back before that October morning, before Dylan’s first day at preschool. Before his birth.
It went back to Halloween night of her junior year in college. She was at an all-night party at a friend’s house, and everybody was doing acid. She had been dating a chemistry grad who made his own LSD in the school’s lab. The stuff was easy to synthesize, and a lot cheaper than that sold on the street. But this one night he had introduced her to a variation—acid laced with another drug he had synthesized—the combo, he said, would make sex “cosmic.” The street name was TNT. Like acid, the stuff was psychedelic, turning the bedroom walls into polychrome liquid crystal surfaces. But the real kick was sex: An orgiastic pulsation of light and sound where every physical sensation was amplified into starburst scintillations that climaxed in a supernova explosion.
As she pulled her car into the parking space behind Dr. Rose’s office, the sick irony struck her: She was joining the ranks of other mothers and fathers of LD kids, fluent in the statistics, the lingo, and that antiseptic alphabet soup—ADD, ADHD, LD, FAS, WISC. IQ. MRI. LSD.
And the disorder had its source in her: TNT.
“You can take a seat, Mrs. Whitman. The doctor will be with you in a few minutes,” said Liz, Dr. Rose’s secretary, when Rachel entered the office.
Working to calm herself, she picked up a copy of Parenting magazine and thumbed through the pages, trying to focus her mind. It seemed every other story in the magazine was directed at her: “Raising an Eager Reader.” “Baby Games that Teach.” “Hyperactivity Hype?” “How to Help Your Kids Learn Better.” “Great Expectations.”
God, let him be okay. I beg you.
Liz opened the door. “The doctor will see you now.”
Rachel followed her down the corridor to the doctor’s office. “Sorry about the wait.” Dr. Rose was a handsome man of about fifty with a simpatico face and large warm exotic eyes.
Rachel tried to read them as she shook his hand.
“Have a seat, please.” When he sat back down behind his desk he picked up a folder from a pile of material. “Well, the results of the brain scan are back.”
Tumor, whispered a voice in her head. He’s going to say Dylan has a brain tumor.
The doctor got up and slipped the MRI scan on the light display board.
There were three separate black-and-white negative sheets with sixteen shots on each from different angles. It was shocking to see her little boy rendered as a specimen, stripped to his bones and teeth.
“As I explained the other day, brain scanners can’t see individual cells, nor can they tell if brain cells have been rearranged or are missing. Only tissue samples or an autopsy can tell us that. But the images can tell us if there are anomalous structures or deformities—”
But Rachel cut him off. “Is he okay?”
“Well, there is an anomaly.”
“An anomaly?”
With his pencil he pointed to an area on the left side of Dylan’s brain. “Neurology is not my specialty, so I consulted with Dr. Gerald Cormier, a neurosurgeon at the Lahey Clinic, and according to his report there appears to be some developmental abnormality in the ventricular system over here.” He pointed to a white area on the left. “It seems that Dylan has slightly dilated ventricles in this area which suggests some maldevelopment of the thalamus, which is deep in the brain in this area.” He moved the pencil to the lower part of the brain scan. “This kind of malformation in this area is associated with the type of learning problems that Dylan has, I’m told.”
Rachel’s eyes flooded with tears. “My God, what does that mean?”
“I’m not really the one to say. But I did ask Dr. Cormier what the prognosis was for Dylan’s cognitive development, and he said that, unfortunately, this kind of underdevelopment usually results in a reduction in learning abilities.”
Rachel let out a groan.
“This really is not my area, but I’ve read that there’s sometimes a compensatory phenomenon,” he added. “When one side of the brain has deficient wiring, it’s been found that the corresponding healthy region in the opposite hemisphere tends to develop more extensive patterns of connections than is normal. There’s no way to tell from the scan, but it’s entirely possible that the right side of Dylan’s brain is deve
loping excessive connections.”
Rachel nodded, knowing that the doctor wanted to put Dylan’s condition in the best possible light.
“If it’s any consolation, both Einstein and the painter Rodin had deficient left-hemisphere language skills, yet they excelled in the right-brain skills as we all know.”
His attempt to make her feel better produced the opposite effect, because she knew in her heart of hearts that Dylan was damaged, and to suggest he might grow up to be a mathematical or artistic prodigy was all the more painful for its improbability.
“How do you think it happened?”
The doctor handed her a box of tissues. “Well, there’s no way of knowing for sure, but since there’s no evidence of head trauma, my guess is that it either happened in utero or it’s genetic. Given his medical history, we can pretty much rule out diseases. One possibility is prenatal exposure to environmental toxins which can affect brain development,” he said. “You know, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, lead, or any kind of radiation. As far as you recall, were you ever exposed to any such chemicals while pregnant?”
“No.”
“Chemotherapy?”
“No.”
“Did Martin use any pesticides or insecticides to excess that you know of?”
“No.”
“Or longtime exposure to carbon monoxide?”
The question jogged through her. “Do you mean did I try to kill myself?”
“That was not my question, but car exhaust is one form of the gas. Another is a faulty oil burner. Anything like that?”
Rachel shook her head. His questions were cutting closer to the quick. And she wondered if she were projecting the image of someone with a history of mental instability.
“Of course not,” the doctor said, musing over the charts. “How about alcohol or drugs?”
She had sensed the question before it hit the air. “No. I drink very little, and I certainly didn’t while carrying Dylan.”
