Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  Inside was a note to parents:

  If your child exhibits some of the following,

  NOVA CHILDREN’S CENTER is a solution:Poor reading comprehension Slow reading Spelling problems Poor math skills Low self-confidence and self-esteem Poor handwriting, printing Delayed language skills Memory problems …

  This list was a relentless description of Dylan. She read on:

  What Can Be Done?

  The NOVA CHILDREN’S CENTER provides help for dyslexia and other learning challenges. We offer a variety of diagnostic testing to identify the problems …

  The brochure went on to describe how the center offered individualized learning programs for each child, all instruction given one-on-one. In bold was the statement: “Ninety percent of NCC students average one year or more improvement for every NCC semester.” This was probably the enhancement that Sheila meant.

  Rachel flipped through the pages. They recommended from two to five sessions a week lasting from twenty-four to thirty-six weeks per year. There was a multistep assessment procedure that was essential to define the problem areas. Another few pages were dedicated to testimonials of success by parents, teachers, and former students:

  When Diana first arrived at Nova Children’s Center, she could read words at her second-grade level, but she couldn’t comprehend the content. She had difficulty connecting to language she read or language she heard. Words seemed to go in one ear and out the other. People thought she was not trying, and she had been labeled a “motivation” or “attention” problem.

  The report went on to explain the cause of Diana’s problem with language comprehension. Then there was an explanation of how the Nova Children’s Center approach improved language comprehension, reasoning, critical thinking, and language expression skills. At the end of that discussion, again in bold, was the claim that “most of the children at NCC gained one to three years in language comprehension in just four weeks on intensive treatment.”

  Rachel let that sink in. He can be fixed. Maybe that was what Sheila had meant.

  A photo gallery of the staff was included at the end of the brochure. Nearly every one had a Ph.D. after their name.

  The chief neurologist and one of the directors of the center was an avuncular-looking gray-haired man named Lucius Malenko. He had both a M.D. and Ph.D. after his name.

  In the photo, Dr. Denise Samson was a handsome-looking woman about thirty-five to forty with pulled-back dark hair and heavy dark-framed glasses.

  “Mrs. Whitman?”

  Rachel looked up.

  It was Dr. Samson herself. She was a tall, statuesque woman with auburn hair tied into a thick bun behind her head. She was even more attractive in person. “And this must be Dylan.”

  “Hi,” Dylan said, glancing up from the computer. On the screen were funny little creature heads that you could eliminate by shooting blips of light from a spaceship. Dr. Samson showed Dylan how to do it then walked Rachel to a small conference room beyond a glass partition so that they could talk while viewing Dylan.

  “As I said on the phone, this is a multidimensional assessment to help determine Dylan’s various cognitive abilities—his information-processing strengths, problem-solving style, and problem areas. Since his problem areas seem to be language-based, we’ll assess his oral language—phonics, word associations, sentence formulation, and the like. Then we’ll do some visual/auditory diagnoses.” She sounded as if she were reading.

  Because the assessments were long and tiring for a child, they would be spread over two days. Tomorrow would also include functional MRI scans.

  “After the assessments are in, we’ll put together an individualized instructional program for him with one of our specialists.”

  Rachel listened as the woman continued. When she was finished, Rachel said, “I’m wondering if I might also speak to Dr. Malenko.”

  “Dr. Malenko?” Dr. Samson seemed surprised.

  “I have some questions of a neurological nature that I’d like to ask him.”

  There was a pregnant pause. “I’m sure I can answer most of your questions, Mrs. Whitman.”

  “I have no doubt, but a friend recommended that I speak with him before we decide on a program. So I’d like to set up an appointment.”

  “I see. Then you can check with Marie out front.”

  Rachel could sense the woman’s irritation, but at the moment she didn’t care.

  Rachel made the appointment for Thursday, and gave Dylan a kiss, telling him she was going to be right here in the waiting room. Dr. Samson then led him down the hall to the test rooms. He went willingly, looking back once to check that Rachel was still there.

  Mommy’s so sorry for what she did to you, my darling.

  26

  That night Brendan woke himself up with a scream.

  He looked around his bedroom. Everything was still. The green digital readout on his clock radio said 3:17.

  He had had that dream again. The one with the blue elephants. They were circling him. Taunting him. Insane-looking creatures with wide grins and big floppy trunks and all the grabbing arms. Like the demon pachyderms in Disney’s Fantasia, dancing maniacally around him, screaming at him to be a good boy, grabbing at him, poking him, pulling his hair while he cowered under bright white lights.

  One of them came over to him and bent down. How many marbles does Mr. Nisha have if I take away seven? Tell me. TELL ME! When Brendan didn’t answer, the creature pulled out a large sword and cut off his own head.

  That’s when Brendan woke up.

  His shirt was damp with perspiration. His bed was a mess from kicking around.

  Time to dance. Time to dance.

  He went to the toilet and peed in the bowl.

  Time to eat your soup.

  He flushed the toilet. In the dim light from the street he looked in the mirror.

  Count backward from twenty.

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  Time to fix you up.

  Which glass has more water?The tall one.Nope!Time to fix you up. Time to fix you up.

  Brendan lit a cigarette and went to the window. He looked across the front yard, the dark street, the field of scrub and landfill on the other side. A fat white moon had risen above the horizon and whitewashed the scene.

  Ah, love, let us be true

  To one another!

  The Matthew Arnold lines jetted up from nowhere, as usual.

  for the world which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams,

  So carious, so beautiful, so new,

  Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light

  He thought about Richard in wheezy sleep in the next room. He wondered how many nights the old man had. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t wake up the next morning—if Brendan went in there and found him cold and blue. He wondered if he went in there and did something about it.

  Would he be horrified? Would he cry?

  He thought about Nicole. He wondered what nightmares she dreamed. He wondered if she cried.

  Mr. Nisha wants you to be happy.

  He raised his eyes and let the white light flood his mind.

  A huge crystalline moon sat in the sky over Rachel and Martin like a piece of jewelry.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” she said.

  “I hope it’s how madly in love you are with me, and that you’re finally over your PMS, which I thought was surely terminal.”

  He was making light of the moment, but she really couldn’t blame him. They were sitting on the balcony of the Blue Heron overlooking Magnolia Harbor. The reflection of the moon made a rippling carpet all the way out to the horizon. Above was a cloudless black velvet vault dappled with stars. They had just eaten a sumptuous meal—Martin, the frutti di mare, and she, the Chilean sea bass—which they washed down with a bottle of Hermitage La Chappelle 1988.

  “Martin, I think we should talk.”

  “Uh-oh. Is this the big thorn you’ve been sitting on for
the last month?”

  “It’s a problem I have … we have.”

  Martin’s face hardened. “Rachel, if you’re going to tell me that you’ve found somebody else, I’m not sure I can take it.”

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “And you’re not sick.”

  “No.”

  Martin nodded, as if to say that the high horribles had been eliminated. “Okay, hit me.”

  “It’s Dylan.”

  “What about him?”

  “He has brain damage, and it’s because in college I took some dope, something called TNT, which some guy I know made in a chemistry lab. In any case, I read a report saying the stuff damaged female reproductive cells, resulting in chromosomal defects of their children. I had him tested, and the left hemisphere of Dylan’s brain is underdeveloped, and it probably was caused by the TNT.” Rachel was amazed at her glibness. That was totally unexpected.

  She couldn’t tell if it was the flickering light from the small glass kerosene lantern that sat between them, but Martin’s face seemed to shift several times as he struggled to process her words.

  “You’re telling me that my son has brain damage because you took a lot of bad dope?” His voice was a strange hissy whisper.

  “Yes. His IQ is eighty-three, which is the low side of average.” Again, she could not believe the smoothness of her confession—but, of course, she had rehearsed it so many times over the last several days that she had managed to strip the words down to their phonetic bones.

  “Eighty-three. EIGHTY-THREE. My son is going to grow up dumb because you took some sex drug?”

  “Martin, you’re shouting.”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “I read about that TNT shit. It was for sex thrills. SEX THRILLS.”

  The people at other tables were glaring at them in astonishment.

  “You goddamn idiot! You ruined my son. You ruined my only child.”

  “Martin, keep your voice down.”

  “No, I won’t keep my voice down. That means he’ll be handicapped forever, just because you wanted good orgasms.”

  The other diners were now muttering to each other and scowling at Rachel. Suddenly she recognized neighbors, acquaintances, and other members of the Dells. Even the minister from the Hawthorne Unitarian Church and her husband, the choirmaster. “How could you?” someone said. “Shame!” cried another. “Pigs like her shouldn’t be allowed to have children.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said to Martin. Then to the others. “Really, I didn’t know. I was young.”

  The entire balcony was glowering at her, their large rubbery mouths jabbering condemnations.

  “You didn’t know because you’re stupid,” Martin growled. “He was going to grow up to take over the business.” Then he made that bitter mocking face she had come to hate. “Maybe he can head up the cleaning crew. President and CEO of latrines. The world’s leading expert on SageSearch’s urinal camphor. Can plunge a toilet and change the paper lickety-split.” His eyes were huge and red and his teeth flashed as his mouth spit out the venom.

  “I’m sorry. I’M SORRY. I’m SORRY …”

  “Sorry? SORRY? You bet you’re sorry,” he said and picked up the kerosene lantern with the burning wick and smashed it on her head.

  Even before the cutting pain registered, her head was engulfed in flames, burning hair dripping onto her dress and sizzling her eyes.

  “SORREEEEEE!”

  It was her own scream that woke her, and she bolted upright gasping to catch her breath.

  It was Lindsay. Greg could not recollect the details of the dream, but he woke filled with the sense of her.

  But as much as he tried, he could not recapture the scenario—just the afterglow of her presence, like the fast-fading image of a TV. He sat at the edge of the bed, wishing he could put the moment on rewind. He had had dreams of her in the past, lots of them—odd, disjointed scraps, floating images—sometimes of her alive and vibrant, sometimes of her on Joe Steiner’s table. Once he had dreamt of her and their son—but not as a baby, but a little boy.

  As he sat there thinking about the day, he felt the old sadness spread its way through his soul like root hairs. He knew if he let himself loosen a bit he’d dissolve into deep wracking sobs—the kind that had left him reamed out and barely functional. He had had enough of those and fought back the urge, telling himself that he didn’t want to be one of those widowers who went through the rest of his life embracing his grief like a mistress.

  A photo of Lindsay smiled at him from his bureau. It was taken in Jamaica on their honeymoon six years ago. She was dressed in white with a large red hibiscus behind her ear and smiling brightly at the camera in a tangerine setting sun. With her shiny black hair and large brown eyes and honey skin, she looked like a vision in amber. They had been crazy in love.

  Greg got up.

  It was nearly eleven, and the sun was pouring through the window. Although he had slept for nearly six hours, he felt fatigued. It had been four days since they put him on night shift, and he still could not get used to sleeping in the daytime. Most of the time he felt low and out of focus, as if he were suffering permanent jet lag. But it was worse when he was drinking. He had stopped fifteen months ago. He had been disciplined then, too, because he had showed up late for work and was nearly useless on the job. After a second verbal warning, he quit the booze cold turkey—a victory of which he was proud, telling himself that he had done it for Lindsay. The only strategy that worked. But there were nights when the craving made his body hum.

  He pushed himself off the bed and headed into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He put on a pot of coffee, thinking how the caffeine would pick him up, maybe even shock the fur off his brain.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d spend the rest of the day. He knew he should check out some leads on the high school break-in, but he had done very little on the Sagamore Boy case over the last week beyond scanning the latest missing-children reports. No leads, as usual. The boy had been missing for over three years, and all that came in were bulletins of recent disappearances. The Dixon case had iced over also. He had nothing but faint hunches and colleagues who thought he was nuts.

  The red light on his answering machine flashed.

  It was probably Steve Powers calling to see if the kids he interviewed the other night had given him anything on the school break-in. Unfortunately, the security cameras in the damaged area weren’t functioning. All he had was names, some with prior records. He hit the button.

  “Detective Zakarian, this is Adrian Budd, radiologist from Essex Medical. I’m not sure if this is significant, but after we talked the other day, it dawned on me why those holes kept bothering me. They just didn’t seem random, nor did they look like all the needle-bore nuclear seedings of tumors I’d seen. Also, the number threw me. So I checked with some neurospecialists here at the center, and they confirmed my suspicions.

  “Those skull holes—like the perforation scars of the patient you came about—form a neurotopographical pattern. They seem to trace out the surface area of the sulci folds of the cortex. And there are so many because the cortex folds in on itself, with deeper pockets of surface tissue—which is why cortex folds exist in the first place: to have a broad surface area. Otherwise we’d all be Coneheads.

  “The long and the short of it is that the holes appear to trace the sulci of the cortical surface known as the Wernicke’s Brain.

  “I don’t know what it means, but that’s the area associated with memory and intelligence.

  “I can’t tell you the patient’s name, and I’m not even supposed to divulge this, but the individual whose X ray you saw apparently has a remarkable memory. Nurse Porter thinks he may be a savant. Hope that helps.”

  And he clicked off.

  27

  Ashiny red Porsche Carrera with New Hampshire plates sat in the slot reserved for L. Malenko. A sticker on the rear window read CASCO BAY YACHT CLUB. The man is doing well, thoug
ht Rachel as she headed inside the Nova Children’s Center.

  It was the following Thursday, and she was here for her eleven o’clock appointment. She had to wait only a few minutes before the receptionist led her down the hall to a corner office.

  Lucius Malenko was not wearing a physician’s smock as Rachel had expected, but casual whites—shoes, pants, and cotton pullover—all but for a lavender polo shirt whose collar stuck up around the back of his neck like a flower. He looked as if he’d dressed for a day of yachting or golf. Maybe the “casual Friday” trend was full-time here, a way of being less intimidating.

  “Please, come in,” he said pleasantly. He had a surprisingly small sharp hand, probably an asset in neurosurgery. The office was a bright open room with windows on two sides overlooking the greenery of the building’s rear. “Where is Mr. Whitman?” he asked, peering down the hall.

  “I’m sorry, but he couldn’t make it.”

  “No?” Malenko closed the door. “I’m sure Dr. Samson explained to you that we like to involve both parents where possible—right from the beginning.” He spoke in an accent that sounded eastern European—perhaps Slavic or Russian.

  Dr. Samson had explained that. “I’m sorry, but there was a last-minute conflict.” That was the best she could do, hoping that the subject would be dropped. Rachel looked away, pretending to take in the office decor.

  Malenko took his chair behind his desk, fixing her with his stare. “May I be so bold as to ask if Mr. Whitman knows you’re here?”