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 falclass="underline"
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 comprehending 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.