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 developing 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.”
“Then my guess is that it’s probably genetic since there’s a lot of evidence linking heredity factors to neurophysiological disorders—schizophrenia, depression, stuttering, hyperactivity, alcoholism, and so forth But, once again, I’m not the man to ask. You really have to see a pediatric neurologist.”
Silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond. “Rachel, are you all right?”
She nodded ever so slightly, thinking how there was only one thing more devastating than discovering that your much-wanted child has a brain disorder: the thought that you may have caused that disorder. In a low voice, she said, “I took drugs when I was in college.”
There! It was out.
Dr. Rose rocked back in his seat. “I see. And what did you take?”
“LSD laced with TNT,” she said. “On and off for about two years.”
“And you’re wondering if that caused brain damage in your son.”
She nodded.
“From what I know, there’s no evidence that LSD is a mutagen—that it causes chromosomal damage that could affect unborn children. There were rumors aloft in the sixties, but none was ever found. But I don’t know what this TNT is.”
“It’s also known as trimethoxy-4-methyl-triphetamine, TNT to street people.” The name was etched in her brain.