“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, thought 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?”
“Well,” she began, thinking how she didn’t want to begin with a lie. She chuckled nervously. “Is it really that important?”
“Only because we’ll be discussing matters that concern his son, too, no?” His manner was pleasant, although she was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“Actually, he doesn’t know. This is a kind of a reconnaissance mission. Maybe if things work out, I’ll bring him next time.”
He looked puzzled, but said nothing and affixed a pair of half-glasses to his nose and thumbed through a folder of Dylan’s test results.
Adding to his immaculate appearance was his nearly pure white hair, which was combed back, emphasizing a broad aggressive forehead. In spite of the hair, he had dark, thick eyebrows and a smooth, boyish face that belied his age. He was a big man who might have been an athlete at one time. His eyes were heavy lidded and intensely watchful. But there was something disconcerting about his gaze—something she had vaguely registered the moment they had met. And only now did Rachel realize what it was: His eyes didn’t match. One was reef-water blue, but the other looked black. On closer inspection Rachel noticed that one iris was all pupil, giving him a disorienting appearance—one eye icy cool, the other darkly alluring.
On the walls hung a few framed plaques—from the American College of Neurological Medicine, the International Society of Skull Base Surgeons, the American Board of Neurosurgery. Also, a Kiwanis Club award for outstanding contribution. Clustered on the opposite walls were photos of him with groups of students from Bloomfield Prep and with people at black-tie functions. The only other form of decoration was a bronze sculpture of the Indian elephant-head god on the windowsill. It had four arms, and each hand held something different. Only one she could make out. It was an axe.
“His name is Ganesha,” Malenko said, his face still in the folder. “He’s the elephant-faced deity, sacred to Hindus the world over.”
“It’s rather charming,” she said. The figure had a large potbelly spilling over his lower garment, and his eyes were large and his smile broad under his trunk.
“Yes. Indians revere him as a god of intellectual strength. Was your son named after Bob Dylan?”
“No, the poet Dylan Thomas.”
“Ah, yes, the great Irish bard. ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’ Wonderful stuff. Are you a literature person?”
“I like to read.”
“A former textbook editor, of course.”
Rachel wondered how he knew that, because she hadn’t put that in the questionnaire. Perhaps it was in Dylan’s medical records.
“Reading is the highest intellectual activity of the human experience,” Malenko continued. “More sectors of the brain are active than in any other endeavor including mathematics or flying an airplane. It’s the most totally interactive processing of information, even with children reading Mother Goose.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do.” He smiled and displayed a row of small but perfect white teeth in a sugar-pink mouth. “So, what can I do for you?”
The baldness of the question threw her. Dylan’s records and test results sat under his nose. “Well, you can see from his folder that he has serious learning disabilities.”
Malenko removed his half-glasses. “Yes, he’s functionally dyslexic, which means that the Wernicke’s area and the angular gyri—those areas of the brain involved in deciphering words—are underactive. As Dr. Samson clearly explained, we have here some of the best LD people in the country who could construct a personalized curriculum for your son.” He tapped his fingers impatiently as he spoke, as if to say, Why are you wasting my time?
“It’s just that I wanted to explore other approaches.”
“Other approaches?”
Clearly Sheila had not told him about her. She probably did not even know the man, just his reputation. “Well, you’re a neurophysician, correct?”
“I also can be found baking cookies.”
She smiled in relief that his manner had softened. “I’m just wondering if there was anything you could do medically to help him.”
“Medically?”
“You know … some special procedures …”
“Everything we do is a special procedure. We tailor our programs to each child, according to his and her individual needs. I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“It’s just that I heard you had some kind of enhancement procedures.”
Malenko’s eyebrows arched up. “Enhancement procedures?” He pronounced the word as if for the first time.
“To repair the damaged areas. Maybe something experimental—some electrical stimulation thing.”
He looked at her for a long moment that reprimanded her in its silence. Then he glanced inside the folder again. “I see that you were recommended by Sheila MacPhearson, the real estate lady.”
“Yes.”
“And what exactly did she say, Mrs. Whitman?”
“Well, that you had some special procedures that can enhance children’s cognitive abilities.”