“Like cripples at Lourdes.”
“Beg pardon?”
“We get some child to improve significantly on a math test or the SATs, and the word gets out that we’re miracle workers.” He chuckled to himself. “Mrs. Whitman, let me explain that we do perform miracles here, in a sense. We even improve a child’s ability to take tests so that scores go up a few points. But that’s incidental to our objective, which is to maximize a child’s potential. I’m not sure what you are looking for, but this is not Prodigies R Us.”
Rachel felt a little foolish. She had been caught in Sheila’s exaggerated promise. Martin was right. “You’ve seen the MRI scans, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’re not normal. There’s some kind of anomaly. I was just wondering if—you know—if anything could be done about that? I mean, with all the breakthroughs in medical science, aren’t there any corrective measures that could be taken—some kind of neurostimulation procedure or something … ?” She trailed off, hearing Dr. Stanley Chu’s response: “It’s like wanting to regenerate an amputated finger. It can’t be done.”
Malenko stared at her intently as he considered her appeal, then he opened the folder and removed the MRI scans. “It seems to me, Mrs. Whitman, that you are confusing some magical medical fix with behavioral programs. I’ve looked these over, and I see no signs of hemorrhaging or lesions or tumors that might be impinging on your son’s intellectual development or performance. If there were, then something possibly could be corrected by surgery or radiation.”
“But the left hemisphere is smaller than the right.”
“Mrs. Whitman, let me ask you why you had the MRI scan done.”
Suddenly she felt as if she were entering a minefield. “Because I was worried that he had a tumor or some other problem.”
“But what made you suspect a tumor or some other problem?”
“It was simply … I don’t know … precautionary. His memory retention isn’t normal.”
“Had you consulted your pediatrician for possible psychiatric counseling or medications? Sometimes a child’s memory problems are the results of environment issues or chemical imbalances.”
“Yes, we went through all of that.”
“And was it your pediatrician who referred you for the MRI?”
“Yes.”
“And what was his evaluation?”
“That the ventricles in the left hemisphere of his brain were larger than normal, indicating some kind of underdevelopment in the thalamus.”
“And what did the doctor recommend in terms of medical treatment?”
“He said nothing could be done.”
“And you didn’t believe him.”
“I’m seeking a second opinion.”
“Surely your pediatrician consulted neurologists for an evaluation.”
“I wasn’t satisfied.”
Malenko listened intently, his bright eye training on her as if it were some kind of laser mind-scan. “Does your husband know about this?”
“No, he doesn’t know, but why is that so important?”
Malenko leaned forward. “Mrs. Whitman, if we are going to work with Dylan, then we cannot have misunderstandings regarding the medical condition of a prospective student. If we are going to set for ourselves expectations and objectives, candidness is essential.”
Rachel nodded.
“Good. Then am I correct in assuming that your husband does not know about the MRI scan or the dysmorphic abnormalities in your son’s brain?”
She felt as if he had stripped her naked. “Yes.”
“I see. Then may I ask what you are hiding?”
“Hiding?”
“Mrs. Whitman, you have an MRI done on your son’s brain, you discover an anomalous formation, then two weeks later you come in here for consultation—and your husband knows nothing. I find that unusual, unless you are in the throes of separation or divorce. Are you?”
There was no equivocating with this man, Rachel thought. She struggled with the urge to tell him that it was none of his damn business, but she stopped herself. If she showed offense at his persistence, he might dismiss her. “No, we’re not.”
Malenko looked at her with a bemused expression. Then he picked up the film scans and clipped them to the display board on the wall. “This disparity between the hemispheres of Dylan’s brain could be the result of many different causes, including infant trauma.” He glanced down at her.
Christ! Now he’s wondering if I had battered my own baby.
“It could also be chemical, genetic, oxygen starvation in utero … a number of possibilities. Sometimes these structural deformities can occur as the result of chromosomal damage, usually from the mother’s side.”
For a prickly moment his eyes gauged Rachel’s face.
chromosomal damage
from the mother’s side
He suspects, she told herself. He is a neurologist so he surely knows about the Chu study and recognizes the TNT signature damage.
“Did you smoke or take any unusual medications while carrying your son?’
“No.”
“Any medical emergencies during pregnancy—emergency room visits? Hospitalization? Any intravenal medications?”
All this was on the questionnaire. He was testing her. “No.”
“Another possibility is alcohol. Did you drink while carrying your son?”
“No.”
Malenko handed her a box of Kleenex without comment.
Rachel wiped her eyes, feeling that any moment she would break down.
“MRI scans can only give us gross anatomical pictures, not minor neurocomponents. But the left temporal horn is dilated. Given your son’s test results, my guess is that the cortical regions have been short-circuited to the hippocampus, which is involved with recurrent memories and might explain his linguistic deficiencies.”
There was no reason to dissemble with this man. “I took some bad drugs in college. Something called TNT. The chemical name is trimethoxy-4-methyl-triphetamine.”
Malenko’s eyes flared. “‘TNT for dynamite sex. Get off with a bang.’”
The old catch phrases for the stuff.
“And I suppose your husband doesn’t know that either—which is why you’re here.”
Rachel knew that under ordinary circumstances she would have dismissed Malenko’s unctuously manipulative manner and got up and left. But she suddenly felt a preternatural numbness from all the grief and guilt that had wracked her soul for the last weeks and just didn’t care about his obtuseness. Perhaps it was just the relief of getting it all out—like lancing a boil. “I’ve mentally crippled my son,” she said softly. “I just don’t want him to suffer. I don’t want him to go through life feeling inadequate and inferior.”
“And that is why you’ve not told him.”
She nodded.
“Probably a good reason.” Malenko moved back to his desk chair and sat down. “I’d like to meet your husband.”
“I don’t want him to know.”
“Telling him is your business, not mine, Mrs. Whitman. But I think we all should meet again to weigh the options.”
Weigh the options?
She looked up. “Are you saying there’s something that can be done?”
“I’m saying simply that we should meet again.” He glanced at his watch then closed Dylan’s folder and dropped it on a pile of others with a conclusive snap. “What kind of work is your husband in?” The discussion was over.
If he had some experimental procedure in mind, he wasn’t talking. Yet Rachel felt a flicker of promise. “Recruitment. Martin’s in the recruitment business.”