an old but reliable Datsun two years ago, pocketing the difference. That money, along with everything else from her mother, had long since been spent. She’d become a master of budgeting, a master of cutting corners. She hadn’t bought new clothes for herself since the Christmas before last; though her furniture was decent, they were remnants from another life. She didn’t subscribe to magazines, she didn’t have cable television, her stereo was an old boom box from college. The last movie she’d seen on the silver screen was Schindler’s List. She seldom made long-distance phone calls to her friends. She had $238 in the bank. Her car was nineteen years old, with enough miles on the engine to have circled the world five times.
None of those things mattered, though. Only Kyle was important.
But never once had he told her that he loved her.
On those evenings she didn’t work at the diner, Denise usually sat in the rocking chair on the porch out back, a book across her lap. She enjoyed reading outside, where the rise and fall of chirping crickets was somehow soothing in its monotony. Her home was surrounded by oak and cypress and mockernut hickory trees, all draped heavily in Spanish moss. Sometimes, when the moonlight slanted through them just right, shadows that looked like exotic animals splashed across the gravel walkway.
In Atlanta she used to read for pleasure. Her tastes ran the gamut from Steinbeck and Hemingway to Grisham and King. Though those types of books were available at the local library, she never checked them out anymore. Instead she used the computers near the reading room, which had free access to the Internet. She searched through clinical studies sponsored by major universities, printing the documents whenever she found something relevant. The files she kept had grown to nearly three inches wide.
On the floor beside her chair she had an assortment of psychological textbooks as well. Expensive, they’d made serious dents in her budget. Yet the hope was always there, and after ordering them, she waited anxiously for them to arrive. This time, she liked to think, she would find something that helped.
Once they came, she would sit for hours, studying the information. With the lamp a steady blaze behind her, she perused the information, things she’d usually read before. Still, she didn’t rush. Occasionally she took notes, other times she simply folded the page and highlighted the information. An hour would pass, maybe two, before she’d finally close the book, finished for the night. She’d stand, shaking the stiffness from her joints. After bringing the books to her small desk in the living room, she would check on Kyle, then head back outside.
The gravel walkway led to a path through the trees, eventually to a broken fence that lined her property. She and Kyle would wander that way during the day, she walked it alone at night. Strange noises would filter from everywhere: from above came the screech of an owl; over there, a rustle through the underbrush; off to the side, a skitter along a branch. Coastal breezes moved the leaves, a sound similar to that of the ocean; moonlight drifted in and out. But the path was straight, she knew it well. Past the fence, the forest pressed in around her. More sounds, less light, but still she moved forward. Eventually the darkness became almost stifling. By then she could hear the water; the Chowan River was close. Another grove of trees, a quick turn to the right, and all of a sudden it was as if the world had unfolded itself before her. The river, wide and slow moving, was finally visible. Powerful, eternal, as black as time. She would cross her arms and gaze at it, taking it in, letting the calm it inspired wash over her. She would stay a few minutes, seldom longer, since Kyle was still in the house.
Then she’d sigh and turn from the river, knowing it was time to go.
Chapter 2
In the car, still ahead of the storm, Denise remembered sitting with the doctor in his office earlier that day while he read the results from the report on Kyle.
The child is male, four years eight months old at the time of testing. . . . Kyle is a handsome child with no obvious physical deficiencies in the head or facial area. . . . No recorded head trauma . . . pregnancy was described by mother as normal. . . .
The doctor continued for the next few minutes, outlining the specific results from various tests, until finally reaching the conclusion.
Though IQ falls within the normal range, child is severely delayed in both receptive and expressive language . . . probably central auditory processing disorder (CAPD), though cause can’t be determined . . . overall language ability estimated to be that of a twenty-four-month-old. . . . Eventual language and learning capabilities unknown at this time. . . .
Barely that of a toddler, she couldn’t help but think.
When the doctor was finished, he set the report aside and looked at Denise sympathetically. “In other words,” he said, talking slowly as if she hadn’t understood what he’d just read, “Kyle has problems with language. For some reason-we’re not sure why-Kyle isn’t able to speak at a level appropriate for his age, even though his IQ is normal. Nor is he able to understand language equal to the level of other four-year-olds.”
“I know.”
The assurance of her response caught him off guard. To Denise it seemed as if he’d expected either an argument, an excuse, or a predictable series of questions. When he realized she wasn’t going to say anything else, he cleared his throat.
“There’s a note here that says you’ve had him evaluated elsewhere.”
Denise nodded. “I have.”
He shuffled through the papers. “The reports aren’t in his file.”
“I didn’t give them to you.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Why?”
She reached for her purse and set it in her lap, thinking. Finally: “May I be frank?”
He studied her for a moment before leaning back in his chair. “Please.”
She glanced at Kyle before facing the doctor again. “Kyle has been misdiagnosed again and again over the past two years-everything from deafness to autism to pervasive development disorder to ADD. In time, none of those things turned out to be accurate. Do you know how hard it is for a parent to hear those things about her child, to believe them for months, to learn everything about them and finally accept them, before being told they were in error?”
The doctor didn’t answer. Denise met his eyes and held them before going on.
“I know Kyle has problems with language, and believe me, I’ve read all about auditory processing problems. In all honesty, I’ve probably read as much about it as you have. Despite that, I wanted his language skills tested by an independent source so that I could know specifically where he needed help. In the real world, he has to talk to more people than just me.”
“So . . . none of this is news to you.”
Denise shook her head. “No, it’s not.”
“Do you have him in a program now?”
“I work with him at home.”
He paused. “Does he see a speech or behavioral specialist, anyone who’s worked with children like him before?”
“No. He went to therapy three times a week for over a year, but it didn’t seem to help. He continued to fall further behind, so I pulled him out last October. Now it’s just me.”
“I see.” It was obvious by the way he said it that he didn’t agree with her decision.
Her eyes narrowed. “You have to understand-even though this evaluation shows Kyle at the level of a two- year-old, that’s an improvement from where he once was. Before he worked with me, he’d never shown any improvement at all.”
Driving along the highway three hours later, Denise thought about Brett Cosgrove, Kyle’s father. He was the type of man who attracted attention, the kind who’d always caught her eye: tall and thin with dark eyes and ebony hair. She’d seen him at a party, surrounded by people, obviously used to being the center of attention. She was twenty-three at the time, single, in her second year of teaching. She asked her friend Susan who he was: she was told that Brett was in town for a few weeks, working for an investment banking firm whose name Denise had since
