Gray Matter

Bolton, and I hear the woman’s got an opening.”

Sheila nodded. “Have you spoken to Miss Jean?”

“No, but I will. And it’s not her fault, either. She’s been great with him. All of the DellKids staffers have.” Rachel expected Sheila to go on to deny the obvious, to be a good friend and conjure up all sorts of rationalizations and consolations.

But instead she nodded. “Lots of kids have learning disabilities.”

“I’m also thinking of finding a private school for him. I’m not sure Marsden Elementary has the best resources, especially with the budget cut. He’s going to need a more nurturing place with better special ed teachers.”

Sheila’s mood shifted slightly. Her cheery interest had faded into more serious speculation. “There are many good special schools,” Sheila said. “Chapman in Spring River is supposed to be excellent. There’s also the Taylor- Blessington in Wilton. Of course, there are several boarding schools out of state, if you want to go that route,” Sheila continued.

Suddenly Rachel wanted to end the conversation, and not just because the topic pained her. Something in Sheila’s interest struck her as suspicious. Maybe it was just raw envy, but Rachel resented Sheila’s solicitousness. She resented how Sheila could stand there smug in the certitude that her little brat had a lifetime ticket to ride while recommending for Dylan schools for intellectually handicapped kids. Besides, how the hell did she know so many special schools? “Can we change the topic, please?”

Sheila put her hand on Rachel’s. For a long moment she locked eyes with Rachel until she began to feel uncomfortable. “It really bothers you,” Sheila said, her face glowing with sincerity.

“What does?”

“His … disability.”

Rachel was nonplussed by Sheila’s obtuseness. Of course it bothers me. How in hell could it not bother me? “Sheila, why are you asking me this?”

“Because we’re friends, because you’re like me—the kind of mother who would do anything for your kid, right? Anything to make life better for them.”

Rachel did not know how to respond. She could not tell if Sheila was eliciting a genuine answer or just talking. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Now you’re getting edgy.”

“Yes, I’m getting edgy. I appreciate your concern, but I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s a private matter. You can understand that.”

Sheila nodded. “What if I told you there may be something you could do for him?”

The intensity on Sheila’s face held Rachel’s attention. “Like what?”

“Something I heard about that you might want to look into, that’s all.”

“I’m listening.”

“You once told me that Dylan was born pigeon-toed.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, you took corrective measures, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well … ?”

“Well what?”

“Well, you had the problem fixed, right?”

“So?”

Sheila leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, I heard about a special procedure that’s … corrective.”

The word hovered between them like a dark bird. For a second Rachel felt as if the room had shifted. “But that was medical.”

“I’m talking about one that, well … that does work.”

“Works how?”

Sheila tapped the side of her head. “Improves a child’s cognitive functions—you know, memory, language, logic … intelligence.”

Intelligence. Rachel couldn’t tell if Sheila was being vague on purpose or if she didn’t know what she was talking about. “I’m listening.”

“Well, they’ve got special procedures for children with learning disabilities and brain dysfunctions.”

“Nobody said my son has a brain dysfunction.”

“Of course not, but … Look, I’m no specialist. They can explain it better.”

“Who’s they?”

“The people in charge. Doctors.”

Sheila was being irritatingly coy.

“Look, if we can get our kids’ teeth and noses and boobs fixed, why not their IQs?”

Rachel looked at her in disbelief. “Sheila, how can they do that? And what’s the name of the group? Who are they?”

Suddenly Sheila’s face flushed as if she had gone too far. “Look, let me get you some names and numbers then you can go from there.”

“But how come I haven’t heard about them?”

“You’re the new kid on the block. What can I say?”

For fifteen years Sheila had been working at New Century Realtors, the hottest franchise in the area. As office manager she was the undeclared mayor of Hawthorne. She knew everybody and their business. She was probably referring to one of those specialized instructional approaches that promised to raise your kid’s test results by a couple points, like those SAT prep courses.

Sheila glanced at her watch. “Oops. Gotta run.”

Before Rachel knew it, Sheila grabbed her water bottle and towel and gave Rachel an air kiss. “I’ll check for you and get back. See you at the game Saturday. Thorndyke Field at ten.” She meant the weekly soccer games for the town kids.

Rachel watched Sheila hustle across the room. She had a place to show across town in half an hour, surely not enough time to shower and change. In fact, she wasn’t even sweaty. So why did she even bother to work out?

It was another fitful night for Rachel. She woke up several times in a cold sweat, her heart racing and mind tormented by the thought that she had traded her son’s brain for good sex.

At one point she almost shook Martin awake and told him everything. But that would only have made things worse. No, this was her doing, and the punishment was hers to suffer alone. Besides, Martin would never forgive her. Never. And she could not blame him.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she decided she would call Dr. Stanley Chu in the morning. According to the Newsweek piece, he was the man who had headed up the research on TNT mutagenics. Maybe he could help. Maybe if he knew the nature of the damage he could figure out a treatment— some corrective measure, to use Sheila’s word.

By the time she got out of bed the next morning, the man had become an obsession. She waited until Martin took Dylan to day care. Then about nine-thirty she called information and got the main number of Yale School of Medicine, which gave her the extension of Dr. Stanley Chu. Trembling as if there were a shaft of ice at the core of her body, she dialed. A woman answered. “Neurology.”

“Yes, Dr. Stanley Chu, please.”

“Who may I ask is calling?”

For some reason Rachel could not get herself to announce her name. “I—I’m calling about his study on birth defects.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d like to talk to him about it, please … to make an appointment if that’s possible.”