spaces in between—are larger. Usually, they are packed closer together as you can see in this normal scan.
“What this means,” he continued, “is that the gyri of Dylan’s brain are not developed normally, that he has experienced some cell loss here—maybe as much as twenty-five percent in this area.”
“Oh, God,” she whimpered.
“But I’m afraid the real problem is in the thalamus down here,” he continued. “You can’t see that as well from the scan because the structures are subtle. But there are some malformations of the thalamus, and we know this because one of the telltale marks of such malformation is the abnormal formation of the gyri up here.”
“What’s the thalamus do?”
“Well, the thalamus is a complicated area very deep in the brain,” he explained. “It controls all parts of the brain affecting speech and motor functions, emotions, and sensory functions—so many aspects of our makeup. These kinds of structural deficiencies are commonly seen in individuals with language-processing problems such as Dylan’s.”
Rachel felt her soul slump. A silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond.
Finally Rachel asked, “Is this consistent with the damage of the people you studied?”
“Do you mean did your use of TNT bring this on?”
“Yes.”
The doctor took off his glasses and stared at her. “Mrs. Whitman, why do you need to know this?” It was the same question that Dr. Rose had asked.
She shook her head, but said nothing for fear of breaking down.
“There’s no way to know that. Some of the women who had taken TNT gave birth to perfectly normal children. All I can say is that it’s statistically more probable that you suffered some reproductive cell damage which was passed on to your son.”
“Is there anything that can be done?”
“Done?” He seemed unclear about the question. “Well, as I said there are medications that can help him focus better …”
“How about surgically?”
“To what end?”
“To reduce his problems,” she said. “To increase his learning capabilities.”
The doctor’s eyebrows twitched slightly. “Not that I know of.”
Rachel nodded. “I guess it was a dumb question, but I’m feeling very guilty and desperate.”
“I understand, but I’m afraid, for all practical purposes, Dylan’s brain has already wired itself as much as it is going to. As I said, there’s a structural deformity that cannot be corrected because circuitry is missing. And it can’t be manufactured. It’s like wanting to regenerate an amputated finger. It can’t be done.”
Rachel looked at him and her eyes puddled. “So there’s nothing that can be done? No new experimental procedures to help stimulate growth and regeneration of whatever … neurons?”
Dr. Chu shook his head. “Not that I know of.” He then glanced at the wall clock.
“So he’s going to be impaired for the rest of his life?”
He paused for a second, as if carefully measuring his words. “Without taking a functional MRI, all I can say is that the visible malformations are consistent with those found in individuals with language problems. This does not mean that special learning programs won’t help his development—”
Her voice straining, Rachel cut him off: “I did this to him.”
“Pardon me?”
“Because of me, he’s going to go through the rest of his life mentally handicapped.” The tears were flowing freely now, and she pressed a wad of tissues to her face.
“You don’t know that.”
“But I took the stuff. I did that to him.”
“But nothing’s conclusive. It’s entirely possible that it’s an hereditary expression or some other cause.”
Rachel just shook her head.
“Mrs. Whitman, my suggestion is that you accept what has happened and go on from here. And, if I may, avoid the pitfall of so many of today’s parents—namely the fixation on academic performance. Yes, it’s understandable in our competitive culture, yet so much more goes into one’s destiny in life, especially a child’s emotional makeup and character. Unfortunately, too many people are stuck on a single notion of intelligence. In reality, intelligence is a multiplicity of human talents that go beyond basic verbal and mathematical performance. As someone once said, ‘If the Aborigine drafted an IQ test, all of Western civilization would flunk it.’”
She nodded quietly, letting his words sink in.
He tapped the pile of papers that represented Dylan’s test results. “IQ isn’t the measure of a person. Believe me. I know many so-called geniuses who are failures as human beings.”
“I realize that but, frankly, smarter people do better in life. You have to admit that.”
Chu looked at her with a puzzled expression, perhaps wondering why they were having this conversation. “Mrs. Whitman, I admit that in some walks of life higher intellectual abilities may mean more opportunities. But a high IQ is no guarantee of success, prestige, or especially, happiness in life.”
She glanced around his office, at the photo of him and his wife and children posed in ski gear smiling gleefully with snow-capped peaks in the background. The Yale School of Medicine diploma on the wall. “You’ve done well.” She wished she could retract the words the moment they hit the air.
“On paper, yes,” Chu shot back. “But you don’t know anything about my personal life or my psychological or emotional state. I could be miserable with my lot and contemplating suicide, though I’m neither.”
“I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. What you should do is spend less effort ranking your child and more trying to identify his natural gifts and competency. For all you know, Dylan may grow up to be an artist or musical genius, or someone gifted in social and interpersonal skills.”
She nodded. “So you’re saying that nothing can be done, I mean medically.”
Dr. Chu looked at her quizzically, as if surprised that she had not processed his words. He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Your son’s brain development is fixed. It cannot be structurally modified toward higher functionality. I’m sorry.”
It was time to leave. She thanked the doctor and packed all of Dylan’s medical records into her briefcase and left.
Outside the sky was overcast and it smelled like rain. Rachel walked to her car, feeling scooped out. In the distance lightning soundlessly flickered.
And her mind turned to Sheila MacPhearson as if she were some ministering angel.
19
It had been days since Travis Valentine had seen his mom, and he missed her. All he remembered was being down by the canal looking for butterflies, and then he woke up in this room with the TV cartoons going all the time and the animal paintings on the walls.
There was a tap at the door, then the turn of the lock, and a woman came in with a plate of cookies. She had said that her name was Vera. She also said she was a nurse and a friend of his mother’s.
“Here you are,” she said, putting the tray on the beanbag chair. “How you doin’?”
“When am I going home?” It was the same question he asked every time she delivered something.
“Soon,” she said. “How do you like the books?”
On the floor there was a pile of picture books of butterflies. (Somebody must have told them about his hobby.) He already had three of them at home.
The woman picked one up and thumbed through it. “Very pretty. What’s this one called?”
“A barred yellow swallowtail,” he said, knowing she wasn’t really interested.
“You’re a smart little guy.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
