Gray Matter

“Like what?”

Fournier shook his head. “Some kind of exotic experiment, but nothing I’ve seen before,” Fournier said. Then he added, “But if these two kids are dead, and this one is walking around, you might want to look him up, because he’s making medical history.”

31

Fine gray drizzle was falling the morning that Martin and Rachel met with Dr. Malenko. The air was unseasonably cool, making the day feel more like a morning in October than late June.

The appointment was set for noon. However, they did not meet at Nova Children’s Center. Instead they were directed to Malenko’s private office in Cobbsville, a small town just over the New Hampshire border, about a half hour drive from Hawthorne.

Martin was quiet on the drive over, commenting perfunctorily on the rain and scenery. If he was nervous, it did not show. If he was incredulous, he didn’t let on. He had lapsed into a mode of slightly irritated neutrality— irritated because he had to cancel a meeting in Boston with an important client.

Rachel disregarded Martin’s mood, too lost in her own vacillations between hopefulness and nagging anxiety. She had told Martin that she had consulted with Malenko last week, but didn’t go into details. All she said was that the doctor had agreed to meet with them both. About what she didn’t know.

Number 724 Cabot Street turned out to be a small nondescript ranchlike house with pale green aluminum siding and black shutters behind a hedge of mulberry. Except for the cherry-red Porsche with the gold Bernardi dealer’s decal in the driveway, Rachel would have thought they had the wrong place. No M.D.’s shingle hung outside, no name above the bell.

Malenko heard them pull up, because he opened the front door to greet them. He shook Martin’s hand. “Please come in.”

A small reception area had been carved out of a front parlor on the left, but no receptionist. In fact, from what Rachel could tell, no one else was in the house.

Malenko led them into a rear office furnished in leather and dark muted reds, greens, and gold. Bookcases lined two walls, full of medical tomes and technical journals. On a table beside some plants sat another elephant- god statue in tarnished brass.

“You are your son’s father,” Malenko said. “The resemblance is striking.” A school photograph of Dylan was included in the folder.

“Poor kid,” Martin joked.

“On the contrary,” Malenko said, and took his seat behind the desk.

The resemblance was uncanny, something everybody picked up on. It was as if Dylan were a miniclone of Martin, Rachel thought, his own Mini-Meas if she had passed nothing on to her son but a damaged brain.

“Well, now,” Malenko began, glancing into the folder before him. “When you came in here last week, Mrs. Whitman, you expressed interest in the center finding a program that would best be suited for Dylan.”

Rachel nodded, not knowing where this was going, but feeling her anxiety mount.

“As you know, we had him assessed with an expectation of designing a program tailored to his talents and needs. Because of his language-processing problems and memory lapses, we conducted a body of tests, both neurological and behavioral, including an EKG and MRI scan.”

Rachel felt her heart gulp as he pulled out a large envelope with MRI scans. She didn’t know if she could sit through another gruesome profile of her son’s disabilities.

“The results show that there are region-specific language problems that are associated with the regional- specific deficits in Dylan’s brain, not unlike those we see in patients with dyslexia. As you well know, Dylan has a tendency to overregularize verbs—saying I singed, I goed, I knowed. He also has problems with the use of other morphemes such as possessives and verb agreements. Instead of the cat’s paw, he’ll say the cat paw. Or she talk instead of she talks.

Rachel took a deep breath and swallowed it before it came out a groan.

“He also has problems with certain reasoning aspects associated with language—the use of the passive voice, subjunctives, and if clauses. He was asked the classic test in the field: Who did the biting when he heard the statement ‘The lion was bitten by the tiger.’ His answer was the lion. He was not able to understand the causality. He heard ‘The lion bit the tiger.”’

Rachel put her hand to her brow as Malenko went to the light board and pointed out the anatomical disparities in Dylan’s brain for Martin. Her heart raced, and she bit down, trying to keep herself from spinning out of control.

“Jesus!” Martin said, as he listened. “The left looks smaller by a quarter.”

“Yes, at least,” said Malenko.

“But why?” Martin asked.

Rachel stiffened. If Malenko even faintly intimated that she had brought this on with drugs, she knew that she would explode.

“There are several possibilities,” Malenko began, “though none we can exactly determine. My best guess is that it’s a genetic aberration. Who knows? But that’s not the important thing. It’s what we can do for Dylan.”

Rachel caught Malenko’s eye as he sat down again. He must have detected the insane heat in her eyes because he addressed Martin. “Your son will have to have a comprehensive individualized instruction program geared to improving his word recognition and comprehension, grammar, reading, and critical-thinking skills.”

“How long a program are you talking about?”

“Typically, from seventy-five to a hundred hours of instruction, and up to four hours of instruction per week. But given Dylan’s assessment, I’d say he would need instruction on a daily basis for a hundred to two hundred hours. Maybe more.”

“God! It’s that bad?”

Malenko leaned back in his chair and for a brief moment studied Martin’s reaction. “Mr. Whitman, I’m sure you’re aware that no test can exactly measure a person’s intellectual ability, including standard IQ tests. I mean, how can a test assign a number to creativity or artistic skills or leadership, curiosity, musical talent or physical prowess or social skills, emotional wellbeing, and so on? It’s impossible. However, the composite IQ score measures verbal and logical thinking, which is the best overall predictor we have of educational achievement and success.

“Your son’s intelligence quotient falls in a range of seventy-nine to eighty-four which is the low side of the national average. He needs special attention.”

“So it’s not just some attention-deficit thing that can be treated with medication?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Jesus,” Martin said. “Maybe it was some lead paint he was exposed to. Or mercury or some other crap. I don’t get it. We’ve got lawyers and engineers on both sides of the family. How the hell …” And he tapered off.

“How it happened isn’t the issue, Mr. Whitman. There are people with less intellectual talent than Dylan who are happy and productive members of our society.”

“Yeah? Name me one.”

Rachel shot a look at Martin.

Martin turned to her. “What?”

“Stop it!”

“Stop what? He’s handicapped and I can’t accept that. Okay?”

Rachel knew it was totally irrational, but all the outrage, despair, and vexation that was racking her soul converged like rays in a magnifying glass on Martin’s face. And at the moment she hated him. He was condemning their son to a life on the margins.