'A real crappy thing,' she repeated, opening the door and walking off.
The room was dark. A microphone dangled from the ceiling, which, like three of the walls, was layered with acoustical tile. The fourth wall was a one-way mirror. A woman in a wheelchair sat looking through the glass. In her lap was a clipboard, stuffed with papers. She turned toward me as I entered and smiled.
'Alex,' she whispered.
I bent over and kissed her cheek. She emitted a cool, clean California scent - suntan lotion and chlorine.
'Hello, Sarita.'
'It's so good to see you,' she said, taking my hand and squeezing it hard.
'Good to see you, too.'
She sat tall in the chair, dressed casually but formally, in a navy blazer, pale blue silk blouse, and spotless white slacks that couldn't conceal the withered outlines of atrophied legs.
'I'll be through in just a few minutes,' she said, and pointed toward the mirror. On the other side was a brightly lit windowless room floored with linoleum and painted white. In the centre of the floor sat a child in front of an electric train set.
He was about six or seven, dressed in jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and sneakers, chubby and chipmunk-cheeked with caramel-coloured hair. The miniature railroad was an elaborate setup: shiny cars; silver track; a papier-mache landscape of bridges, lakes, and rolling hills; wooden depots and semaphores; built-to-scale two-storey houses rimmed with matchstick picket fences.
Pasted to the boy's forehead and scalp were several electrodes trailing black cables that snaked along the floor and fed into an electroencephalogram monitor. The machine spewed out a slow but steady stream of paper patterned with the peaks and troughs of a line graph.
'Pull up a seat,' said Sarita, picking up a pencil and making a notation.
I sat in a folding chair and watched. The boy had been fidgeting, but now he sat stock-still. A low hum sounded, and the train began to roll steadily around the track. The boy smiled, wide-eyed; after a few moments his attention wandered again, and he began to move restlessly and look away. The train stopped. The boy returned his eyes to the locomotive and seemed to go into a trancelike state, face immobile, hands folded in his lap. There were no control switches in sight, and when the train started up again, it appeared to do so of its own accord.
'He's doing very well,' said Sarita. 'On task fifty-eight percent of the time.'
'Attentional deficit?'
'Severe. When he first came in, he was all over the place, just couldn't sit still. The mother was ready to kill the kid.
I've got another dozen just like him. We're running a study on teaching AD kids self-control.'
'Biofeedback?'
She nodded.
'We found most of them were pretty tense, and I thought the train would be a fun way to teach them to relax. It's hooked up to the EEG monitor through a wire under the floor. When they go into alpha state, the train runs. When they come out, it stops. One kids hates trains, so we use a tape recorder and music. The schedule of reinforcement can be programmed so that as they get better, they're expected to sit still for longer periods. Besides the attentional benefits, it makes them feel more in control, which should translate to higher self-esteem. I've got a grad student measuring it for a dissertation.'
A buzzer went off on her wristwatch. She turned it off, scribbled a few notes, reached up, and pulled down the mike.
'Very good, Andy. You really kept it going today.'
The boy looked up and touched one of the electrodes.
'It itches,' he said.
'I'll be right in to take it off. One second, Alex.'
She wheeled toward the door, yanked it, and rolled through. I followed her into the hallway. An old-faced young woman in halter top and shorts stood near an unmarked door, leaning against the wall. One hand twisted a strand of long dark hair. The other held a cigarette.
'Hello, Mrs. Graves. We're just about through. Andy did beautifully today.'
The woman shrugged and sighed.
'I hope so. I got another report from school today.'
Sarita looked up at her, smiled, patted her hand, and opened the door. After wheeling to the boy, she removed the electrodes, tousled his hair, and repeated that he'd done well. Reaching into the pocket of her blazer, she drew out a miniature toy car and handed it to him.
'Thank you, Dr. Flowers,' he said, turning the gift over with pudgy fingers.
'My pleasure, Andy. Keep up the good work. Okay?'
But he'd run out of the room, engrossed in the new toy, and didn't hear her.
'Andy!' said his mother sharply. 'What do you say to the doctor?'
'I already did!'
'Then say it again.'
'Thank you.' Begrudgingly.
'Bye now,' said Sarita as they walked away. When they were gone, she shook her head. 'Lots of stress there. Come on, Alex, let's go to my office.'
The room was different from what I remembered. Spartan, less professorial. Then I realised that she'd altered it to accommodate her disability. The bookshelves that once lined one wall from floor to ceiling had been exchanged for low plastic modules that ran around three walls. The massive carved desk that had served as the room's centrepiece was gone; in its place was a low table that fitted into one corner. The wall behind the table had once borne dozens of photographs - a pictorial essay of her athletic career. Now it was nearly blank; only a few pictures remained. A pair of folding chairs stood propped against the wall. What was left was mostly empty space. When the wheelchair entered, the space disappeared.
'Please,' she said, pointing to the chairs. I unfolded one and sat.
She manoeuvered around the table and put down the clipboard. While she checked her messages, I looked at the photos she'd left hanging: a beaming teenager receiving the Gold Medal at Innsbruck; a faded and yellowed programme from the 1965 Ice Capades; an arty black-and-white shot of a lithe young woman gliding on ice, long blonde hair streaming; the framed cover of a woman's magazine promising its readers health and beauty tips from Skating Superstar Sarita.
She swivelled around, and her pale eyes circled the office.
'The minimalist look.' She smiled. 'Gives me easy access and keeps me sane. Since I've been in this thing, I find myself getting claustrophobic. Hemmed in. This way I can close the doors and spin around like a nut. Dervish therapy.'
Her laugh was throaty and warm.
'Well, dear boy,' she said, looking me over, 'time has treated you kindly.'
'You, too,' I said automatically, and immediately felt like a jerk.
The last time I'd seen her had been three years ago at an APA convention. She'd been recovering from an MS attack that had left her enfeebled but able to walk with the aid of a cane. I wondered how long she'd been in the wheelchair; from the look of her legs it had been a while since she'd stood upright.
Observing my embarrassment, she pointed to her knees and laughed again.
'Hey, except for these I'm still first-class merchandise, right?'
I took a good look at her. She was forty but had the face of a woman ten years younger. It was an all- American face, sunny and open under a mop of thick blonde hair, now cut in a pageboy, skin deeply tanned and lightly dusted with freckles, eyes open and guileless.
'Absolutely.'
'Liar.' She chuckled. 'Next time I'm depressed I'll call you up for supportive prevarication.'
I smiled.
'So,' she said, growing serious, 'let's talk about Jamey. What do you need to know?'
'When did he first start to look psychotic?'
'A little over a year ago.'
'Was it gradual or a sudden thing?'
