Dante's Wood Page 4

  “That’s all right. My secretary mentioned you’d brought your son along. Charlie, is that his name?”

  “Oh!” Judith said quickly, rising from her seat. “I almost forgot he was outside. Poor baby. He’s probably terrified sitting all alone in that strange room with everyone staring at him. I should go to him.”

  “Sit down,” Nate commanded her. “No one could possibly tell there’s anything wrong with him. He looks just like any other kid his age. He’ll be fine by himself.”

  At last, a clue. “How old is Charlie?” I asked.

  “Eighteen,” Nate said.

  I started to take notes, using a small device called a stylus to punch cells into the stiff sheet of paper attached to my slate. “Why don’t you tell me some more about him?”

  “Well,” Judith began. “He’s very good natured and, of course, quite advanced in comparison to his peer group.”

  “Not again,” Nate groaned.

  “Well, he is. You’ve always belittled what we’ve been able to accomplish with him, his therapists and I, that is, since you’ve never bothered to get involved. It’s his pride, you know,” Judith said, leaning in close to me. “He’s never been able to accept that any son of his could be—”

  “Retarded,” Nate said, also leaning in as if to shove Judith aside.

  “Please,” Judith said, making it sound like two syllables. “I’ve asked you never to use that word.”

  “But that’s what he is.”

  “He is not.”

  “What shall we call it then? Delayed? Developmentally challenged? Tell us, darling, what is the officially sanctioned euphemism this week?”

  “Really, Nate, I resent—”

  “I’ll tell you what it should be. Retarded. Plain and simple.”

  “Why don’t you just say he’s an imbecile, while you’re at it,” Judith snapped back.

  Nate said, “Better an imbecile than some asinine expression to sugarcoat the fact that he has the mental age of a three-year-old. To hear you talk it’s as if Charlie lives in some Lake Wobegon where all the idiots are above average.”

  I inferred there was some unresolved conflict here.

  “What is his IQ?” I asked, venturing into the fray.

  “He’s borderline normal,” Judith said.

  “Bullshit,” Nate said. “Last time we had him tested he barely made forty-five on the Wechsler Scale.”

  I pulled up a mental picture of the DSM-IV discussion of intellectual impairment. An IQ between 40 and 50 would place Charlie in the moderate category of mental retardation, with the intelligence of a six- to nine-year-old. It was far from the mild disability Judith claimed, but not quite as bad as Nate had made out.

  “Does he have Down’s Syndrome?” I asked, taking an educated guess.

  “No,” Nate said. “Fragile X. Do you know it?”

  I remembered what I’d read about this, too. Although Down’s Syndrome is more noticeable because of its distinctive physical characteristics, Fragile X is actually the leading cause of inherited mental retardation in the general population. The incidence is about one in 4,000 births. Like me, the Dickersons had hit the genetic jackpot. I began to feel some sympathy for them.

  “I don’t need it explained to me,” I said. “Is Charlie the only family member affected?”

  “Yes,” Nate said. “After he was born I put a stop to having more children.”

  “Over my objection,” Judith added acerbically.

  I wrote for a moment in my notes. “What are his living arrangements?”

  “He lives with us,” Judith said. “I would never lock him up in an institution. This isn’t the Dark Ages, you know.”

  “Of course,” I said, thinking that Judith probably had trouble letting him out of her sight. “I was just asking whether he was making any progress toward being on his own, say in sheltered housing. What about his education?”

  “He attended a public elementary school until he was fourteen. Under the law, he’s entitled to full support until he’s twenty-one.”

  “Is he in high school now?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that wasn’t an option for him. He’s still reading at a second-grade level,” Judith explained.

  “She means he can recognize stop signs,” Nate said. “And count to ten.”

  “He knows his multiplication tables up to four.”

  “Practically ready for calculus,” Nate groused.

  “What about vocational training?” I asked. “Is he able to be employed?”

  “If you call bagging groceries at Jewel employment,” Nate said.

  “We’re working on that,” Judith countered. “Task concentration is still a bit of an issue.”

  “So what is he doing at present?”

  Judith answered, “While I’m at work during the day he attends an adolescent daycare facility called the New Horizons Center. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  Judith paused in the style of a method actor and said, “I think someone there is molesting him.”

  Four

  “Judith!” Nate exploded. “We have no proof of that. Haven’t I explained the trouble you could get us into by throwing around that kind of accusation? With your family’s millions we’d be sitting ducks for a libel lawsuit.”

  “Not if it’s true,” Judith said with authority.

  “You don’t need to worry about lawsuits here,” I said. “Whatever you tell me will be held in strictest confidence. I take it you don’t share your wife’s concern?” I asked Nate, turning in his direction.

  “I do not,” Nate said staunchly. “It’s complete nonsense.”

  “Then why are you here today?” I said.

  I heard him shift in his seat. “I don’t know exactly. Since I haven’t been able to talk my wife out of her fantasies—”

  “They’re not fantasies—” Judith started in.

  Nate kept going, talking over her “—I thought we ought to have someone with a proper background talk to Charlie. So I called Sep Brennan. He said you’re an expert on post-traumatic stress and level-headed enough not to jump to any rash conclusions.”

  I made a mental note to thank Sep for tossing me a softball my first day back. I didn’t like this situation one bit. Allegations of child molestation are notoriously difficult to substantiate or disprove, as the McMartin preschool trial and similar scandals had shown. The likelihood of a false accusation was even greater with a mother as protective as Judith, who also seemed to have something to show her husband. On the other hand, I knew that the intellectually disabled were at special risk for abuse by caregivers, and I cautioned myself not to dismiss her concerns too quickly.

  I turned back toward Judith. “All right. Let’s talk about what has prompted this fear. First, has Charlie said anything to raise it?”

  “No,” Judith said, “but he’s been upset, waking in the middle of the night and crying himself back to sleep. It’s not normal for him. He’s usually very content.”

  “Is he wetting his bed?”

  “Certainly not,” Judith said, clearly offended. “He hasn’t soiled himself since he was five. Though he does need to be reminded sometimes. To go, that is.”

  “Has he been able to say what’s causing him to wake like this?”

  “No,” Judith said. “I’ve asked but he just shakes his head. When I push him further, he starts crying again.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “A few months now. Three or four, maybe.”

  “Besides the nighttime waking and crying, have you noticed any other unusual behaviors?”

  Judith reflected on this. “Not really,” she said.

  “Anything to link the waking episodes to,” I stopped and consulted my notes, “the New Horizons Center? For example, resistance when he’s being dropped off there?”

  “I’m not with him then,” Judith said, adding apologetically, “I often have to see my clients early in the day so I can’t take him
to the center myself.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  “I’m a genetic counselor at the Mercy HMO on Division.”

  “How does Charlie get to the center, then?”

  “Well, Nate is always too busy to take him”—I could picture the daggers she was throwing at him then—“so he takes a bus provided by a state agency. It’s only a few blocks’ ride. His babysitter walks him to the corner of our block, just off Fullerton, and he waits for it to come.”

  “All right. How about when you’re leaving for the day? Any protests or disobedience that might indicate he’s feeling anxious about going to the center?”

  “No,” Judith conceded. “He’s always liked it there and still seems quite happy in the morning when I kiss him good-bye.”

  “And when he comes home? How does he seem then?”

  “He’s always ravenous when he gets back, just like any other teenager.”

  “So he’s eating normally,” I said.

  “His appetite’s never been better.”

  So far there seemed to be nothing connecting the nighttime crying to anything at the New Horizon Center. “Mrs. Dickerson,” I said, “I have to confess that I’m puzzled about why you think your son’s distress is related to the center.”

  Nate jumped back in, “See, what did I tell you—”

  I shook my head firmly to ward him off. “Is there something else you haven’t told me?”

  Judith answered, “Well, as I said. He’s never had any trouble like this before and . . .”

  I waited for her to go on.

  “It’s that woman.” She hissed the word like a polecat in heat.

  “Which woman?” I asked.

  “Shannon. Shannon Sparrow. She’s an art therapist at the center—or claims to be. Judging by the trash Charlie brings home, I don’t see much ‘therapy’ going on there. In fact, I don’t even understand why she was hired. Though she is very popular with the students. Of course, you’d expect her to be, given her looks and the way she dresses. Completely inappropriate. I can’t believe no one has spoken to her about it . . .”

  I let Judith rattle on while I took further notes. Shannon Sparrow was relatively new to the center, at the time employed there a little over a year. She was in her early twenties, a recent graduate of the state university system and a native of southern Illinois. Judith described her as “a farm girl with overdeveloped udders” who had migrated north with ill-disguised intentions of landing a husband in the big city. According to Judith, Shannon was “one of those breathless blondes” whose fashion sense ran to Juicy Couture (I didn’t know exactly what this was, but the name conjured up images of a People magazine reader), Victoria’s Secret (this needed no explanation, but I wondered how Judith knew), and “those wretched boots from Australia” (presumably Uggs). In addition to poor taste in clothing, Shannon had “issues with boundaries” and was always hugging and patting her students in appreciation of their artistic efforts, which she supervised several afternoons a week. Judith knew this because she’d asked to sit in on one of Shannon’s classes after another parent had hinted at “excessive physical contact.” Judith’s dislike of Shannon was palpable and she went on with these and other complaints for a good ten minutes while Nate remained silent, resigned, I supposed, to letting her have her say.

  I asked Judith whether she had ever personally observed Shannon touching Charlie in an improper manner.

  “Of course not,” she replied. “If I had evidence of that sort I would have gotten her fired immediately.”

  “So as best you know, their physical contact has been limited to the hugging and back-patting you’ve described?”

  “Yes. But it’s out of line, especially with the young men, who might not understand and begin to develop . . . feelings.”

  “Do you think Charlie has developed ‘feelings’ for Shannon?”

  “I couldn’t say. I only know he talks about her all the time.”

  “As though he had a crush on her?”

  “Perhaps,” Judith sniffed. “Though I can’t imagine why,” she added, inconsistently.

  I put myself in the position of an eighteen-year-old male with a healthy libido and decided it was possible, likely even, if Shannon was as Judith described. “Have you discussed this with Shannon’s superiors?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Judith said. “I’ve had several meetings with Alice—Alice Lowe is the center’s director—but so far she’s refused to do anything about it.”

  I made a note of Alice Lowe’s name. “Did Ms. Lowe state her reasons?”

  “Only that she hadn’t personally observed any unprofessional conduct and couldn’t possibly launch an investigation without something more to go on than my suspicions. Of course, all the woman cares about is the center’s reputation. It would shut down in an instant if anything like this came to light.”

  Which was precisely why it was so important to be cautious about leveling accusations. So far all I’d detected was the anxiety of an overprotective mother toward a potential rival for her son’s affections. I asked Nate if he had anything to add. “No,” he sighed with an attitude of long-standing martyrdom.

  “All right,” I said. “I’d like to talk to Charlie now. I need to warn you that while I did do a fellowship in post-traumatic stress disorder, my practice is primarily adult psychiatry. All I’m going to do today is ask a few questions and observe Charlie’s reactions. If I see anything that warrants follow-up, I’ll refer you to a specialist. But before I meet Charlie, could you describe his appearance and general health?”

  According to his parents, Charlie was a tall boy, six-foot-three and on the slender side, with no physical limitations apart from small motor clumsiness. He took swimming and karate lessons, and participated in an area baseball league sponsored by the Special Olympics. His health was good. He’d had surgery the previous year for a deviated septum and come through with flying colors. He had no allergies or food sensitivities they knew of, was on no antidepressants or medications except for a mild dosage of Ritalin to help control hyperactivity, and had never been treated for a psychiatric disorder before. Nate said he was attractive in appearance, though he had the longish face and prominent ears typical of Fragile X males, with dark brown hair and gray eyes. Judith said all her friends agreed he was the most beautiful boy they’d ever seen.

  I showed the Dickersons to the door and asked them to have Yelena bring Charlie in.

  “Hello, Charlie,” I said, rising to offer my hand when he entered. I noticed a slight shuffle to his walk as he came up, and his palm was sticky where it met mine. “My name is Mark. I’m a friend of your parents. Would it be all right if we talked a few minutes?” I didn’t tell him I was a doctor right away for fear it would cause hypervigilance, a common reaction when the intellectually disabled are thrust into novel situations. I wanted him to be as relaxed as possible so I could develop a baseline for his reactions before we tackled any sensitive topics. I asked if he’d like to sit down.

  “OK,” he said hesitantly. “Where can I sit?”

  “Why don’t you take the couch there and I’ll take one of these chairs.” I reached over to flip on my tape recorder. “Do you know what this is?” I asked. I didn’t hear anything but his breathing, which was adenoidal and coming fast. “Are you nodding your head?”

  I still didn’t hear anything except breathing.

  “Charlie,” I said. “You are going to have to do something special for me when we’re together. Do you know what blind means?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means . . . I think . . . I don’t know.”

  “OK,” I said. “That’s good. It’s important for you to tell me when you don’t understand something I’ve asked. Do you wear glasses?”

  “Sometimes. When I play baseball. I go on Saturday. Do you like baseball?” Charlie’s voice was hoarse and he spoke in a rushed manner, like a train hurtling down a track, a speech affect known
as cluttering.

  “I like baseball very much. What happens when you take your glasses off?”

  Charlie giggled. “I can’t see the ball.”

  “Right. Well, being blind is like never being able to see the ball. Or the baseball field. It’s like having your eyes closed all the time.” That wasn’t strictly true in my case, but it was easier for him to understand. “It means I can’t see you,” I explained.

  “Can’t you wear glasses?”

  “Glasses are for people whose eyes just need a little help. Mine don’t work at all. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t hear anything so I assumed he was nodding again.

  “Did you just nod your head?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “See? I missed it. Go ahead, nod again.”

  Charlie giggled some more.

  “Still didn’t see it.”

  Charlie laughed even more heartily. “You’re like James,” he said.

  “Who is James?”

  “One of my friends. At school. He likes monster trucks, too. We watch DVDs in the morning. Only I have to tell James which ones they are. He has those things in his ears. Sometimes he doesn’t understand me and I have to talk really loud.” To illustrate the point, Charlie’s volume rose. “Really, really loud,” he barked.

  “Well, my ears work just fine, so you can speak in a normal voice. But you do have to try to remember to speak all the time, not just shake your head yes or no.”

  I got his agreement to use the tape recorder and then asked him to tell me about monster trucks. We moved from there to baseball and his other interests, which included Star Wars characters and Spiderman. Like many Fragile X youngsters he could speak on certain subjects with great precocity—he knew whole plots from his favorite movies—but had difficulty recalling what he’d done the day before or even on more memorable occasions like birthday parties and holidays. He also had trouble with sequencing, putting events in proper chronological order. His attention span was very short, so we covered a lot of subjects before I judged him comfortable enough to raise the subject of the New Horizons Center. His breathing had slowed to the point where I couldn’t hear it anymore and he wasn’t moving as much in his seat. I started with questions about his daily routines.