there wasn’t actually any drama in your work to write about, and how, if you did get suckered into talking about your favorite bit of research, a reporter desperate to prove to his boss he can write something more exciting than this week’s round of society weddings was not the best guy to open up to. What I had hoped would be an article providing general information on this surprisingly common childhood problem metamorphosed into pop psychology sound bites that not only had never come out of my mouth but also diminished my treatment methods, making them sound effortlessly, almost arrogantly effective, as if there were no margins for error at all.
There was more to worry about in Mr. Sloane’s letter, however. It was clear from the tone that he had already made several sweeping assumptions: that Drake was a perfectly ordinary boy just waiting to be cured, that “cure” was just a matter of finding someone with the magic to do it, and that enough money could fix anything.
The way the hierarchy was set up at the hospital meant each child who entered the unit was assigned his or her own team of specialists, which would include nursing and care staff, psychologists, occupational or physical therapists and educators from the unit, plus liaison people, who would continue to work with the child when he or she returned to the community. Each such team was always headed by a child psychiatrist. Even if one of us in an allied position had been responsible for referring a child to the unit with the intention of working more intensively on a problem ourselves, nonetheless, the case leader was still one of the psychiatrists. This was because the unit was, first and foremost, a medical facility. The child psychiatrists, by virtue of also being medical doctors, were thus always at the top of the pecking order. Moreover, it was they alone who were able to prescribe drug treatment in addition to the other forms of therapy.
I wasn’t known for being a natural team player, certainly not back in my teaching days, when I’d rather relished the “outsider” status provided by being in special education, and I had always been inclined to rebellion. However, I found this hierarchical approach worked well in the tightly structured hospital setting. I was grateful not to be in a position to make the ultimate decisions, which were often very gray and, thus, very difficult, and frequently had grave consequences. Even more, however, I enjoyed the intellectual stimulation provided by regular interaction with professionals whose background and training were very different from my own.
We had five child psychiatrists, four men and a woman, and they were, all of them, sharp, erudite individuals. My favorite among them was Dave Menotti, who was affable and witty and most likely to come down from “Heaven” – our term for the corridor on the floor above where the psychiatrists’ offices were – to fraternize with us. Harry Patel, however, was the psychiatrist I most looked forward to leading my team. He was a quiet man who seldom socialized, so it was hard to get to know him personally. A native of New Delhi – indeed, a fairly recent immigrant – he often gave the impression of not quite having a command of English, and this contributed to his slightly aloof nature. But this wasn’t true. Harry just didn’t waste words if none were needed. And Harry was stunningly good at what he did. I would have expected the difference of cultures to work against him, but this hadn’t happened. Indeed, perhaps it was this that gave him such astute powers of observation, because I found he could see depth even in the most ordinary of situations. Faint nuances of behavior, fleeting expressions, sighs, silences. He took them all in. He worked with incredible delicacy, never pushing the children, never leading, only following. I loved watching him in action, and I loved even more the chance at his guidance.
So, even though I had qualms about Mr. Sloane’s letter regarding his grandson, if Harry suggested we observe the child, I was happy to do so. Thus, I cleared my schedule, packed up my “box of tricks,” and set out for the long journey to Quentin.
I enjoyed the drive out to Quentin, appreciating a chance to get away from the city for the day. It was late winter going into spring and the weather was gorgeous in that heartbreaking way of a dying season. The snow was gone, the landscape gray and brown, and yet there was an expectancy to it, a nascent joie de vivre. Moreover, I loved driving itself and the freedom and solitude of being on the open road.
I reached the preschool just after eleven, which gave me about forty-five minutes to observe Drake in his class. Martina, Drake’s teacher, greeted me in the school office.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve had at least five phone calls this morning.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Really? From whom?”
“Mr. Sloane. To see if you had come.”
“Drake’s father?”
“No, Mason Sloane, Drake’s grandfather. We all call Drake’s father ‘Walter.’ Mr. Sloane is his father.” She laughed. “It can be even more confusing than that, because Mr. Sloane always refers to his son as ‘Watty,’ while Walter’s wife calls him ‘Skip.’” Then a friendly grin. “But ‘Mr.’ always refers to the old man.”
“And he’s been calling? Here?”
Good-naturedly, Martina rolled her eyes. “Welcome to Sloaneville.”
Drake was not at all what I’d anticipated. His macho soapopera name had put me in mind of aristocrats or over-sexed mallards. When I first saw him in the classroom, however, I didn’t even realize Drake was a boy. Not only were his features soft and feminine, but his hairstyle was a girl’s. At least in my book. He was blond with thick, shiny, straight hair, and it was cut in what I could only describe as a bob. And not even a “Dutch boy” bob. This was a long, shoulder-length bob with well-trimmed bangs of the sort you might see in pictures of boys in medieval times. I had not seen any boys look like this lately, however. Even back in the 1960s and 1970s when there was a certain vogue for long-haired boys’ styles, they were not the court-of-King-Arthur fashion this boy wore.
Drake also defied the stereotypic personality of an elective mute. In my experience, the majority of children with this disorder were shy and withdrawn. Drake, however, was participating joyfully in a rollicking singing and dancing game with the other children. He wasn’t singing, of course, but he was having a high old time joining in with the movements, his actions open and uninhibited.
At least pretty much they were “open and uninhibited,” because that was the other unusual thing about him. He was not dancing alone. Accompanying him was an enormous stuffed tiger, which he clutched tightly around the neck with one arm. It had brilliantly hued orange-and-black stripes, a merry, almost cartoonish face, a big fluffy white belly, and was formed into a permanent sitting position. And quite honestly it was almost as tall as Drake was.
Taken aback by this Prince-Valiant-meets-Calvin-and-Hobbes combination, I just stared.
He was fun to watch. This kid had megawatt charisma. The other children in the class were unfazed by his silence, his odd name, his crazy hairstyle, or his having a life-sized tiger for a sidekick. They actively sought his company and included him in everything happening. Drake responded to each overture with enthusiastic charm. Indeed, he responded just as eagerly to the teachers. I observed him focusing well, listening attentively to instructions, following directions easily and cheerfully. From everything I observed that morning, Drake was a happy, well-adjusted little character.
After the children left, I joined Martina for lunch in the teachers’ lounge. “He’s certainly not what I expected,” I said. “I’m going to admit right here that seeing him in the classroom, I wouldn’t have identified him as having the level of problems he apparently has. What’s your take
