Accelerated

  Shineman pulled a chair next to his. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  It was creepy that Shineman was always right there, waiting to pounce.

  “We were just finishing up, actually.” Jess held out her hand formally to Sean. He shook it. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “I’ll walk down with you,” Shineman said. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He checked his watch.

  “This won’t take long,” she said, and started to walk. “I’ve been observing Toby and some other children in the classroom. He seems to be focused at certain points of the day and very unfocused at others, especially during music, PE, and transitions between classes.” She popped a breath mint in her mouth.

  Toby had been coming home on music days complaining that the teacher made him sit out while the other kids played the recorder. “I’m worried that every time his teachers reprimand him—and they have been reprimanding him recently—it’s going to negatively impact his confidence.” Impact was not a verb, Sean thought, and should not be used as one. Math had never been his strong suit, but he’d always been oddly attached to grammar.

  “It seems pretty obvious to me,” he said, “that making Toby sit out in music is not the way to get him motivated.”

  But Shineman wasn’t done. “At the beginning of the day he starts playing with his friends right away instead of hanging up his jacket and checking in like he’s supposed to. And he forgets things. He’s forgotten his spelling book twice this week.”

  This woman was out of her mind. “He cannot be the only kid forgetting to sign in.” Signing in! Who cared? “And he can’t be the only kid who’s excited to see his friends in the morning. At least I hope not.” Why was this being billed as a major catastrophe? And were other parents getting the same lecture? “This can’t be that unusual for a kid his age.” He tried not to sound defensive. “Boys, especially.”

  “That may be true in the larger population, but here, we need to get all the children on the same page,” she said. “Many of our children are very capable of these basics.”

  “You’re a shri—a psychologist,” he said. “Why are you refusing to acknowledge that an eight-year-old boy might be upset that his mother is MIA? That his best friend might die? Why do I have to convince you?”

  She cleared her throat. “My concern is that we don’t overlook something more serious because we’re distracted by a coincidental occurrence.”

  They stood in front of the library. “Okay, so I’ll make sure he brings his spelling book. I’ll remind him to sign in.”

  “I know you’ve rejected this option in the past, Sean,” she said. A vague Long Island accent slipped out when she said his name. Shawan. “But medication might work wonders with Toby. Even a tiny bit of it. If he can break out of this cycle—and it is a dangerous cycle—he could get some confidence in school. Positive feedback from teachers will make Toby want to get more of it. We’ve seen it a million times. In the end he’ll stop goofing around. If that’s the problem.”

  She made it sound so neat and clean. So easy. But what she didn’t seem to get was that his kid was not one of those hyper brats who bounced off the walls. He wasn’t an ADD kid. “I just don’t get why you think Toby needs to be on Ritalin.”

  “Of course we couldn’t tell you to put him on medication.” Shineman was now backpedaling. “We’re not even allowed by law to mention that. Just think about an outside evaluation. It can never hurt.”

  “I took him to Dr. Hess, remember? He did three days of testing. I’m not putting Toby through that again. It was a waste of time.”

  “Dr. Hess tests for different learning styles, academic and emotional strengths and weaknesses. And it was inconclusive. Not a waste of time.” She gave him a smug smile as if she’d won that round. Which she hadn’t. “I’m recommending you see a psychiatrist to determine whether Toby has any type of Attention Deficit. I’m happy to recommend someone if you like.”

  “He does not have Attention Deficit. Trust me.”

  She put her hand on his arm in a motherly gesture. “Maybe it’s not a neurological disorder. Maybe it’s some other fixable problem.” This comment was obviously supposed to make Sean feel relieved, but instead it gave him heartburn.

  She removed her granny glasses dramatically for effect. He noticed now that her eyes were bloodshot and the pouches under her eyes had been covered with skin-colored spackle. “And Sean, just so you know, third grade is a bitch. Kids start to notice who’s ahead and who’s behind. I’ll be honest—they can be cruel. If we can save Toby that kind of humiliation, I’m all for it. Aren’t you?”

  NICOLE LEANED BACK ON SEAN’S COUCH, HANDS BEHIND HER HEAD. “So, wanna hear about my date?” she slurred. The bottle of tequila, full when the kids had gone to bed, was now half empty.

  “You had a date?” As far as he knew, she hadn’t had a date since she got pregnant with Kat.

  “I have dates.”

  “Really?” He poured a shot.

  “You don’t have to act so surprised, okay?”

  He tried briefly and unpleasantly to imagine Nicole having sex. He downed the tequila and waited for the burning to stop.

  “You can be such a jackass,” Nicole said. “All right forget it. So what else you got?”

  This was Nicole’s way of asking how his day had been. He imagined the assistant district attorneys sitting around asking each other what they got. She was used to answers like extortion, rape, murder.

  “The school shrink is riding me to get Toby evaluated. She thinks he has ADD.”

  She squinted her eyes and tried to focus on Sean. “I am officially fucked up,” Nicole said. “I thought you just said Toby has ADD.”

  “I have to get him out of that school,” he said. “You were right, it’s not worth it.” He’d called six other schools that afternoon—schools he couldn’t afford, that Maureen and Dick wouldn’t pay for—to discover it was already too late to apply for next year. “Maybe I should put him in school with Kat. He’d love that.”

  “If you repeat what I’m about to say, I swear I’ll disown you as a brother.” She rubbed lime on the webbing between her thumb and pointer finger and shook on salt. “Public school in this city is a train wreck. It’s free. And as I’ve learned the hard way, you get what you pay for. Kat’s school is only slightly more educational than day care.”

  Sean stared at his sister. Her endless arguments about the evils of private school education were just for show.

  “If he can survive Bradley,” Nicole said reasonably, licking her hand and taking another shot, “you’ve got to keep him there. I know kids can do it without the fancy school. But your kid got into the fancy school. It’s free—for you, anyway. You can’t flush that down the toilet.”

  “What about the Thanksgiving war? That was all bullshit?” It was so typical of his sister. Arguing for argument’s sake. She was such a lawyer.

  “Kat’s been to the principal’s office five times,” Nicole said. “Behavior issues. Fucking school.”

  “No way.” Sean poured a shot even though he’d decided he was done a few shots ago. From what he’d seen, Kat didn’t bat an eyelash without Nicole’s approval. She’d always been a pleaser.

  “It took me a while to figure it out,” Nicole said. “Bored. She’s bored. She’s trying to keep herself entertained.”

  “I thought the curriculum was enriched,” he said. He was unraveling the arguments Nicole had masterfully made in favor of public school. “Gifted. And talented.”

  “They’ve been doing multiplication tables in her class all year. Kat knew those going into third grade. They’re reading Junie B. Jones, for Christ sake. She’s reading Trumpet of the Swans at home.” Nicole snorted. “They have gym once a week. Once. And they only have art if a parent volunteers to teach it.” She looked at him with a so there expression. “At this point, she’s just showing up. She’s getting in trouble.” Nicole hesitated before dropping the bombshell. “S
ometimes she pees in her pants.”

  Sean’s jaw went slack.

  “Don’t fucking tell anyone. Or I’ll kill you.”

  Sean crossed his heart, like he’d done when he promised not to tell that Nicole had taken twenty dollars from their dad’s wallet to buy weed for the high school prom.

  “Can you get her out of there?” He thought Toby had it bad. Kat must be miserable.

  “I’ve applied to private schools for the last three years.”

  She was a master at conversation-stopping bits of information.

  “The worst part is she’s gotten in every year and the fuckers won’t give me financial aid.”

  “Shit, Nicole.” Now he felt like an ass. “You make a crappy salary. All these schools have money for financial aid.”

  “Oh, I make the cut for need. But just my luck I’m a white lawyer with a white child. Now, if I were a struggling performance artist living in the far Bronx with a half-Puerto-Rican child, they’d be all over me. Apparently I’m not diverse enough.” She shook it off with a wave of a salty hand. “Toby’s going to get through this,” Nicole said. “This is a glitch. He’s going to shine, that kid.”

  He wanted that to be true. And having Nicole say it made him believe it might be. “Kat, too,” he said.

  Nicole smiled weakly. “Get him tested. Maybe if a professional tells the school he’s suffering from Mother Deficit Disorder—not some neurological disaster—that will calm them down. Rule it out.”

  “I’m not telling Ellie.” Tellingellie slurred into one word.

  “Screw her.” Nicole lay back on the couch and closed her eyes. “You don’t need to tell her shit.” Within seconds she was snoring.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “SO IS HE GOING TO GIVE ME SHOTS?” Toby couldn’t seem to get his mind around the concept of a shrink. Granted, Sean wasn’t explaining it well. He was trying not to lie, only to remain suitably opaque. Kind of like whenever Toby asked about sex.

  “No shots. And um, it’s a her.” A co-worker of Nicole’s had gone through the same ordeal earlier in the year with his kid and recommended a psychiatrist named Angela Altherra. He liked the idea that Bradley hadn’t referred her. And he liked the idea that someone from the D.A.’s office thought she was all right. “She’s just going to ask you some questions. About school, I think. All you have to do is sit there and answer.”

  “And then what does she do?”

  “I don’t know, I guess you leave.”

  “I don’t have to take off my clothes?”

  “No. Tobe, it’s not that kind of … she’s a psychiatrist. Remember? She takes care of people’s brains and, you know, emotions.”

  Toby scrunched up his face into what was clearly a comment on how his father had lost his mind and was the one who needed the shrink. “Why do I have to go to her? My brain isn’t sick. Is it?”

  “No. I mean … look don’t worry about it. Just talk to her. Ask her anything you want about it. She can probably answer better than me.”

  This was a scene he’d never imagined. Him, Sean Benning from Troy, New York, walking along Park Avenue on the way to his son’s psychiatric appointment. He knew this wasn’t unusual in Manhattan, where everyone seemed to have a shrink. Last year at a dinner party he’d gone to with Ellie, everyone was telling therapy stories. He realized he was the only one who had nothing to contribute and decided to make up something. Luckily, before he’d gotten a chance, the bipolar woman to his right started to choke on a wild mushroom canapé. After the manic landscape architect performed the Heimlich, the conversation turned to life-saving techniques and Sean was able to riff about a CPR class he’d taken in college.

  “Okay,” Toby said. “I’ll do it. But afterwards we go to Cyber Zone so I can kill you in Ghost Recon.”

  “We’ll see who kills who,” he said. “I think today’s my day.”

  Toby shook his head wearily. “If you don’t practice, Dad, you’re never going to beat me. You’ve got to put in the time.”

  An Irish doorman with ruddy cheeks and salt and pepper hair stood bolt upright at the front door of the Park Avenue apartment building. He wore his gray cap and uniform with brass buttons as if it were a general’s. East side doormen called you Sir, and if it rained they held a golf umbrella over you while you climbed into your taxi. West side doormen wore their uniforms if they felt like it, called you by your first name, and had no problem whatsoever getting up into your business. Manny had been the first one to notice—or dare to mention—Ellie’s pregnant belly. “Ay, congratulations!” he’d said, patting his own belly, and the cat was out of the bag.

  The General would never risk that kind of intimacy. There was something to that.

  “May I help you?” he asked, sizing them up. This guy opened doors for a living but he probably earned more than Sean did. Plus he had a killer union and a nice fat 401 K, too. His kid was probably doing fine at a good public school in Jersey.

  Sean muttered Dr. Altherra’s name.

  “One B. On the right,” the doorman said. Sean was sure he saw a smirk on the guy’s face as he pointed to a glossy door past a mammoth flower arrangement that glowed under a spotlight.

  The door opened into a closet-like waiting room, and they sat in uncomfortable straight-backed chairs. At exactly three thirty, an attractive woman in her early forties emerged from an office.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Altherra,” she said. “Come in.”

  Dr. Altherra’s office, as if compensating for the waiting room, was spacious, with warm tapestries on the walls and an oriental carpet on the floor. Sean and Toby sunk into the velvet couch.

  He’d expected another Shineman, but this woman was in another league. She was slim, fashionable, and wore her dark hair pulled loosely back. A few wavy strands crept out around her face, giving her a soft, Renaissance look. She was much more attractive than she’d sounded on the phone. Nicole’s friend from the D.A.’s office might have mentioned it.

  “So Toby, your dad’s told me a lot about you,” Dr. Altherra said. Toby didn’t respond. He stared at a patch of carpet a few feet in front of him. “I’m looking forward to talking to you about school and home and whatever else you want to talk about.” She smiled kindly even though Toby had given her nothing to smile about. “First, though, I’d like to talk to your dad alone. Just for a little while, then I’ll bring you in. How does that sound?”

  Toby looked at Sean nervously.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Should I just sit out there?” Toby had never waited alone in a waiting room before. Sean or Ellie had always stayed with him. It was a strangely poignant milestone you don’t log in your baby book.

  “That would be great, Toby,” Dr. Altherra said. “It won’t be too long.”

  Toby remained on the couch like a deer in the headlights.

  “I’ll get you settled,” Sean said. He led Toby to a seat in the waiting room and handed him a National Geographic. He pointed at the wall. “I’m just through there.”

  Back in Dr. Altherra’s office, Sean tried not to worry about Toby sitting out there alone. He’d be fine, obviously. But if Sean had prepped him beforehand—if he’d stopped to think this could even come up—Toby might feel less betrayed at the moment.

  “I asked you some questions on the phone the other night,” Dr. Altherra said. “But there are quite a few more on the Conners scale. We should get through them all today. Will your wife be joining us?”

  “No.” He hesitated, not sure how to explain the status of him and Ellie. “She’s been … she’s been out of the picture since September. She’s living on Long Island.”

  Dr. Altherra nodded in a professionally interested way. Was she wondering what hellish thing he’d done to make her go? “I think it’s having an effect on his schoolwork and his behavior.”

  “Does he seem withdrawn?”

  “No, not really. Not usually.”

  “Is he more irritable than usual? Is he eating more or less than he usually does?�
��

  “I don’t know. He’s just himself. But a little sadder. And the school keeps telling me he’s disrupting music class.”

  “Encourage him to talk about her,” she suggested. “He might be waiting for a signal from you that it’s okay to do that.” She paused. “Are you seeing someone else?”

  He shook his head.

  She gave him a sad sort of smile he didn’t appreciate. “Well, let’s finish these,” she said, gesturing to the questionnaire that would determine whether Toby had ADD—or ADHD, as she kept calling it. “It’s important to get a full history from the parents—or parent—when it comes to this type of neurological disorder.”

  Disorder. It was a word he’d use to describe a piece of defective equipment you bring back to the store for a refund. “My answers tell you whether he has ADD?”

  “I also talk to Toby,” she explained. “And I’ll send a shorter version of the Conners scale over to school.” She handed him a sheet of paper. On the left was a list of behaviors: Restless in the “squirmy” sense, Demands must be met immediately, Distractibility or poor attention span, Disturbs other children, Restless, always up and on the go, Excitable and impulsive, Fails to finish things started, Childish and immature, Easily frustrated in efforts, Difficulty in learning. To the right were four choices for each: Not at all, Very Little, Pretty much, Very much.

  “That’s it?”

  “That usually tells us everything we need to know.”

  “And then you prescribe drugs?”

  “If I’ve made a diagnosis of ADHD,” she said, as if clarifying a rule for a three-year-old. “Otherwise, no.”

  He chose to ignore the condescending tone. She was that good looking. “So you’d prescribe Ritalin?”

  “I like to start with short-acting methylphenidate—that’s the generic name for Ritalin. There are several options we can talk about if we get to that point.”

  The research he’d done online had only confused him. He’d read as many impassioned rants, both pro and con, conflicting studies and medical horror stories as he could stand before signing off at two a.m.