Accelerated, Page 22

  “I’m going to get Mommy first,” he said, and darted out of the fort. He was back a moment later. “She’s resting.”

  “She’s asleep?”

  Toby nodded.

  Ellie had been napping a lot. It was all coming back to him, how she’d slept almost all the time last summer when she’d been depressed. “I don’t think she slept well last night.” He was good at making excuses for her.

  They looked at comics while they ate in the fort, then Sean told a ghost story that ended up not being too scary, just in case. The icing on the cake was the Snickers bar he’d snuck in from the outside.

  “Mom’s been trying to give me this gross thing called scarab,” Toby said, devouring the candy bar. “Why would she do that?”

  “Carob,” Sean said, gratified by Toby’s smile, which was covered in chocolate. “And I have no idea.”

  When Toby fell asleep, Sean pulled a blanket over him, turned off his flashlight and crept out quietly. Ellie was asleep, fully clothed, on the bed, a trickle of drool at the corner of her mouth.

  “Ellie,” he whispered. “Ellie?” She was out cold.

  I need to see you, he typed into his phone. Can you meet me at the bar?

  When Jess wrote back saying she’d be there in ten, he scribbled a note on the back of an envelope, saying he was at the drug store. Ellie wouldn’t wake up, but just in case. He grabbed his jacket and slipped out quietly.

  The temperature outside had dropped. He sprinted through the whipping wind to Rite Aid for a tube of toothpaste he could use to provide an alibi. There was no reason he shouldn’t be meeting Jess. Or maybe there was. It was a gray area he needed to think through. All he knew was that he missed Jess and she was the only person he could talk to.

  She was grading math quizzes at the bar and when she saw him it was like a light switched on in her. He wondered if the bartender noticed that she was sort of glowing. But she caught herself and tamped it down.

  “How’s Toby?”

  “Toby’s good. He’s great.”

  She smiled. “And everything else?”

  Everything else had to mean Ellie. Him and Ellie. “Everything else is … complicated.”

  “Complicated.” Her voice trailed off. “Back together?”

  “No,” he said. “Not back together.” A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “We’re together … as roommates,” he said. “For now.” He probably could have stopped, but he felt compelled to keep talking. “Toby needs his mom, and I have to work, so … it kind of made sense for everyone. On some level.”

  “That is complicated.”

  “I’m sleeping on the couch,” he blurted out.

  “As I recall, that couch is quite comfortable.”

  “It’s much less comfortable without company.”

  He checked her ring finger. The miniscule thing was back on.

  “What about you and the FedEx man?”

  “Complicated.”

  “I guess it’s none of my business.”

  “Not if you’re a married man living with your wife.”

  “Come on, you’re not really going to marry that guy,” he said with a Tourette’s-like lack of control.

  She fixed him with her vapor-blue eyes and flashed him a half smile. “For the record, I’ve been looking for my own place.”

  “That’s great,” he said. “I mean, I’m sorry?” He had no idea what to make of the swarming bees ricocheting around his chest at the idea of Jess being unengaged. “You’re still wearing the ring.”

  “Yeah,” she said, tugging at it. “I have to tell Chris. He’s going to be really pissed. So I’ve been kind of gathering my courage.” She took another sip of her drink.

  “Is that Scotch?”

  “I thought that’s what we drink here.”

  He flagged down the bartender and ordered one for himself.

  He wondered if he’d figured into her decision to move out. “Have you found any apartments?”

  “There’s a place on 154th and Amsterdam that I can almost afford.”

  “That’s kind of a sketchy neighborhood, isn’t it?” He imagined her coming home late, getting ogled by the crack dealers. He didn’t know if there actually were crack dealers, but there might be. And if there were, it would be dangerous.

  “It seems okay.” She shrugged. “Anything will be better than staying.” She finished her drink, grimaced, then eyed the quizzes. “I should get back.”

  “Let me buy you another one.”

  “That would be one too many,” she said. ““Besides, I should really …”

  “Stay a little longer. I want to read you something.” He’d taped the letter as best he could. “The Drakes received this in the mail.”

  She sat forward for a better view. “You were at the Drakes’?”

  “Their cleaning lady gave it to me. Listen.” He cleared his throat:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Drake,

  My name is Hutch Garvey. I’m a clinical psychiatrist who specializes in childhood ADHD. I evaluated children in the private school system for over twenty years and taught classes in early childhood development and the development of the adolescent mind at Teachers College. I’ve written several books on the subject of Attention Deficit.

  I was terribly sorry when I heard about your son Calvin. His death worries me on many levels. For reasons I won’t go into here, I am skeptical when I hear a student at a prestigious Manhattan school has died from a peanut allergy. Is it possible Calvin’s death was a result of something else? In my years of experience, I know that Bradley wants the majority of its students to get evaluated and that those evaluations often result in ADHD diagnoses and medication. If this was the case, it’s imperative that you get back to me as soon as possible. I will explain everything when we speak. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.

  Sincerely, Hutch Garvey, M.D.

  He looked up from the letter and Jess took it from him. She lingered over the return address. “Chesswick, Pennsylvania,” she said. “When can we go?”

  SATURDAY MORNING, HE KISSED TOBY GOODBYE AND SLINKED ACROSS the street to pick up his Zipcar. He’d told Ellie he was working on the Oscar edition. He couldn’t recall ever having worked on a Saturday. Lying to Ellie made him queasy, but it was easier than having another fight about Bradley.

  Sitting behind the wheel of the gray-blue Toyota Prius, he realized he hadn’t been in a car in years, since he and Ellie used to drive up to Nantucket for the Fourth of July. He gripped the wheel firmly. It felt good. He could put his foot on the pedal and go anywhere, everywhere. A car was freedom. As he backed out he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair needed a trim and he noticed a few strands of gray at his temples. When had that happened?

  He swung by D’Agostino where Jess was bouncing in place to keep warm. He pulled up, and she sprinted to the car and slid in next to him. She touched his leg. Kind of like a greeting. “Morning,” she said. He could still feel her hand after she took it away. “So.” Her gloves made a muffled sound as they clapped together. “Let’s find Hutch Garvey.”

  The giddy energy of the treasure hunt pushed them forward through the tunnel and New Jersey and into Pennsylvania, but the mood turned somber when they arrived in Chesswick. They watched the post-industrial suburb of Philly slide by their windows. Each crappy, decrepit house was worse than the next.

  Sean had researched Chesswick the night before: 20 percent unemployment with 25 percent of its residents living below the poverty level. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not this. He’d also Googled Garvey. It turned out Garvey hadn’t just been a shrink, he was the kid shrink on the Upper West Side. Before he vanished a few years ago.

  Soon, the neighborhood changed. Looking past the rust and rot, he realized the streets were wide and some of the houses were huge. Rich people had lived here once.

  “Stop.” Jess pointed to a sagging Victorian. “That’s it.”

  They stared. The paint curled away from the wood and the
second floor buckled. It looked unsafe. “That’s his house?”

  “That’s what it says.” She held up the envelope. “We should ring the bell.”

  They plodded down the path, which was covered in six inches of snow. When they reached the front door, he searched for the bell, but there wasn’t one. No knocker either. He made a fist and pounded. When no one answered, he pounded again.

  “I guess no one’s home,” Jess said.

  He pounded one last time.

  “Okay, okay.” Whoever was inside did not sound happy about having visitors.

  Jess stepped back and they both looked up and saw a figure staring down at them from a window. A minute later, the front door opened and a wiry middle-aged man stared out at them through intense eyes. A stubbly gray film coated his cheeks. “What?”

  “Dr. Garvey? Hutch Garvey?” Sean asked. The guy wore khakis and a stretched out rugby shirt.

  “I’m not buying anything,” he said.

  “I’m not selling anything.”

  Garvey squinted at him, then gave Jess a wary once-over.

  “We’d like to talk to you,” Sean said. “About Bradley.”

  Garvey licked his lips. “You’re not screwing with me, are you? Because if you are, I’ll have you arrested. I swear to—

  “We’re not screwing with you,” Jess said.

  A muscle pulsed over Garvey’s right eye. “Who are you?”

  “My son Toby is in the third grade at Bradley,” Sean said. He touched Jess’s shoulder. “This is his teacher.” Garvey perked up. “Toby almost died because the school forced me to give him Metattent Junior. He didn’t need it.”

  Garvey opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  Filing cabinets and accordian folders stuffed with newspaper clippings took the place of couches and chairs and coffee tables in the living room, making it look more like a storage facility than a home. Stacked at free wall space, piles of newspapers sat yellowing, waiting to be clipped. Sean caught a glimpse of an end table that had been pushed haphazardly into a corner. It was antique. Expensive looking. On it sat a framed photo of Garvey, a woman, and two kids on a big sailboat. They were smiling in the photo and Garvey looked healthy, not nervous and gray like he did now.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” Garvey mumbled, with a wave of his hand. “Come upstairs to my office.”

  They followed Garvey up the uneven steps of the old house. Crammed in among more filing cabinets in his office was a wide antique desk that he guessed had resided in a much larger room at some point in the past. “Sit, sit, please,” Garvey said.

  “That’s quite a collection,” Jess said, eyeing a shelf of Pez dispensers. Batman, Daffy, Spiderman, Fred Flintstone—he had them all. Dozens of them. Not only was it an impressive display, it was fun, colorful. The guy must have a sense of humor. One that wasn’t in attendance today.

  “It took me twenty-five years to find all those,” he said. “The kids love it. Loved it.” He clapped his hands. “So,” Garvey said. “How did you find out about me?”

  “The Drakes,” Sean said. “Their cleaning lady found your note in their trash.”

  He sighed. “I’m afraid that’s where the majority of my correspondence ends up. No one wants to listen to what I have to say.”

  “We do,” Jess said. “What did you mean in your letter, about peanut allergies?”

  Garvey blew air out his mouth, disgusted. “It’s code, obviously. Think about it. When I was a kid, no one had peanut allergies. Okay, some kids did, obviously. Of course. But the numbers reported today? Come on.”

  “Code for what?”

  He turned to Sean. “You came here because your child got sick from medicine he was taking. Unnecessary medicine. I agree. But it’s much bigger than one or two children. It’s happening all the time at these schools. I’ve been trying to expose this thing for years.”

  Sean swallowed, reminding himself to breathe.

  “But every time a kid goes down, it’s a peanut allergy, a bee sting, something, anything other than a reaction to the amphetamines or methylphenidates they’ve been given to make them zombies at school. And for some reason parents aren’t coming forward.” He scooted his chair closer, fixing Sean with a grateful expression. “Until now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Stigma? Embarrassment? Fear?” Garvey shrugged. “Who knows?” He paused, gathering himself. “So Mr …”

  “Call me Sean.”

  “Sean, tell me what happened to your son. And don’t leave anything out.”

  Garvey scribbled in his notebook as Sean told him what had happened to Toby and what he suspected had happened to Calvin. He included what Noah had said, how the school had pressured him to get Toby evaluated and also about Dr. Altherra. He told Garvey how Melanie Drake had reacted when he asked about the medication.

  “Okay,” he said, finishing his notes. “Okay. I’m going to get you up to speed on the big picture.”

  “There’s a big picture?” Jess asked.

  “You have to know the background before you can understand any of what’s going on now. I read everything,” he said, making a sweeping gesture to all the cabinets and newspapers and clippings surrounding them, “everything written about it.”

  “Why haven’t you called the police if you know Bradley’s doing this?”

  “Been there, done that,” he said. “It’s not that easy. These schools, Bradley especially, have an uncanny way of making you look like an escapee from the loony bin if you say anything negative about them. Look at me. My family wants nothing to do with me. My practice, my reputation—all ruined. I’m banished to fucking Chesswick, PA.” He shook his head. “Hard evidence. That’s what I’m working on. You can help me with this.”

  “But,” Sean said, suddenly worried about what he was getting into. “What do you mean?”

  “First, you have to listen. I’m going to give you the background, the history, the numbers. Numbers never lie.”

  “I don’t need to know the history. I know my son didn’t have ADHD. If you’re telling me this has happened before, that’s enough for me.”

  “Sean, please. Pay attention.” Garvey raised his eyebrows in warning. “Attention Deficit and hyperactivity are serious problems from which fewer than two percent of the population suffers.” He snorted. “The ADHD being diagnosed today is a disorder fabricated by big pharmaceutical companies to make big, and I mean huge money on drug sales.”

  “It’s not fabricated,” Jess said. “I’ve taught kids who’ve literally jumped off walls and bitten other students.”

  “That’s right,” Garvey said. “Two percent of the population will benefit from being medicated. No doubt about it. Don’t believe me. Go read the Journal of Attention Disorders from June. Penn State psychologists tested 1,473 children and concluded children are no more or less inattentive and impulsive today than in 1983. And yet ADD is spreading across the country like a virus with diagnoses increasing 5.5 percent every single year. There’s no more actual ADD now than there was thirty years ago, but doctors wrote 51.5 million prescriptions for attention drugs in 2010, up 83 percent from 2006.” He sat back, as if exhausted, and let his hands fall into his lap. “Boys are not docile, easily controllable, or easily teachable like some girls. It takes more energy, more creativity, more patience to teach boys.”

  “True,” Jess said. “It’s harder.”

  “And when teachers aren’t interested in teaching, that shows up on the report cards and in conferences. Parents get scared their kids are going to fail out of school. Cue the school psychologist, psycho-pharmacologist, pharmacist, and the problem is solved. Easy, right?” The guy was amped up, but he seemed to know his facts. “It’s why 13.2 percent of all boys have been diagnosed at some point with ADHD as opposed to 5.6 percent of girls.”

  The numbers were staggering. He didn’t know what to ask first. “So that’s what Bradley does?” Sean asked. “That’s what happened to Toby?”

  “That would be m
y theory,” he said. “Even with what you’ve just told me, I don’t know all the particulars of what happened to Toby, but I do know the history.”

  He cleared his throat and sat back in his chair professorially. “Ritalin has been around for half a century. In 1957, the Ciba Pharmaceutical Company started marketing it to people with chronic fatigue and psychosis associated with depression and narcolepsy. Sure, why not? It’s speed! It’ll pep up anyone, right?” He let out a bitter laugh. “They’ve marketed it over the years for a host of other problems. Starting in the sixties, they used it on kids with hyperkinetic syndrome, which later became ADD. Now there’s ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Pretty much the same thing, just add some hyperness to the mix. You get the idea. In the seventies and eighties, drug companies developed a handful of other stimulants to treat it. But medicating children back then was still unusual, except in extreme cases where children were a danger to themselves and others.” Garvey’s eyes widened in anticipation of his next point. “But then, suddenly—and no one knows why—between 1991 and 1999, sales of Ritalin and other ADD medications increased five hundred percent in the U.S. alone.” He paused for emphasis. “Five hundred percent. The United States, land of the free, consumes 85 percent of the world’s production of Ritalin. The numbers are insane. In 2010, attention drugs were a 7.42 billion-dollar industry.” Garvey opened a medical journal to a flagged page and read aloud: “Shire Pharmaceuticals sold 759 million dollar’s worth of Adderall XR, that’s extended release, in 2004 alone.” He snapped the journal closed. “And that’s not even mentioning Concerta, Strattera, Provigil, or the original Metattent—which, by the way never did much business until the Junior version came out.”

  “That’s what Toby was taking,” Sean confirmed.

  “Ah yes.” Garvey shook his head to convey something between awe and disgust. “The kiddie pill. Right. Other than some food coloring to make them look more like Flintstones vitamins, the active ingredients are virtually the same as in Ritalin.”

  “But …” What was the right question? “Then why did … Didn’t the FDA have to …”

  “Puh-leese,” Garvey spat out. “The FDA. I’m talking about the medication wars, Sean. Have you heard anything I’ve said? Do you think a little obstacle like the Federal Drug Administration is going to get in the way of big pharma?”