“Are you sure? I’ve read that a lot of places.”
This comment annoyed and alarmed Nessa. Had Dr. Blatter also gotten her medical degree from the Urban Legends page on About.com?
“I’m glad you’re continuing to use ASL with him so he can communicate until he has something to say.”
Nessa wanted to laugh at this—-what was he doing with ASL if he wasn’t “saying” things? She’d taken a class over at the university in American Sign Language, and any time she couldn’t come up with the proper word, she could always find what she wanted on YouTube, which was stocked with thousands of short videos demonstrating ASL words and phrases.
“Yes,” Nessa said. “But I’m concerned it’s delaying his speech further.”
“No,” Dr. Blatter said cheerfully. No explanation, no evidence to back it up.
Even if Einstein didn’t talk until he was almost five, neither did countless developmentally delayed, disabled, and low--IQ kids. But could those kids use ASL, facial expressions, and body language with such nuance and eloquence at three years of age?
“Please just do the lead test?” Nessa said, hating the pleading tone of her own voice.
Dr. Blatter sighed. “I’ll send the nurse in. Okay? I’ll see you in four months for his four--year checkup, and I’ll bet he’ll be talking then.”
Nessa laid her hand on Dr. Blatter’s arm as she rose to leave the examining room. “Can I talk to you out in the hall for a second?”
“All right,” the doctor said.
“Mama and Dr. B are going out in the hall for a minute, Daltrey,” Nessa said to him. “I’ll be right back.”
He nodded without looking away from the toy.
Nessa followed Dr. Blatter out and closed the door behind them.
“I just thought you ought to know,” Nessa said, lowering her voice, afraid Daltrey would hear through the door. “Daltrey’s dad and I are getting a divorce.”
Dr. Blatter opened up Daltrey’s file again, clicked her ballpoint pen, and wrote something. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“Daltrey’s dad is bipolar, you see, and he—-well, he self--medicates.”
The doctor nodded, her eyes still on the file folder.
“I just couldn’t keep hoping his dad would get his act together—-I didn’t think it was good for Daltrey. You know what I mean?”
Dr. Blatter nodded again, her silence somehow compelling Nessa to continue talking.
“You don’t think . . . maybe Daltrey kind of senses something’s out of whack? And that—-well, it’s another thing delaying his speech?”
Dr. Blatter finally shifted her inscrutable gaze to Nessa, who went on babbling.
“John was diagnosed less than five years ago. I thought once he got on the psych meds, the need for . . . the other would go away. But it kind of had the opposite effect. He said they flattened him out. He missed his mania. You know what I mean?”
Of course the doctor knew what she meant. Nessa despised the fact that the situation had changed her into the kind of woman who asked for affirmation after every spoken sentence.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said, her breezy, dismissive attitude broken through at last. “Has Daltrey regressed in any way since his dad left home? Has he started to wet the bed? Have his sleep patterns changed? Has he lost interest in the things he loves, books and that sort of thing?”
Nessa shook her head.
“If his development slows down or even goes backward, or any of those other things start to happen, then you bring him back in. We’ll give you a counseling referral. But kids are pretty resilient. He’s a strong little boy.”
Nessa wanted to hug her but restrained herself.
“The nurse will be right in to take some blood.” The doctor turned away but Nessa touched her arm again.
“Bipolar is genetic,” Nessa said. “Isn’t it.”
Dr. Blatter tucked the file folder under her arm and took both of Nessa’s hands in her own. “Listen. Yes. There’s a ten to fifteen percent chance Daltrey will develop the condition. But here’s the thing. We know what to look for. The fact that John wasn’t diagnosed until he was in his thirties means it had altered his brain already. We will keep an eye on Daltrey. If we notice the symptoms, we will manage it. All right?”
Nessa wiped her eyes. “Thank you,” she said.
“Take care of yourself, Mrs. Donati.”
“You too.”
The doctor walked away and Nessa went back into the examining room, where she gathered her son into her lap to wait for another unnecessary needle that would simultaneously assuage her guilt and amplify it.
Chapter Five
WHEN THEY RETURNED home, a panel truck stood out front, decorated with a golden key, emblazoned with LOCK IT UP! and a phone number.
How had Nessa ever gotten by without Isabeau?
Daltrey held her hand as they walked toward the house, hanging back a little when he saw a kid in a work shirt with long dirty--blond hair kneeling next to the front door, removing the doorknob.
“Hi,” Nessa said.