Show Me Your Face
A Novel about Autism in an Age
of Ignorance and Arrogance
by
Pete Palamountain
In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, a brave young mother
fights medical charlatans and quacks and her own family
in her search for answers to help her son
Show Me Your Face
Readers Comments:
"Very few books have the power to make me weep, but the last scene with Billy made me bawl."
"Fantastic read." "A heartwarming plot."
"This story touched my heart. So worth reading."
"Was so interested in this book that I decided not to take my sleeping meds so I could finish it last night. I reluctantly read the last page at 2 a.m. I didn't want it to end."
"Impossible to read the last chapter without a tear...or at least a lump in your throat."
Description of Show Me Your Face:
In an age (late 1960’s and early 1970’s) when charlatans and quacks reigned in the treatment of autism, and when “refrigerator mothers” were blamed for the disorder, Peggy Raintree, a brave young mother, refuses to believe the myth that she caused her son’s condition by rejecting him at the breast—so she sets out to find her own answers.
But will she be prevented from using her creative, new ideas to reach her strange little boy? And will he ever be able to show her his true face?
Peggy deals with the pressures in her life with strength and grace, and even in her darkest moments never loses sight of her goals. She is not perfect, either as a parent or spouse, but she is warm, clear-thinking, and brave.
The incidences of autism have skyrocketed in the last twenty years. This novel dramatizes the struggle to understand this phenomenon. It explores the foolish medical ignorance of the last forty years as well as the roots of the promising new ideas that have helped hundreds of autistic boys and girls in recent years.
Books by Pete Palamountain
Egypt and the Turncoat Senator
Show Me Your Face
Runaway Twins
California Blood
Egypt and the Medal of Honor
Copyright 2011 Pete Palamountain
Show Me Your Face
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy,
Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?
Thursday’s child is far away…
Table of Contents
Prologue — A Tale for Medical Students
3 – Early Warnings and Unexpected Deaths
4 – Valerie’s Arrival and a Vietnam Story
13 – A New Ally and the Dissolution of a Marriage
Part II – Searching for Light in Dark Corners
Part III – The Limit of Endurance
24 – Brotherhood and Sisterhood
63 – Testimony, Quotes, and Affidavits
Epilogue – He Had a Little Brother
A Tale for Medical Students
Present Day
As the tall woman pedaled her mountain bike through the maze of side streets that crisscrossed the sprawling Washington, D.C. medical complex, she felt the cold wind stinging her face and whipping through her thin white hair; and though her eyes were watery and her legs beneath her gray tweed skirt were growing numb, she loved every minute of it. She was whistling “Turkey in the Straw.” As she rounded the corner of one of the red brick buildings, she fumbled with her cell phone and punched a pre-set number with her thumb.
Shouting above the wind, she said, “You’re still coming, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
Even though she knew he would never renege on a commitment, she said, “Your presence will personalize our story.”
“What about our privacy?”
“Not important. Privacy is another word for fear.”
He laughed. “I’ll be there. You didn’t have to call. Tell me something, are these med students worth it?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Very much so—the best and the brightest. We only take the top tier.”
“So do we in Renaissance languages at Georgetown, and yet last week one of them asked why the world hadn’t always spoken English since it would’ve made things so much easier.”
She braked to a halt in front of a hitching post containing four other bikes, where she removed a combination padlock and a chain from the carryall behind the seat, secured the front tire, and loosened the straps that bound several books to the luggage rack. She entered the building through the revolving glass door and strode toward the bank of elevators on the far side of the lobby, greeting several students and faculty members who were on their way out. She sensed someone beside her and looked down to see a petite coed struggling with an oversized briefcase. The coed was trying to match her step for step, but was reduced to skipping to keep pace.
“Good morning, Miss Marsh, did you do your homework?”
“I think so.”
On the third floor they walked down the hall together and stopped in front of a door with a sign that read: AMPHITHEATER III – DEPT. OF PSYCHIATRY – DR. P.J. RAINTREE. Miss Marsh entered the room first and hurried to her seat, and the tall woman made her way to the front. At the lectern she surveyed a full complement of students positioned on increasingly higher levels to give each an unobstructed view of the professor and of the grease board behind. She reached beneath the lectern and placed the books she’d brought with her on the lower shelf and from the upper shelf removed the briefcase she’d left the day before. She took out a sheaf of papers, spread them out, and leaned toward the audience. The babble ceased immediately, and the students stared in anticipation.
“Yesterday,” she began slowly, “as I dismissed the class, I posed a question for you to consider. ‘Why are pediatricians and other health professionals so reluctant to give a diagnosis of autism?’ What’ve you decided?”
A black-haired young man whose name she couldn’t remember raised his hand and began to speak before being recognized. “Autism is a difficult diagnosis because there’s no typical case.”
“It’s easy to confuse autism with other childhood disorders,” said a female voice from the rear, “and diagnosticians don’t wish to mislabel young children.”
A thickset boy in a tight green sweater raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Murray.”
“Most pediatricians don’t keep up with the literature and don’t want to reveal their ignorance.”
A restrained ripple of laughter rolled across the amphitheater, and the black-haired student who spoke first, said, “Symptoms are so varied most professionals want to wait until the problem comes into a sharper focus.”
The small coed, Miss Marsh, stood to her feet and said slowly, “…I think the reason for the reluctance is parent-oriented. Doctors know that parents live in fear of the word ‘autism’ and we go out of our way to provide substitutes—pervasive development disorder, autistic tendencies, autistic features, autistic spectrum, and so on.”
“Very good, Miss Marsh. I think what you say is true. In fact, I think all of your answers have elements of truth in them.”
She paused and gazed around the auditorium, stopping to smile at individual students. She loved her work and loved these eager, ambitious young people. She wondered how they would respond when this morning’s class was over. She looked at her watch. First she would tell them a tale to stir their minds and hearts, and then the guest speaker would arrive to hit them with a double whammy. She was glad it was a three-hour class, and she hoped they would learn lessons today they would carry with them for the rest of their careers.
She stepped out from behind the lectern. “What I’m going to do today is tell you a story, a story about my family and about me—a story I believe will dramatize and clarify many of the issues we’ve been talking about. Let’s see what you think….And incidentally, if you’ve concluded that doctors are uninformed about autism today, wait until you hear how ignorant they were forty years ago—yes, ignorant and arrogant, perhaps the two most appalling adjectives that can be applied to the medical profession.”
PART I
A FAMILY IN DISARRAY
Rituals and Small Faces
1971
“No, no, no!” Billy’s piercing scream reverberated off the kitchen walls and sliced into Peggy’s brain. He pushed away the plate of pancakes and continued to scream while he banged on the table. She knew instantly what she’d done wrong but also knew it was too late to correct her mistake. Instead of pouring the syrup on the pancakes before cutting them into bite-sized pieces, she’d cut them up first and then applied the syrup. Billy picked up on it immediately and rejected the pancakes as if they were covered with worms. From his highchair Billy’s little brother Roger reacted to Billy’s tantrum with his own bone-chilling scream, and Peggy thought she might let go and scream right along with them. She was certain she could match them decibel for decibel.
Arthur entered the kitchen and frowned at the scene before him. He shook his head in disapproval and tightened his mouth as if the cacophony at his table was a personal attack on his dignity. “What’s going on here?” he snapped. “This is no way for the boys to start their day.”
“Billy has a ritual with pancakes,” Peggy said. “I didn’t make them right. He has to see the syrup go on first, before I cut them up, otherwise he won’t touch them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Try it sometime.”
The boys were still howling, though at a reduced volume; and Peggy’s sister Valerie came in from the back bedroom. She was wearing a red cashmere sweater and jeans, and her long blonde hair was swept back beneath a red headband. Peggy realized that compared to her younger sister she must look like the frumpiest of housewives in her flannel pajamas and terrycloth robe.
“Hey, guys, quiet down,” Valerie said. “The neighbors will think you’re being tortured.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve already missed my bus, and I don’t have time for breakfast. Arthur, can you give me a ride to school?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s on the way to the hospital.” He pulled his cuffs, straightened his tie, and moved toward the door. The boys were whimpering now, and he stepped behind them and placed a palm on each of their heads. They stopped crying and raised their faces toward him. “There, you see,” he said, cupping the boys’ chins. “It’s all in how you deal with them, tenderly but firmly. Right, boys? You’ve got to take control, Peggy. After all, you’re the adult.”
“Billy’s rituals—”
“Are all in your head. He’s just a bit hyperactive. Get him in to see Henry Brooks. A little medication will slow him down.”
“I don’t want him on medication. I hate seeing children walking around like zombies.”
“Henry won’t allow that to happen.”
“I’m not ready to go in that direction yet.”
“Suit yourself.”
She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and shut Arthur out as if he had already left the room. Valerie stepped past her chair and touched her gently on the shoulder, and Peggy raised her head and watched Valerie and Arthur exit together. Was it her imagination or were her husband and her sister touching shoulders as they walked side by side along the back path toward the garage? After they had driven away, she exhaled in disgust at what she was about to construct in her tired brain: her husband and her seventeen-year-old sister? What an inane thought. Arthur was an honorable man, and Valerie was a devoted sister, and they would never consider such a relationship.
When Peggy was alone with the boys, she put her head on her arms and began to cry softly. Seeing her distress, Billy and Roger resumed their crying, and she got to her feet and began to attend to their needs. No sense in wallowing in self-pity. She had a family to take care of and she’d better get on with it. “Well, young man,” she said to Billy. “I guess you need another batch of pancakes. This time I’ll do it right.”
When the boys were fed, she took them into the living room, put them on the rug with their toys, and then leaned against the mantelpiece while collecting her thoughts. She flicked the switch on the radio and adjusted the dial until she heard Three Dog Night singing “Joy to the World.” She loved the lilting melody and the upbeat words, and she stood silently beside the fireplace, remembering.
Billy’s Birth
1968
She was dressed in a scarlet maternity smock, and she’d tied up her long auburn hair in a matching bandanna. In her hand she carried a featherduster, and while the radio on the mantle blared a commercial, she began to dust her assembled Hummel figurines. The commercial ended and Bobby Hebb began his rendition of “Sunny,” and she stopped dusting and stood quietly next to the crackling fire, listening intently. When the song ended, the Youngbloods took over with their up-tempo hit “Get Together,” and she responded by dancing heel and toe around the room, using the featherduster as a baton. Her pregnancy made the moves awkward and ridiculous, but she went on, giggling throughout the dance. Finally, she collapsed in an overstuffed chair with her legs sprawled in front of her and her hands on her protruding abdomen. She closed her eyes and smiled in contentment as the Beach Boys began to sing “Good Vibrations.” She mouthed the words, opened her eyes, and began to caress her belly. The baby was certainly producing good vibrations, and she felt like opening the window and shouting her joy to everyone in D.C. Suddenly, she grimaced in pain and sat up abruptly. She was fairly certain the baby had just announced its intention not to wait any longer; and she was overwhelmed with anticipation, excitement, uncertainty, and fear.
In the car on the way to University Hospital, Peggy said, “My water never broke.”
“It doesn’t always break,” Arthur said.
“I know, but I was preoccupied and wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You’re a nurse, and you fantasize you’re going to be a doctor. You have to think clearly.”
She stared at her hands. “I thought this day would be special, Arthur. Sometimes you sound just like your father.”
He scowled as if she’d slapped him across the face.
The bright lights in the delivery room shone in Peggy’s eyes, and she squinted as she watched the two nurses exchange glances and begin to wheel away the mirror that stood at the foot of the delivery table. “Don’t take it away,” she screamed. “I want to see.”
“We need more room,” Arthur said. “Don’t worry. The baby’s shoulders need to be turned. John’s got it under control.”
John Carnegie, the big redheaded freckle-faced obstetrician, nodded to confirm Arthur’s assurance. “Everything’s going to be fine, Peggy. A few minor problems, but nothing to be concerned about. We’ll take good care of you…and the baby.”
When the mirror was gone, she experienced an overwhelming moment of despair. Despite Arthur and John’s reassurances, she sensed something was terribly wrong and her baby’s life and perhaps even her own were in danger. She closed her eyes and tried to think positively, to reject images of horror and disaster and to concentrate on hope and new life; but it didn’t work and her mind kept retreating to the worst possible scenarios. She knew she should be ashamed of herself for succumbing to such thoughts, but she didn’t care and she sank deeper and deeper into despair.
Ten hours later she lay propped up in bed wearing a peach-colored peignoir. Her hair and makeup were done and all the anxiety, tension, and fear she’d felt in the delivery room were gone. In her arms she cradled her small pink baby boy who was perfect in every way, except for his somewhat diminutive size (a little over five pounds) and for temporary forceps marks on his temples, on his back, and on his thighs. He was stuck in the birth canal for an hour and a half and he was purple at birth—though he was small, his shoulders were too big for her pelvis—but he was fine now. She sighed with deep satisfaction and stroked his head as he sucked eagerly on her breast. All her worry and fear had been foolish. The frenetic delivery room activity and the dystocia had been caused not by a deformity or defect in the baby, but by his presentation. There’d been no danger. Why did she always anticipate the worst? Why did she habitually waste her energy on fears that seldom if ever came to pass?
Arthur, who had not yet gone home, and whose eyes were dark and red from lack of sleep, sat in a metal chair pulled close to her bed, watching his new son. At that moment the baby pulled away from Peggy’s breast and raised his eyes toward his father as if in recognition. “He’s beautiful,” Arthur said.
“He’s Billy,” she replied softly.
“Sounds good to me.”
Twenty minutes later, after Billy was sated and sleeping soundly on Peggy’s chest, Arthur’s parents came into the room. “You look wonderful,” Marjorie said to Peggy, “and there’s our little guy—our Thursday’s child.” She reached down to touch her grandson.
Mark joined her. “A handsome boy,” he said. He turned to Arthur. “I read the reports. You and John Carnegie should’ve done more pre-natal work—anticipated the dystocia, planned for a caesarian.” He then looked back at Billy and nodded. “Good looking, healthy in spite of everything.”
When Mark had gone, Marjorie said, “Don’t mind your father. He means well.”
“He means something,” said Arthur quietly, “but he seldom means well.”
Peggy was delighted with her tiny new baby, and when he was at her breast her delight skyrocketed beyond anything she had ever experienced. He was warm, animated, greedy, and totally dependent. For the first time in her life she felt love for someone who could not reciprocate in any way. He was a treasure, a treasure who brought her happiness and peace.
He also brought peace to her relationship with Arthur, at least for the first several months. She was now completely wrapped up in Billy’s needs, and felt no immediate inclination to return to work as a nurse at University Hospital or to continue her education. Not that she’d given up her dreams; she had merely set them aside temporarily.
Arthur proved to be a moderately attentive father; and when his obligations at the hospital allowed, he tried to accept his share of responsibility for Billy’s care. And he underwent a metamorphosis toward Peggy, becoming sweet, loving, thoughtful and communicative. He reverted to the man she’d married; and yet she couldn’t help but wonder how ardent he would be when the time came to remind him that her goals and dreams hadn’t changed, but had been placed on hold until she’d bonded as thoroughly as possible with their son.
Peggy’s fourteen-year-old sister Valerie welcomed Billy with as much enthusiasm and attentiveness as was possible for a girl wrapped up in the hectic peer-driven life of a teenager. “My nephew is finally putting on some weight,” she said on an after-school visit. She stood over the crib, her legs apart, one hand on the crib’s railing, the other on Billy’s forehead. The afternoon sun shone through the window, highlighting the gold in her long silky blonde hair. “He’s looking more like Arthur every day,” she added. “Look at those long dark eyelashes. He’s going to grow up to be as handsome as his father.”
Peggy smiled. “His forceps marks are fading, but Dr. Carnegie tells us some of them will be with him the rest of his life—especially the ones on his back.”
Valerie plopped on the couch, her hands clasped behind her head. “I broke up with Jerry.”
“You’re too young for steady boyfriends.”
Valerie grunted. “Mmm. Too old maybe. Boys in high school are boring, boring, boring.”
Peggy laughed. “They were boring when I was there, too.”
Early Warnings and Unexpected Deaths
On Billy’s first birthday he sat in the middle of the dining room table, his legs spread on each side of a big yellow cake sprouting a single burning candle. Seated at the table were Arthur and Peggy, Peggy’s parents Jason and June Alberi, and Arthur’s parents Marjorie and Mark Raintree. Peggy’s sister Valerie was standing against the wall near the door; and in the doorway stood John Carnegie the ob-gyn who led the team through Billy’s difficult delivery.
“He seems to be a contented baby,” John said.
“He’s not easily upset,” Peggy said, as she reached across the table and pinched out the single candle. Billy watched from the center of the table, and when the fire disappeared he touched the still smoking candle with his small fingers. His dark hair was freshly washed and combed into bangs on his high forehead.
“He’s very intense,” said Arthur. “He concentrates completely on whatever he’s doing. He’ll sit for hours with a ball of string.”
June ran her hand through Billy’s hair. “He’s a good-looking boy,” she said, “just like his father.” When Billy turned toward her with a smile, she repeated, “Good-looking boy.”
“He hardly ever cries,” Peggy said, “and when he does he’s so easily consoled. I hope the new baby is just like him.”
“Surely now that you’re going to have two children you’ll be giving up your job at the hospital,” Mark said.
“I’m only working twenty hours a week,” she said.
“Two children will take up all your time,” Mark said. “You should put your priorities in order.”
“I’m a nurse,” Peggy said sharply, “and I intend to remain one—until I become a doctor.”
Arthur said, “Now isn’t the time to go into that, Peggy. Let’s just enjoy Billy’s birthday.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still daydreaming about that nonsense,” Mark said. “Nurses don’t make good doctors. They always seem to think the next step up is a small one, but I assure you, it’s a huge leap. When are you going to face—”
“Then I guess I’ll be a mediocre doctor,” she said, “because someday—”
Marjorie said nervously, “Mark, let’s leave the children alone. They have to make their own decisions, live their own lives.”
“If they’re able,” he said. “Neither one of them seem to have enough common sense to do so.”
Valerie sat on the edge of the table. “I think you’ll make a fine doctor, Peggy,” she said.
Peggy’s father Jason took a huge bite of cake, and then with his mouth full and with cake crumbs spilling onto his lips and chin, he made a garbled political remark.
“I beg your pardon?” Mark said.
“I said Nixon and Agnew are ruining the country.”
“I thought you were a conservative,” Mark added.
“I am. Agnew and Nixon are the liberals—communists, if you ask me—consciously setting out to destroy our way of life.”
John Carnegie snorted from the doorway. “The president and vice president not reactionary enough? That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“I don’t know if you know it,” Jason said, “but the State Department and the Defense Department are full of communists now, agitating for us to quit in Vietnam. That’s Nixon and Agnew’s doing.”
“I believe they’re trying to find an honorable way for us to get out of that mess,” John said, shaking his head.
“Nixon and Agnew are taking their orders directly from Russia and China. Everyone knows that.”
“But these men wouldn’t—” John began.
“I don’t believe we were talking about communists or Vietnam,” Arthur said, glancing harshly toward Peggy as if her father’s bombast were somehow her fault. She reflected on how her returning to work, even part time, had affected her husband’s attitude. The sweet thoughtfulness that followed Billy’s birth had disappeared the moment she informed him she was returning to University Hospital to continue what she’d been trained to do—care for patients. And when she reminded him that she hadn’t changed her goal of eventually becoming a doctor, his attitude degeneration accelerated, so that he was now nearly as critical, cold, and controlling as he was before Billy arrived.
Billy interrupted Peggy’s thoughts by screaming and dumping his piece of cake, frosting-side down, in her lap.
“You got something against fighting communists?” Jason said to Arthur.
“No, of course not.”
June lowered her head, and Peggy watched her with understanding. It was clear that long years of experience had taught June the futility of apologizing for or trying to divert her husband. Peggy watched in sympathy as her mother closed her eyes.
Peggy scooped Billy into her arms and handed him to her father. “Remember this is your grandson’s first birthday party.”
“He’s a good-looking boy all right,” said John Carnegie. “It was a long hard birth, but he’s come through it like a champ. Thanks for inviting me. This reminds me of why I went into medicine.”
Marjorie looked up at John. “We owe you a debt. Fifty, or even twenty-five years ago we wouldn’t be sharing this moment. Your training and skill saved Billy’s life—and Peggy’s, too, perhaps.”
“I had a lot of help.”
“Yes, you did,” said Mark, “and you had a great hospital behind you.”
Billy was now growing restless, and Peggy took him from her father’s lap and lowered him into his playpen, which had been set up in the corner of the dining room. Billy was none too happy with the arrangement until Arthur went to the playpen and handed him the brightly colored ribbons and bows from the birthday gifts that had been unwrapped earlier.
“He’ll play with those for hours,” Arthur said. “He’ll like them better than the toys.”
“Actually,” Peggy said, “he’ll pick out one special ribbon or bow and ignore all the others, and he’ll play with that one until he falls asleep. I had no idea babies could be so single-minded.”
“Most are a great deal more scattered,” said John, walking over to join Arthur and Peggy by the playpen. “Babies aren’t known for long attention spans.” He smiled. “You might be raising a special little guy. You’re taking him to see Henry regularly, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Peggy said. “No problems really. Just well-baby visits.” She smoothed her smock with both hands. “I hope the new baby is as healthy as Billy.”
“Everything’s coming along fine,” said John. “Not to worry a bit.”
Arthur said, “Billy’ll do great in school. Concentration is half the battle.”
As Peggy predicted, Billy proceeded to rifle through all of the gaily colored silks and satins and finally settled on a small blue and white bow, holding it up to his face with both hands. Then he moved to the other side of the pen and began to devote all of his attention to his new treasure.
“See,” Arthur called out proudly. “The kid’s a marvel. Maybe he’ll go into research, pick some esoteric medical problem and analyze it from a thousand different angles until he uncovers all its secrets.”
Everyone in the dining room watched as Billy held his prize at arm’s length and turned it slowly in the light from the kitchen door. The bow sparkled blue and then white and then blue again. It was an almost hypnotic scene, and they all stared in fascination as Billy lowered his head to examine the bow’s underside while continuing to hold it at arm’s length.
“Nice and pretty,” Peggy called to him.
Billy didn’t respond, and he went on with his game as if he were alone in the room.
A light rain had increased to a blinding thunderstorm by the time Jason, June, and Valerie Alberi prepared to leave in their black family sedan. June suggested maybe they’d better wait until the storm let up a bit before they ventured out on the highway, and Valerie concurred (as did the rest of the group); but Jason resisted and said he’d been driving trucks in all kinds of weather for over thirty years, and if he waited for sunshine and dry roads he’d never get anywhere. Several more attempts were made to dissuade him, but since all understood how hardheaded he was, they soon gave up. It was clear he would do exactly what he wanted to do, and no talk of danger, lack of visibility, or careless drivers would change his mind.
Valerie was sitting in the back seat as her father leaned forward at the wheel, his nose almost touching the windshield, his eyes scanning the highway. The darting flashes of light ahead of him and behind him and on his sides were extremely difficult to make out, and determining their speed and distance was virtually impossible. The driving rain beat against the glass, overwhelming the wipers, causing him to lean forward even more and to squint his eyes against the blur and the glare.
June said, “Why don’t you pull off till you can see better?”
Jason, who always reacted negatively to advice of any kind, grunted and tightened his grip on the wheel. “Not necessary, honey. I can see fine.”
“You never listen to me,” she said. “Just once, I wish you’d take my advice.”
“Ridiculous. I listen to you all the time,” he said, taking his eyes from the road for an instant to glance sharply at her. At that precise moment the driver of a pickup traveling at a high rate of speed in the outside lane decided he could make even better time by switching to the inside lane and he sailed across two lanes of traffic, causing Jason to overcompensate by jerking the wheel sharply to the left. That was all it took for him to lose control and to bounce over the small cement divider into the oncoming lanes of traffic. Jason swore and June braced herself. In the back seat Valerie threw herself onto the floorboard.
A Coca-Cola eighteen-wheeler racing toward them in the oncoming lane blared its horn, and June screamed, “Jason, I told you—”
The impact sheared the top off the sedan, killing Jason and June instantly. Valerie was catapulted out of the back seat and onto the soft shoulder on the opposite side of the road where she sustained minor injuries, consisting primarily of contusions and lacerations.
Valerie’s Arrival and a Vietnam Story
As in many if not most of life’s sea changes, there were positives and negatives attached to Valerie’s move into Arthur and Peggy’s home. It was pleasant for Peggy to have her younger sister with her, a sister who was mostly good-natured and helpful; and it was convenient to have a built-in babysitter, allowing Peggy to continue to work part-time at the hospital and to take classes at George Washington University.
The negatives concerning Valerie’s arrival were subtler. Fifteen-year-olds are notorious for flippancy and abrasiveness, and Valerie was no exception. She was often presumptuous regarding her place in her new home, tossing off remarks about things that were none of her business—even commenting on Peggy’s squabbles with Arthur, often taking his side.
Arthur didn’t seem to appreciate it when his young sister-in-law offered unsolicited opinions, even when she was supporting him. As for his overall feelings regarding his new ward, he was veiled, hard to read. Peggy sensed he was trying to be gracious, trying to make the best of an unfortunate situation, but she suspected he was filled with resentment over the unfairness of it all. Of course, he was naturally resentful these days because of Peggy’s refusal to give up nursing, even with a new baby on the way, and because of her insistence she continue her medical education; and the resentment she ascribed to Valerie’s arrival might simply be the overflow.
Billy seemed to respond well to his live-in aunt, though he remained strangely quiet and self-contained. Nevertheless, he reserved an occasional rare smile for her and always seemed pleased to be left in her care.
At University Hospital, Peggy was sitting in the nurses’ lounge with her friend Gail Hornbrook, a fifty-five-year-old, large-boned, plump woman who had been a nurse for many years and who acted as her mentor—a mentor who advised her in many different areas of life.
“Sad about your parents. Valerie had nowhere else to go?”
“No, none. Our grandparents on both sides are gone.”
“Then she’s now part of your family until she grows up.”
“She thinks she’s already grown up.”
“They all do. My daughters thought they were adults when they were pre-teens.”
Peggy got to her feet and adjusted her uniform. “I’d better get on with my duties.”
Gail rose also. “Is Arthur still giving you a hard time about working?”
“Yes, and school, too. Thinks nurses make terrible doctors and I’ll fall flat on my face.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re one of the finest nurses we have and one of the brightest. Someday you’ll be a very successful doctor.”
“Neither Arthur nor his father think so.”
“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Thanks, Gail. It’s nice to have someone believe in me.”
“How’s the pregnancy coming along?”
“Kicking like a mule. I’m going to have a cesarean this time. I’m much too narrow for a natural birth, and I don’t want dystocia again. Poor little Billy. I want this second baby plucked out neat and clean like a new-born foal.”
Gail laughed. “Just an image, I hope. We don’t want to shock John Carnegie with an equine birth.”
Some weeks later Peggy registered for an evening anatomy class taught by a former army neurosurgeon who had been severely wounded in Vietnam. His name was Dr. Hardy Osgood, and after a Vietcong rocket barrage destroyed his ability to operate, he left the army and the practice of medicine to devote the remainder of his life to teaching. The class was fascinating, not for the study of anatomy, which was second nature to her as an experienced nurse, but because of Dr. Osgood’s wonderful stories about his work in Vietnam—remarkable stories of young men with spinal wounds and head wounds and other devastating injuries. “Even after delicate surgeries,” Dr. Osgood said, “some of the boys were as helpless as newborn babes, their brains wiped clean.”
A class member asked, “And were you able to help them further, Dr. Osgood?”
“Not all of them, of course, but once in a while we were able to work wonders. There was one boy in particular, a twenty-five-year-old JAG lieutenant from Delaware named Michael Goldstein. He took a bullet through the parietal lobe and out the frontal lobe. Hopeless was too positive a term for what we faced. The operation lasted twelve hours, and following that we went back in for another six. We didn’t know what would happen when he came around or if he would come around at all. As it turned out he did regain consciousness, but it was a consciousness none of us recognized. He was like a two-year-old. He lost virtually all of his previous skills, but he learned very quickly—especially if we repeated and repeated and repeated. So that’s what we did, over and over again. His brain was essentially empty and it had to be filled—retrained. We even taught him how to walk again, how to talk, his ABC’s, everything. And it was brutal for him and for us. All day, every day, and into the night. We didn’t let up, and we went on for months, nearly a year. And later when he went to Delaware, his family continued the training under our instructions for another extended period.”
“How? What did you do exactly?” Peggy asked.
“We went over every lesson ten times, twenty times, a hundred times. What is your mother’s name, your father’s name, your brothers’ names? Over and over again until he screamed the answers. How do you hold a fork, a knife, a spoon? Fifty times and then fifty more. Where is Delaware on a map? What states are nearby? What’s the Eastern Shore of Maryland like? Over and over and over. We never quit. We rewired his brain.”
“How did he turn out?”
“The last I heard he was a successful attorney in Dover.”
Peggy listened intently, even preternaturally, for she sensed that somehow Dr. Osgood’s story would be important, even overwhelmingly important at some point in her life. She didn’t know why or how the young soldier’s ordeals could possibly be meaningful to her, other than as a poignant war story, but she was certain they would be. It was as if a large face was gazing sternly down on her, insisting she sit still and give rapt attention.
Dear Little Roger
Three months later Peggy gave birth to Roger by cesarean section at University Hospital. He was big, almost nine pounds, unmarked, and perfectly formed. His first cries were powerful, lusty, and demanding; he considered himself to be in charge, and he expected all within the sound of his voice to recognize that fact.
The household he entered was characterized by a restrained tension. Peggy had taken a short leave of absence from her part-time responsibilities at University Hospital (though she flatly refused to leave her job permanently as Arthur demanded); and she had decided not to enroll in any additional pre-med classes since she knew Roger and Billy would take up too much of her time, at least for the present. In her mind she reserved next semester or the one after for renewing her long-term goals.
She thought of Arthur and smiled grimly. He wouldn’t take up much of her time. He had withdrawn from her almost fully over the past several months, and whereas he was cool before, he was now downright cold. She tried not to assign him all the blame. She knew she was hardheaded and self-willed; but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. She was aware she was placing her personal goals above her marriage; but it didn’t seem to matter. She was every bit as cold as Arthur.
Valerie was adjusting well. She had grown taller since her arrival, and her already muscular body had filled out even more. Peggy stood five eight and a half, and Valerie (who would soon be sixteen) now stood almost two inches taller. Her current preoccupation was high-school sports. She excelled in basketball and softball, but her greatest talent lay in track and field, especially long distance running, including the 1500 meters and cross-country. She was running the latter today, her sleek brown legs devouring enormous stretches of earth, sidewalk, and street. Her competitors were far behind, and she knew there was no way they could catch her now. If she chose, she could coast the remaining distance and breeze to victory; but taking the easy way and giving less than her best wasn’t her style. Instead, she rammed her body into high gear, lengthened her stride, and raced even farther ahead of her hapless fellow runners. As she streaked to victory, she noticed many of her admirers were high school boys with wide eyes and open mouths. She thought of them as scrawny, pimple-faced children who choked on their words when they tried to speak to her in the halls at school. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t go out with them anyway. She felt she had matured early, and high school boys, and college boys, too, for that matter, bored her. Perhaps she had grown up faster than most fifteen-year-olds. How many kids her age had witnessed the violent deaths of both parents and had been forced to live with an older sister with a growing family?
She bent over, her hands on her knees, venting her lungs. The crowd of coaches, teachers, and students who had gathered at the finish line congratulated her on her victory.
“Way to go, Valerie,” her cross-country coach said.
She looked up and smiled.
Two semesters later, Peggy enrolled in a class in abnormal psychology. She was astonished by the large number of congenital and developmental disorders in human beings, especially in children, and she was stunned by descriptions of the cruel acts people inflict on themselves and others—evil, revolting, unthinkable acts. Every morning when the class was over she was glad to get to the hospital where her part-time duties dealt with more tolerable manifestations of human imperfection. And yet, in a hidden corner of her mind, she reserved a portion of her healing sympathies for those poor souls she had studied in class.
Her friend Gail Hornbrook eased her bulk into a chair beside Peggy in the nurses’ lounge and asked, “And how are those two little boys?”
“Getting big.”
“Roger is what, ten months?”
“Almost a year. Fat as a house.”
“Billy?”
“Twenty-nine months.”
“Fat, too?”
“Very thin. Built like his grandpa Raintree.”
Gail rolled her eyes. “Hope he doesn’t inherit his personality.”
Peggy laughed and said, “Billy worries me. Arthur tells me he’s fine, but I’m not sure anymore. I’m up and down, sure and unsure.”
“From what you’ve told me he seems pretty much on schedule.”
“Yes and no. Oh, he did all the baby things early—walking at nine months, talking at fourteen months…and numbers, he’s amazing with numbers. He can count forever, but he goes on and on and on, and if I don’t distract him, he’ll spend all day at it. If we interrupt him during some sequence or other without some creative redirection, he’ll go off on a screaming tantrum until we help him back into his sequence or he passes out from sheer exhaustion. It’s almost unbelievable. He’ll scream for hours and hours. I’ve tested him, and he simply won’t give in until he gets his way. Arthur disappears while this is going on. I think he chalks it up to bad parenting on my part.”