Twilight Children: Three Voices No One Heard – Until Someone Listened. Torey Hayden
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near-side wall and varied in size between three and six inches in diameter, so it was like having a stand of trees in the office. Iron trees. Or rather, just their trunks, passing through the room.
Moreover, in the old days, the room had been used for electric shock therapy. This had long since been discontinued, but the evidence was still there in the form of odd knobs and disconnected wires and the indentations of long-since-removed equipment on the walls. These things had since been painted over, indeed, many times, giving them a blobby, indistinct form.
Midst this, Helen and I had managed to squeeze in our two desks, a large table, and two sizable bookshelves. As always, Helen’s side of the room was a triumph of order and organization. My side looked, as Helen succinctly put it, as if the condemned-building notice was overdue.
I had just returned to my desk from the session with Cassandra when there was a quick rap at the door, and it opened. Nancy Anderson stuck her head in. She was the charge nurse on the unit during the weekdays. In her fifties, a tall, strongly built woman of African American origins, Nancy had made a career of psychiatric nursing. She loved the job; she loved the kids, and decades of experience had given her a clear understanding of life’s absurdities, which meant her reaction to most things was a good laugh.
“This one’s for you,” she said, waving a piece of paper.
“What is it?” I asked and reached over for it.
“He’s asked specially for you. Read your research on elective mutism. Saw that article in the paper. Wants you.”
“Oh, good,” I muttered sarcastically.
I hated these – cases where the parents wanted a specific therapist or therapy – because they often came with wildly unrealistic expectations. Many were looking for miracle workers, nothing less, and it seldom worked out that miracles were in the cards.
“Harry’s looked it over,” Nancy said. “He says why don’t you arrange an opportunity to see the child sometime this week. There’s a space in his schedule to interview the parents next Friday, if that works for you. If they want to go ahead with something, if it looks right, there’s a space coming open on the unit a week next Wednesday.”
I took the paper from Nancy. “Geez. This is out in Quentin. Did Harry notice that?”
Nancy lifted her eyebrows in a “no idea” expression.
“That’s almost two hundred miles. It’s going to take over three hours of driving just one way. It’ll use up my entire day just to observe the kid for forty-five minutes.”
“I think that’s why they’re thinking of inpatient.”
“Surely they’ve got services in Quentin.”
“Well, they want you.”
I started reading. It was a personal letter from a man named Mason Sloane. He was the grandfather of the boy in question and the letter was written on the letterhead of a well-known regional bank.
Oddly, to my mind, the first thing Mr. Sloane established was his family business pedigree. They were majority shareholders in the bank, which had been founded in the late 1800s by his grandfather. Ownership and operation of the bank had passed from father to son through the generations and was now managed by Mr. Sloane’s son, who was a prominent businessman in Quentin, a small city of about thirty thousand.
What drew Mr. Sloane to me was an article he had read in the city’s Sunday newspaper about my research into elective mutism. He had a four-year-old grandson named Drake, his only child’s only child. The boy did not speak outside the home. Mr. Sloane said he was an exceptionally intelligent and lively boy; however, he had always refused to speak to almost everyone. The family had taken him to various specialists locally with no success. When Mr. Sloane read about my work, he knew here was Drake’s problem. And I was the solution. Drake had elective mutism and if he came to see me, he would be cured.
The rest of the letter outlined how money was no object nor was distance or effort. They’d do anything to see Drake had the help he needed and I was it. All I had to do was name my price and make the arrangements.
Sitting back in my desk chair, I sighed. The article he was referring to in the newspaper had been one of those things that had seemed like a good idea at the time I did it. This was before I’d gained any insight into how important it was to journalists to write dramatic stories, even if 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.