Plantation (11 page)

“Test him,” I said. “Test him and we shall see what we see.”

Eric and I would prove her wrong and then I would take out a full-page ad in the
New York Times
insisting her teacher’s license be revoked and that she be publicly caned. Maybe I’d cane her myself.

I was suddenly reconciled to testing him. To be honest, I was slightly curious. I wanted to know just how his fabulous young mind was wired. He
was
different from other children, I admitted to myself.

7 6

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k The testing haunted me until the appointed day arrived. What if I was wrong? I couldn’t be. When we had hard results in our hands, then his obvious gifts would be revealed and recognized.

Most of all, I wanted to see Ms. Daniels writhing in pain in a pool of her own self-righteous, small-minded, and judgmental blood.

Every time I thought about her and the heartless way she spoke to me about Eric, I wanted to slap her silly, right across her face.

Eric was the perfect child. Still, I had this nagging feeling that there was more to this than I was prepared to know.

It was a beautiful November morning, typical for Manhattan.

It seemed that every taxi horn blared in an off-key chorus. Thousands of cars with commuters raced to their destinations at thirty miles an hour. Great hordes of people rushed by with their briefcases and paper coffee cups, stealing sips at corners. Dog walkers led five to ten dogs each by canvas leashes across the frenzied traffic toward Central Park. Everyone wore their Manhattan Mask—the one that said,
Don’t violate my privacy; I might be famous
. Their faces always made me think that there were a lot of cranky people in this town.

I knew that Eric had some anxiety about the whole evaluation process. As we walked up Park Avenue toward his school on Sixty-sixth and Madison, I encouraged him to talk about it.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want you to worry about this, okay?

These tests are actually kind of fun.”

“What if I do bad?” His face was tense and his small hand in mine was moist.

“You
can’t do
badly,” I said, “it’s not that kind of test.”

“I wish I was dead,” he said in a tiny voice.

I knelt down beside him and looked in his face. He stared back with the most adorable pout I had ever seen.

“Whoa, right there,” I said, “don’t ever say that.”

“Sorry,” he said, examining the crack in the sidewalk.

“Look at me, sweetheart. This is what I want you to do. Will you listen to me?”

P l a n t a t i o n

7 7

“Sure.”

“Okay, number one. Follow the teacher’s instructions. Go slowly, and take the time to reread the instructions.” (He was impetuous and always wanted to rush ahead.) “Then, read them again. Number two, when you’re sure of what to do, begin your work. Write slowly and neatly. Finally, when you’re done, check your work. If you don’t understand something ask the teacher.

Okay? Pretty simple, huh?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Just give it a try, okay? For me? You know what to do; just take a deep breath and go for it.”

“Okay.” His eyes were worried and we continued the short walk to his school. “I’ll do my best. Read the instructions twice, do the work, and check it.”

“That’s all Dad and I ask, is that you do your best. Hey, how about after school? You and me? Chocolate shakes?”

“Deal!”

He seemed a little brighter after that. We arrived at the Smith School; I intended to walk him to his classroom. He dropped my hand and stopped me at the door. The hall was filled with students.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Eric?”

“I love you.” He whispered it to me, probably so the other children wouldn’t hear.

“I adore you!” I said, smiling.

“I can find my classroom by myself.”

“You sure? It’s all the way . . .”

“I’m sure,” he said. I had always walked him to the classroom.

“Mom? I’m big now.”

Mom? I’m big now
. His words shot palpitations through my heart—not like fatal bullets, but maybe the feeling of surprise you get when the water in the shower inexplicably goes cold for a few seconds. “Okay, baby,” I said, understanding his need for self sufficiency. “You go get ’em and I’ll see you at three.”

7 8

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k All I could think about on the way home was how would I tell Richard about this. No, I hadn’t yet told Richard, thinking it wise to keep my séance with Ms. Daniels to myself for the time being.

If Eric’s results showed any problems, the comparisons to Harry would increase, by light-years. Harry, Richard’s son from his marriage with Lois, was playing violin in a by-invitation-only children’s orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Harry was the captain of the traveling soccer team at his school. Harry, president of the fifth grade, Roller-blading wizard, straight A student; and Harry, the once and future Jedi, was a total and complete pain in my ass.

For all of Harry’s accomplishments at his young age, he had a smart mouth, was a bully, a practiced liar, and one of the sneakiest, most contemptible children I had ever encountered. And when I tried to discuss his behavior with Richard, Richard became more imperious than ever. If Harry took one of Eric’s toys, Richard would say,
Oh, please. Eric has plenty. Why shouldn’t he share with his
brother?
If Harry picked on Eric to the point that Eric lost his temper, Richard would reprimand Eric, not Harry. On and on. It didn’t take long for Harry’s visits to become a contest with Eric for their father’s love and attention.

The last thing I wanted was for Richard to think there was a bona fide reason to hold Harry in higher regard. So I never told Richard anything. By the time I was finally called in for discussion of the evaluation results, I was doing yoga twice a day and still pretty well lathered in fear and loathing.

The meeting was to take place in the office of the school psychologist. I knew as soon as I swung into the office of Dr. Judith Moore that something was wrong.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Levine,” she said, rising and extending her hand. “Would you like some coffee?”

Admittedly, she was congenial, but too officious for my blood.

“Sure, just black,” I said and shook her hand.

“Please sit here and I’ll be back in just a minute.”

She indicated that I should wait in the wooden chair in front of P l a n t a t i o n

7 9

her desk. Her small office looked like something from central casting. Old oak desk piled high with folders, beige metal filing cabinets, children’s artwork covering a bulletin board, and bookshelves crammed with volumes on everything from ADD and obsessive-compulsive disorder to childhood depression and teenage suicide. I wondered if the other chair would soon be filled by the demoness—

Eric’s teacher. She was probably too humiliated to show up. Wrong again. She came through the door with Dr. Moore, chipper as could be. I stood to greet her—after all, may as well be civilized, I thought.

“Good morning, Ms. Daniels.”

“Mrs. Levine,” she said, nodding her head and sitting in the chair opposite me.

“Well, now,” Dr. Moore said, handing me a foam cup of coffee. “We’re all here. Good.” She went around her desk, took her seat, put her reading glasses on, and opened a manila folder. She looked up at me and sighed. “Mrs. Levine, before we go over the results of Eric’s testing, I want to give you some information on how the results and findings were achieved.”

“Fine,” I said, “I’d appreciate that very much.”

“Eric was given a series of tests, which are standard in education, to measure different areas of his general knowledge—mathematics, science, language, reading comprehension, and so on. In the afternoon, he was also given two different psychological evaluations and his behavior was observed and noted.” She paused.

“And?” I said, “What did you find?”

“Some very interesting things. Eric is a very bright little boy.”

“Thank you,” I said, “and a sweetheart too.”

“He is a dear little boy,” Ms. Daniels said, immediately making me suspicious.

Dr. Moore began again. “He shows particular strength in vocabulary.” She handed me a copy of the test to review. “If you’ll look at the bottom of page three, his vocabulary is on a sixth-grade level.”

The room was silent as I looked at the pages, not exactly sure of how to interpret what I was reading. She spoke again.

8 0

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“What concerns us is this. Eric, while he is as bright as he can be, has clear audio processing issues and an obvious fine-motor issue, in that he seldom does an adequate job of transferring data to paper.”

“I see,” I said.

Dr. Moore looked to Ms. Daniels, who now got into the act.

She opened a folder on her lap and produced a writing sample.

“This is average work in my class.” She handed me a page of written work by another student. “This is Eric’s work.”

There was no comparison. Eric’s work was sloppy and impossible to read. The other child’s work was at least twice in volume and easily read, although it did contain spelling errors. Eric’s work had no punctuation or capital letters. The other child’s work did.

“Well, quite a difference, I agree, but what does it mean?”

“Well, it means that he needs to be seen by an occupational therapist.”

“I see.” I saw no such thing and she knew it.

“Second, I’d just like to finish going through the results with you. Please understand that here at the Smith School we are not equipped for LDGT kids. We do not have time in our curriculum to offer occupational therapy, social skill workshops, or the therapies that Eric needs.”

“What is LDGT?” I said.

“Learning disabled, gifted, and talented,” Ms. Daniels said in her smug little way.

I began to breathe deeply, trying to compose myself. The compliment of gifted and talented hardly made up for the learning-disabled part. Dr. Moore could see that I was becoming upset.

“Mrs. Levine,” she said, “Eric is a wonderful child. There are many ways he can learn to compensate for these issues. It’s just that the Smith School doesn’t offer those services. I’m afraid we do too many children a disservice by keeping them here. They simply fall through the cracks.”

“You know,” I said, “you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not willing P l a n t a t i o n

8 1

to just have him put through one battery of tests at this school and then put him in some school for kids with problems! I’d have to be way more convinced than this.”

“We understand, Mrs. Levine,” Dr. Moore said, “and we encourage you to have our findings checked out with another professional. Here is a list of colleagues that I’ve known for some time; they all specialize in children. Or you can use anyone you like.”

She handed me a piece of paper and my hands were shaking.

She continued, “I think it would also be important to reassure you that it is not our intention to just ask you to remove Eric today or even this school year. I’d like to suggest that for the present, we find a good OT to work with him.”

“That sounds fine to me,” I said, not knowing what in the hell an OT did.

“We go one step at a time, Mrs. Levine.”

One step at a time. Learning disabled. Fine motor. Audio processing.

I couldn’t get their words out of my mind. They were telling me that Eric had to leave their school! What if they were wrong? They
had
to be wrong! I’d take Eric to another doctor. Tomorrow!

As I walked down Madison Avenue toward home, I looked into the faces of passersby. Did they have a child like mine? Had they found solutions? The words followed me home and tortured me all afternoon. How in the world would I find the courage to tell Richard? I wanted to take Eric and run away.

M i s s L av i n i a ’s J o u r na l
Having children just might be the most thankless job in the
world.Trip came to me again for money and made no mention
of the other loan.This time it was ten thousand. I can’t just
keep on handing it to him so I said,Trip, darling, are you
snorting cocaine? Now, I know that sounds like an awful
thing to ask a person, but I needed to know. He just looked at
me like I had two heads and denied it. Something is
definitely going on. And Caroline? Something is up with her
too. I can just feel it in my bones.Thanksgiving is around the
corner and I haven’t heard from her in a month.

Eight

Becoming Mom

}

1995

T wasn’t enough to love Eric with all my heart. I began to realize he wasn’t mine—just that
on loan
thing from I heaven they talk about in parents’ self-help books—but that I had to help him to prepare to succeed on his own and I had to do a million things to help him leave me one day. Looking ahead to the day that some woman would want Eric for her husband gave me one of those rare moments to pause on the wheel of life. I began to see for the first time how Mother felt about Frances Mae—that she had raised and loved Trip only for Frances Mae to steal him away. That Frances Mae actually slept with him and gave him children must’ve driven her nuts when she thought about it.

I knew that I had to make Richard see that although Eric had learning style differences, he was every bit as worthy of his father’s love and affection and respect as Harry was. Learning style difference—that’s what they called it now—it was a kinder label.

Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like the educational 8 4

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k system was salivating to label children something. So, in the interest of balance, I planned a family excursion that included Harry.

I arranged for a rental house in the Poconos for the weekend.

The single best feature of living in the Northeast was the splendor of the fall colors. The following weekend promised to be the peak of all Mother Nature could offer.

I packed puzzles, games, music, hiking clothes, and camera equipment. In my own halfway vegetarian style, I made a wonderful Irish stew with lots of carrots and potatoes and froze it.