Stephen?”
“Well,” said Stein, clearing his throat and shuffling through the file, “it’s often difficult to diagnose exactly what is ‘wrong’ with a patient. One treats the apparent condition, or symptom, if you like, and then varies the treatment if earlier efforts prove unsuccessful. As you can see, Stephen was catatonic upon arrival at Willow Wood. Then slowly, by an evolving alternation of drugs, counseling, and therapeutic activities, he came back to us, so to speak.”
“In layman’s terms, you varied your prescriptions until he seemed to come out of it.”
“Yes, but that can pretty generally be said about any patient.”
“Then you can’t really be sure of what was wrong with him to start with.”
“Well, not in some microscopically, conclusively proved sense, no. When Stephen arrived at Willow Wood, he was literally in a trance. One can only identify the symptom or condition. One can’t, despite magazine and television to the contrary, ever be sure of what’s ‘wrong with him,’ in the sense I think you mean it.”
I let that lay there while I returned to the file. The remaining pages were pale blue. “Are these blue pages yours?”
“Yes,” Stein said, hopscotching with a pointed finger. “I first saw Stephen there, then a week later, then two weeks later, then one month later.”
I read his entries. To me they seemed the sort of bland evaluation an assistant principal might give an above-average kindergarten teacher. Stein’s notes indicated good re-adjustment to home life, eagerness to return to school, intellectual curiosity, etc.
“I take it you came to no independent diagnosis of Stephen’s illness.”
“Well, no, but perhaps for a different reason. You see, by the time he came to me, Stephen was no longer exhibiting any symptoms of any condition. He appeared to be a normal, well-adjusted boy of”—Stein consulted his entries—“ten, nearly eleven years old. Since he wasn’t sick, so to speak, there was nothing to diagnose. Hence only the few, increasingly spaced visits.”
“Do I understand then, Doctor, since neither Willow Wood nor you determined what was wrong with him, you don’t know for sure that his mother’s going off the bridge caused it?”
Stein blinked several times, and his mouth opened before he began to speak. Then he lapsed into a smile and gave me a patronizing look. “Given the chronological proximity of the event and the onset of the condition, what else could have caused it?”
I thanked Dr. D. Stein, M.D., for his time and left.
Eight
I DROVE INTO downtown Boston and parked on the fourth floor of the Government Center Garage. I walked through the new Faneuil Hall Market area. Although the renovated space opened in 1976, I grew up in old Boston, so I’ll probably always call it the “new” market.
A stop at my camera shop, where Danny promised me he’d have fifty copies of Stephen’s photo for me within an hour. Then I moved down State Street.
Sturney and Perkins, Inc. was in a traditional, tasteful building near the waterfront. I took the elevator to the tenth floor. Sturney and Perkins occupied about half of it, the kind of offices a good, medium-sized Boston law firm would have had twenty years ago, before the glass-eyed skyscrapers opened.
“John Francis to see Ms. DeMarco.”
The receptionist gave me an uncertain look and dialed two digits. Her telephone had a cover on the mouthpiece, which prevented me from hearing what she said into it. She hung up.
“I’ll take you myself.” As we wound down a labyrinthine corridor, I thought it odd that she would leave her post. The receptionist showed me into a spacious, leather-done corner office with a harbor view. A tall, graying man who looked like an ex-Navy commander stood from behind an expensive desk.
“Mr. Cuddy, this is Nancy DeMarco. I’m Charles Perkins. What can we do for you?” he asked without extending his hand beyond waving the receptionist away.
As the door
“Well,” said Stein, clearing his throat and shuffling through the file, “it’s often difficult to diagnose exactly what is ‘wrong’ with a patient. One treats the apparent condition, or symptom, if you like, and then varies the treatment if earlier efforts prove unsuccessful. As you can see, Stephen was catatonic upon arrival at Willow Wood. Then slowly, by an evolving alternation of drugs, counseling, and therapeutic activities, he came back to us, so to speak.”
“In layman’s terms, you varied your prescriptions until he seemed to come out of it.”
“Yes, but that can pretty generally be said about any patient.”
“Then you can’t really be sure of what was wrong with him to start with.”
“Well, not in some microscopically, conclusively proved sense, no. When Stephen arrived at Willow Wood, he was literally in a trance. One can only identify the symptom or condition. One can’t, despite magazine and television to the contrary, ever be sure of what’s ‘wrong with him,’ in the sense I think you mean it.”
I let that lay there while I returned to the file. The remaining pages were pale blue. “Are these blue pages yours?”
“Yes,” Stein said, hopscotching with a pointed finger. “I first saw Stephen there, then a week later, then two weeks later, then one month later.”
I read his entries. To me they seemed the sort of bland evaluation an assistant principal might give an above-average kindergarten teacher. Stein’s notes indicated good re-adjustment to home life, eagerness to return to school, intellectual curiosity, etc.
“I take it you came to no independent diagnosis of Stephen’s illness.”
“Well, no, but perhaps for a different reason. You see, by the time he came to me, Stephen was no longer exhibiting any symptoms of any condition. He appeared to be a normal, well-adjusted boy of”—Stein consulted his entries—“ten, nearly eleven years old. Since he wasn’t sick, so to speak, there was nothing to diagnose. Hence only the few, increasingly spaced visits.”
“Do I understand then, Doctor, since neither Willow Wood nor you determined what was wrong with him, you don’t know for sure that his mother’s going off the bridge caused it?”
Stein blinked several times, and his mouth opened before he began to speak. Then he lapsed into a smile and gave me a patronizing look. “Given the chronological proximity of the event and the onset of the condition, what else could have caused it?”
I thanked Dr. D. Stein, M.D., for his time and left.
Eight
I DROVE INTO downtown Boston and parked on the fourth floor of the Government Center Garage. I walked through the new Faneuil Hall Market area. Although the renovated space opened in 1976, I grew up in old Boston, so I’ll probably always call it the “new” market.
A stop at my camera shop, where Danny promised me he’d have fifty copies of Stephen’s photo for me within an hour. Then I moved down State Street.
Sturney and Perkins, Inc. was in a traditional, tasteful building near the waterfront. I took the elevator to the tenth floor. Sturney and Perkins occupied about half of it, the kind of offices a good, medium-sized Boston law firm would have had twenty years ago, before the glass-eyed skyscrapers opened.
“John Francis to see Ms. DeMarco.”
The receptionist gave me an uncertain look and dialed two digits. Her telephone had a cover on the mouthpiece, which prevented me from hearing what she said into it. She hung up.
“I’ll take you myself.” As we wound down a labyrinthine corridor, I thought it odd that she would leave her post. The receptionist showed me into a spacious, leather-done corner office with a harbor view. A tall, graying man who looked like an ex-Navy commander stood from behind an expensive desk.
“Mr. Cuddy, this is Nancy DeMarco. I’m Charles Perkins. What can we do for you?” he asked without extending his hand beyond waving the receptionist away.
As the door
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