face."
Mike raised an eyebrow, tapped a few more keys, then stowed his PDA. "I see. Well, he has a lot to work through. The grief, the anger, the transition from living with his mother to living with you -- it'll take a while. The best thing you can do is stay alert for warning signs, and let him know you're available if he wants to talk."
"Is the tattoo a warning sign?"
Mike shrugged. "Hard to tell. He's not the first student I've seen with one. What did you say to him about it?"
"Nothing."
"He may have been trying to provoke you."
"The thought occurred to me."
"It's natural, given his situation, for him to test his limits. He needs to know how far he can go. But once you show him where the line is, he'll respect it."
"You know, I doubt that."
"Hmm. Well. Mr. Griffin, the reason I called you here today is to give you an overview of what we've been trying to do to help Paul. I worked with him all last year, and I thought that by spring he had come to trust me a little. Since his mother's death, however, he's regressed. His teachers tell me that he never participates in class, even when called upon. And he skipped his last appointment with me."
"That sounds like Paul."
A frown creased Mike the guidance counselor's forehead. "Behavioral problems are not uncommon for kids with his disorder. I'm used to that. But --"
"Is that what they call cloning these days? A
disorder
?"
Mike's frown deepened. "Of course not. I was referring to his dyslexia."
"His --" John shook his head. "His what?"
Mike produced his PDA again and brought up more data. "According to my files, Paul was diagnosed with developmental reading disorder when he was seven years old. Isn't that correct?"
"Seven . . ." John thought back. That would have been about a year after the divorce.
"You didn't know?"
He could only sit there dumbly, feeling the weight of Mike the guidance counselor's stare. John glanced at him, and he looked away.
"I'm sorry," Mike said. "I guess I assumed you knew. But then, as the non-custodial parent --" He waved it off. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was only trying to say that Paul's behavioral problems are nothing I haven't seen before. With a great deal of patience and persistence, I was able to get him to open up a little. His mother's death has changed that. Time for grief notwithstanding, it's cause for --"
He was talking rapidly. His words faded into babble. Instead, John heard Marie's voice, weak but still accusatory, even on the brink of death:
You never had time for him.
In that moment, he realized just how contemptuous she must have been of him, how serious she had been about Jackie taking Paul.
And then he remembered the long-ago letter from the clinic. He stood. "I'm sorry. I have to go. Please excuse me."
"Mr. Griffin --"
That was as much as John heard. He was already out the door.
He made it to the visitors' parking lot before anger overtook him. Hands shaking, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He could not remember the number; he hadn't dialed it in years. He accessed an online directory, found a listing for the clinic, and selected it.
A receptionist answered.
John said, "I need to speak with Dr. Aiken."
"He's in a consultation, sir. May I have him --"
"Tell him it's John Griffin. Tell him it's an emergency."
"Sir, if this is an emergency, perhaps another doctor at the clinic can --"
"
No
." He worked to keep from becoming strident. It would not do to be disconnected. "No, it has to be Dr. Aiken. Tell him it's me. He'll understand. Please hurry."
"I'll try, sir."
A moment's silence, then strains of classical music came on the line. While he waited, he tempered his anger, working on what he would say.
The music cut off. "Mr. Griffin?" said a familiar voice.
"Hello, Dr. Aiken."
"What's wrong? Is something the matter with Paul?"
"Yes. He's dyslexic."
"He's -- I'm sorry; I don't think I heard --"
"Yes, you heard me correctly. He's dyslexic. Diagnosed seven years ago. I just
Mike raised an eyebrow, tapped a few more keys, then stowed his PDA. "I see. Well, he has a lot to work through. The grief, the anger, the transition from living with his mother to living with you -- it'll take a while. The best thing you can do is stay alert for warning signs, and let him know you're available if he wants to talk."
"Is the tattoo a warning sign?"
Mike shrugged. "Hard to tell. He's not the first student I've seen with one. What did you say to him about it?"
"Nothing."
"He may have been trying to provoke you."
"The thought occurred to me."
"It's natural, given his situation, for him to test his limits. He needs to know how far he can go. But once you show him where the line is, he'll respect it."
"You know, I doubt that."
"Hmm. Well. Mr. Griffin, the reason I called you here today is to give you an overview of what we've been trying to do to help Paul. I worked with him all last year, and I thought that by spring he had come to trust me a little. Since his mother's death, however, he's regressed. His teachers tell me that he never participates in class, even when called upon. And he skipped his last appointment with me."
"That sounds like Paul."
A frown creased Mike the guidance counselor's forehead. "Behavioral problems are not uncommon for kids with his disorder. I'm used to that. But --"
"Is that what they call cloning these days? A
disorder
?"
Mike's frown deepened. "Of course not. I was referring to his dyslexia."
"His --" John shook his head. "His what?"
Mike produced his PDA again and brought up more data. "According to my files, Paul was diagnosed with developmental reading disorder when he was seven years old. Isn't that correct?"
"Seven . . ." John thought back. That would have been about a year after the divorce.
"You didn't know?"
He could only sit there dumbly, feeling the weight of Mike the guidance counselor's stare. John glanced at him, and he looked away.
"I'm sorry," Mike said. "I guess I assumed you knew. But then, as the non-custodial parent --" He waved it off. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was only trying to say that Paul's behavioral problems are nothing I haven't seen before. With a great deal of patience and persistence, I was able to get him to open up a little. His mother's death has changed that. Time for grief notwithstanding, it's cause for --"
He was talking rapidly. His words faded into babble. Instead, John heard Marie's voice, weak but still accusatory, even on the brink of death:
You never had time for him.
In that moment, he realized just how contemptuous she must have been of him, how serious she had been about Jackie taking Paul.
And then he remembered the long-ago letter from the clinic. He stood. "I'm sorry. I have to go. Please excuse me."
"Mr. Griffin --"
That was as much as John heard. He was already out the door.
He made it to the visitors' parking lot before anger overtook him. Hands shaking, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He could not remember the number; he hadn't dialed it in years. He accessed an online directory, found a listing for the clinic, and selected it.
A receptionist answered.
John said, "I need to speak with Dr. Aiken."
"He's in a consultation, sir. May I have him --"
"Tell him it's John Griffin. Tell him it's an emergency."
"Sir, if this is an emergency, perhaps another doctor at the clinic can --"
"
No
." He worked to keep from becoming strident. It would not do to be disconnected. "No, it has to be Dr. Aiken. Tell him it's me. He'll understand. Please hurry."
"I'll try, sir."
A moment's silence, then strains of classical music came on the line. While he waited, he tempered his anger, working on what he would say.
The music cut off. "Mr. Griffin?" said a familiar voice.
"Hello, Dr. Aiken."
"What's wrong? Is something the matter with Paul?"
"Yes. He's dyslexic."
"He's -- I'm sorry; I don't think I heard --"
"Yes, you heard me correctly. He's dyslexic. Diagnosed seven years ago. I just
Similar Books
