Nicholas Sparks - The Rescue

In the car, still ahead of the storm, Denise remembered sitting with the doctor in his office earlier that day while he read the results from the report on Kyle.

The child is male, four years eight months old at the time of testing. . . . Kyle is a handsome child with no obvious physical deficiencies in the head or facial area. . . . No recorded head trauma . . . pregnancy was described by mother as normal. . . .

The doctor continued for the next few minutes, outlining the specific results from various tests, until finally reaching the conclusion.

Though IQ falls within the normal range, child is severely delayed in both receptive and expressive language . . . probably central auditory processing disorder (CAPD), though cause can’t be determined . . . overall language ability estimated to be that of a twenty-four-month-old. . . . Eventual language and learning capabilities unknown at this time. . . .

Barely that of a toddler, she couldn’t help but think.

When the doctor was finished, he set the report aside and looked at Denise sympathetically. “In other words,” he said, talking slowly as if she hadn’t understood what he’d just read, “Kyle has problems with language. For some reason-we’re not sure why-Kyle isn’t able to speak at a level appropriate for his age, even though his IQ is normal. Nor is he able to understand language equal to the level of other four-year-olds.”

“I know.”

The assurance of her response caught him off guard. To Denise it seemed as if he’d expected either an argument, an excuse, or a predictable series of questions. When he realized she wasn’t going to say anything else, he cleared his throat.

“There’s a note here that says you’ve had him evaluated elsewhere.”

Denise nodded. “I have.”

He shuffled through the papers. “The reports aren’t in his file.”

“I didn’t give them to you.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Why?”

She reached for her purse and set it in her lap, thinking. Finally: “May I be frank?”

He studied her for a moment before leaning back in his chair. “Please.”

She glanced at Kyle before facing the doctor again. “Kyle has been misdiagnosed again and again over the past two years-everything from deafness to autism to pervasive development disorder to ADD. In time, none of those things turned out to be accurate. Do you know how hard it is for a parent to hear those things about her child, to believe them for months, to learn everything about them and finally accept them, before being told they were in error?”

The doctor didn’t answer. Denise met his eyes and held them before going on.

“I know Kyle has problems with language, and believe me, I’ve read all about auditory processing problems. In all honesty, I’ve probably read as much about it as you have. Despite that, I wanted his language skills tested by an independent source so that I could know specifically where he needed help. In the real world, he has to talk to more people than just me.”

“So . . . none of this is news to you.”

Denise shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

“Do you have him in a program now?”

“I work with him at home.”

He paused. “Does he see a speech or behavioral specialist, anyone who’s worked with children like him before?”

“No. He went to therapy three times a week for over a year, but it didn’t seem to help. He continued to fall further behind, so I pulled him out last October. Now it’s just me.”

“I see.” It was obvious by the way he said it that he didn’t agree with her decision.

Her eyes narrowed. “You have to understand-even though this evaluation shows Kyle at the level of a two-year-old, that’s an improvement from where he once was. Before he worked with me, he’d never shown any improvement at all.”

Driving along the highway three hours later, Denise thought about Brett Cosgrove, Kyle’s father. He was the type of man who attracted attention, the kind who’d always caught her eye: tall and thin with dark eyes and ebony hair. She’d seen him at a party, surrounded by people, obviously used to being the center of attention. She was twenty-three at the time, single, in her second year of teaching. She asked her friend Susan who he was: she was told that Brett was in town for a few weeks, working for an investment banking firm whose name Denise had since forgotten. It didn’t matter that he was from out of town. She glanced his way, he glanced back, and their eyes kept meeting for the next forty minutes before he finally came over and said hello.

Who can explain what happened next? Hormones? Loneliness? The mood of the hour? Either way, they left the party a little after eleven, had drinks in the hotel bar while entertaining each other with snappy anecdotes, flirted with an eye toward what might happen next, and ended up in bed. It was the first and last time she ever saw him. He went back to New York, back to his own life. Back, she suspected even then, to a girlfriend he’d neglected to mention. And she went back to her life.

At the time, it didn’t seem to mean much; a month later, while sitting on the bathroom floor one Tuesday morning, her arm around the commode, it meant a whole lot more. She went to the doctor, who confirmed what she already knew.

She was pregnant.

She called Brett on the phone, reached his answering machine, and left a message to call; three days later he finally did. He listened, then sighed with what sounded like exasperation. He offered to pay for the abortion. As a Catholic, she said it wasn’t going to happen. Angered, he questioned why this had happened. I think you already know the answer to that, she answered. He asked if she was sure the baby was his. She closed her eyes, calming herself, not rising to the bait. Yes, it was his. Again he offered to pay for an abortion. Again she said no. What did she want him to do? he asked her. She said she didn’t want anything, she just thought he should know. He would fight if she demanded child support payments, he said. She said she didn’t expect that from him, but she needed to know if he wanted to be involved in the child’s life. She listened to the sound of his breaths on the other end. No, he finally said. He was engaged to someone else.

She’d never spoken to him again.

In truth, it was easier to defend Kyle to a doctor than it was to herself. In truth, she was more worried than she let on. Even though he’d improved, the language ability of a two-year-old wasn’t much to cheer about. Kyle would be five in October.

Still, she refused to give up on him. She would never give up, even though working with him was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Not only did she do the regular things-make his meals, take him to parks, play with him in the living room, show him new places-but she also drilled him on the mechanics of speech for four hours a day, six days a week. His progression, though undeniable since she’d begun with him, was hardly linear. Some days he said everything she asked him to, some days he didn’t. Some days he could comprehend new things easily, other days he seemed further behind than ever. Most of the time he could answer “what” and “where” type questions; “how” and “why” questions were still incomprehensible. As for conversation, the flow of reason between two individuals, it was still nothing but a scientific hypothesis, far beyond his ability.

Yesterday they’d spent the afternoon on the banks of the Chowan River. He enjoyed watching the boats as they cut through the water on the way to Batchelor Bay, and it provided a change from his normal routine. Usually, when they worked, he was strapped in a chair in the living room. The chair helped him focus.

She’d picked a beautiful spot. Mockernut hickory trees lined the banks, Christmas ferns were more common than mosquitoes. They were sitting in a clover patch, just the two of them. Kyle was staring at the water. Denise carefully logged his progress in a notebook and finished jotting down the latest information. Without looking up, she asked: “Do you see any boats, sweetie?”

Kyle didn’t answer. Instead he lifted a tiny jet in the air, pretending to make it fly. One eye was closed, the other was focused on the toy in his hand.

“Kyle, honey, do you see any boats?”

He made a tiny, rushing sound with his throat, the sounds of a make-believe engine surging in throttle. He wasn’t paying attention to her.

She looked out over the water. No boats in sight. She reached over and touched his hand, making sure she had his attention.

“Kyle? Say, ‘I don’t see any boats.’ ”

“Airplane.” (Owpwane)

“I know it’s an airplane. Say, ‘I don’t see any boats.’ ”

He raised the toy a little higher, one eye still focused on it. After a moment he spoke again.

“Jet airplane.” (Jet owpwane)

“Yes, you’re holding an airplane.”

“Jet airplane.” (Jet owpwane)

She sighed. “Yes, a jet airplane.”

“Owpwane.”

She looked at his face, so perfect, so beautiful, so normal looking. She used her finger to turn his face toward hers.

“Even though we’re outside, we still have to work, okay? . . . You have to say what I tell you to, or we go back to the living room, to your chair. You don’t want to do that, do you?”

Kyle didn’t like his chair. Once strapped in, he couldn’t get away, and no child-Kyle included-enjoyed something like that. Still, Kyle moved the toy airplane back and forth with measured concentration, keeping it aligned with an imaginary horizon.

Denise tried again.

“Say, ‘I don’t see any boats.’ ”

Nothing.

She pulled a tiny piece of candy from her coat pocket.

Kyle saw it and reached for it. She kept it out of his grasp.

“Kyle? Say, ‘I don’t see any boats.’ ”

It was like pulling teeth, but the words finally came out.