One thing that Harlan Cryer knew was that when a doctor fell silent, it was usually not good news.

He remembered his mother’s cancer diagnosis, twenty years ago when, as a college senior, he leaned against the aseptic walls of St. Blaise Hospital when the word ‘terminal’ finally fell from Dr. Blake’s lips, landing like a bomb, exploding in his face.

But this was not about death. It was about life. His ten year old son’s life. So why did he feel as if someone was dying in the sea of quiet ebbing and flowing across the neurologist’s desk? Dr. Peddy, a pudgy fortyish bespectacled still tow-headed Peter Pan type with deep set hazel eyes wasn’t saying a thing.

“How can this be?” Harlan asked, lifting his eyes to the doctor’s. His gaze was not returned. And that was bad.

They were alone, each seated in a brown cushioned prefab hospital chair in a tiny office hidden behind examining rooms in the children’s wing of the hospital. It was a room Harlan knew he would never forget, and, perhaps to escape hearing nothing, he looked around. In the corner was a dark gray, ugly looking machine covered with a black tarp. It made the office look like a storage area, as did the shelves that held plastic bins of supplies instead of medical texts.

Inanely he asked Dr. Peddy where his medical books were kept and the doctor smiled and replied that everything these days was online, holding up a PDA, pointing at a Toshiba Tecra tablet PC in front of him. Harlan felt an urge to ask Dr. Peddy – what was his first name, he wondered – whether he liked the Tecra, because he was looking for a tablet PC himself, then remembered what they were talking about – or trying to talk about- and the words stuck in his throat.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Cryer?” asked Dr. Peddy.

The question hit Harlan like a hammer. You just told me that my son, my precious Teddy, is cognitively disabled and you’re telling me we have to wait to see what else is affected by the injury to his brain and now you’re asking me what I do for a living. What about what Teddy will do? Harlan thought. He wanted to hit some sense into the doctor, take him out into the hallway and beat his brain against the wall and tell him to wait and see what would be affected.

“I’m a writer,” he said. The words came out separately, with time in between, as if Harlan might never speak normally again. He stared down at the doctor’s nameplate and counted the letters in his name, a trick he used since his own childhood to calm himself down. Five. Peddy had five letters in it.

“A writer. What kind of a writer?”

What the hell does this have to do with anything? Harlan thought angrily, but he answered, more easily this time, that he wrote books about crimes. Cold cases. Ones that weren’t solved. He had a small following of readers, enough to sell enough books to make a living at it if he supplemented the money with other kinds of writing here and there.

Harlan explained all of this to Dr. Peddy of the five letters in a rush of words that burst forth like a dam and then he sat, looking at the doctor, silent again.

“So you’re a man who likes research,” Dr. Peddy said. “That’s why I asked, you know. It helps to know what people do for a living before I explain things. You like details, you are curious, but at the same time you can tolerate not knowing the outcome of things.”

“So?”

“Think of it this way, Mr. Cryer. Your son’s brain injury is like one of your cold cases. We can’t solve it quite yet. We have to gather more information, observe things a bit longer. I can tell you why he’s having learning problems, for example, but I can’t tell you precisely what will happen.”

Harlan swallowed. “All I have are questions. Will he get through school? Will he be able to work? What about his future?”

“Perfectly normal for a parent to ask those questions, and, again, like one of your books, I’m afraid we’re not always going to have answers right away. It’s more –“

“Wait and see.” Harlan breathed the words out. Some people might chant “Om” but he pictured himself sitting cross-legged breathing “Wait. See. Wait. See. Wait. See.” The words made him lose his breath and he inhaled, his chest shuddering, a cry escaping his lips, like a wounded, cornered animal. “I’m sorry,” he said a moment later.

Dr. Peddy briefly looked into Harlan’s eyes at that moment. “Let’s schedule a neurodevelopmental evaluation and see what’s going on here,” he suddenly said, picking up his tablet PC and averting his eyes. “We can talk more then.” He stood up.

Harlan stood up, too, thinking this is it? This is the scene where everything changes for Teddy’s future, just like that? But he forced himself to walk out of the room on legs made of straw, go out to the desk as instructed and schedule the test, something his wife Elaine would have done if she was here today and not taking care of her mother up in Poughkeepsie who had a stroke last week, missing what they both thought was going to be a routine visit.

Routine. It was going to be a long time before Harlan would trust that taking Teddy to a doctor would ever be routine again.

Teddy sat in the waiting room, playing his Gameboy. His blue eyes were focused intently on the small screen as he whacked the bad guys, his mouth moving slightly when he missed. His coordination wasn’t that good, but he made up for it with enthuasiasm, Harlan thought, watching his son as the clerk wrote down information, made a few calls.

Teddy didn’t look over at him. He was in his own little world when he played video games that you interrupted at your own risk. It was as if his son climbed into the Gameboy and you had to pull him out of it, back to this world. Rebirthing him back to reality, over and over again, Elaine would say, rolling her eyes. She hated the Gameboy, wanted to burn it because of the pull it had for Teddy. But when they took it away from him, Teddy went into a rage.

Harlan felt a wave of emotion roll over him as he thought about telling Elaine the news. He stared at a picture of bright geometric shapes in the pediatric waiting room and wondered who decided that was better than a clown, or a lion, or a seal. Exactly who decorated these places and decided what parents would look at on the days they received medical information that changed their child’s life forever?

But it didn’t. Not really. Harlan realized that they’d known this for a while now. Dr. Peddy had tried to break it to them before. They just hadn’t been ready to hear it.

Suddenly the geometric shapes looked like broken pieces, shards of reality piled up.

And then there was a miracle. Teddy by his side, Teddy noticing that he had come into the room, showing him the Gameboy, saying “Look, I scored really high”.

“That’s great, Teddy,” Harlan said, patting his son on his head. “Good job.”

“You’re all set, Mr. Cryer,” the clerk said, pushing slips of papers toward him.

He thanked her , folded the papers and looked over at the couch where the real Teddy was still playing his Gameboy, lost in the game. He walked over to him. “Come on, son,” Harlan said gently.

“I need to finish,” Teddy protested, turning away. “Let me finish my game.”

Harlan didn’t do what Elaine would have. He didn’t issue an ultimatum or take the device away. Instead he leaned down, tousled Teddy’s hair, looked at the screen and said “Show me what you’re doing, Teddy.” He knew his son wouldn’t answer him, probably wouldn’t even hear him.

But he waited anyway because maybe, just maybe, Teddy would.

Copyright 2008 Ruth Harrigan