Elephant in the Sky (6 page)

15

“Mrs. Carter?” The doctor who had examined Nate's ankle ran to catch up with me as we left the hospital. Pete was pushing Nate in a wheelchair. He turned around when he heard the doctor call my name.

“May I have a word with you?” she asked. Something in her tone indicated that she wanted to talk privately. Without Nate around us. Pete picked up on her request for discretion and he suggested they keep going.

“Thanks, Pete. I'll catch up with you in a minute.”

“Your son, Nate. I'm wondering if he's always so … silent. Does he always act so distant?”

I shook my head. I needed to be honest with her. “No. He's been acting this way now for several weeks and I … I'm not really sure that I understand why.”

The doctor nodded in sympathy. When she saw the tears spring to my eyes, she placed her hand on my back and guided me to a private corner. “So, recently he's become quiet like this for an extended period of time? How often do you see this happen with him?”

“Frequently. It does come and go. And I never know when to expect it.”

“Is it brought on by anything in particular?”

I shook my head.

“How long does it usually last for?”

“It varies. Sometimes a day or two, I guess. Other times, longer.”

The doctor nodded her head, taking in what I was saying. “And how is Nate doing in school? Does he like it?”

“He used to, although he's had some tough times with bullying. Lately he sometimes complains about going to school, but we're keeping a close eye on things, and I don't think he's being bullied by anyone.”

“And what are his teachers saying?”

I shrugged my shoulders as Nate's principal's words came skipping through my brain. “I was actually planning on booking a meeting with his teacher this week. He fell yesterday in his class. Hit his head. I spoke with his principal about it when I picked him up, but not his teacher.”

“Yes, I saw that in his file. You brought him in because of the concussion scare, but everything was okay, correct? That's good. I'm glad. I also saw that Nate had what the doctor on call thought was a panic attack while waiting to be admitted. Has Nate ever had that before?”

“No, that was definitely new.”

“It's something you should definitely watch, Mrs. Carter.” The doctor scratched something down on the pad of paper she was holding. She tucked a brown curl behind her ear. “And what activities does Nate do? What does he enjoy?”

“Why all of the questions, doctor? Is there something you're worried about?” Doctors seeking out a patient's parents to ask questions in the hallway couldn't be a good thing.

The doctor nodded her head, and closed the pad of paper she was holding. “I'll cut to the chase, Mrs. Carter. I'm worried that Nate could be suffering from childhood depression. His behaviour, and the look in his eyes, not to mention his silence, well … I see some red flags that we need to watch out for.”

I looked down, taking in what the doctor was saying but not wanting to greet her eyes.

“And we know that depression is often linked to anxiety. Anxiety that presents itself in ways such as the behaviour we saw yesterday.”

“I see. And what do you think we should we do about it?”

“Keep a very close eye on him. Monitor his moods. Write them down, even. If he keeps acting the way he did today … if his bad or quiet moods last for a long time, I advise you to take him in and speak to your family doctor. She or he will be able to advise you from there, and they might want you to book an appointment with a child psychologist. Just in case.”

There were those words again. They seemed to be finding me a lot.

“Obviously it's early, so I don't want to scare you, but the more quickly you can understand what's going on —
if
something's going on — the better.”

“Well, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to grab me on the way out.”

“You're welcome, Mrs. Carter. And I hope Nate's leg doesn't cause him too much pain or discomfort. Don't forget to ice!”

I walked towards the parking garage with the doctor's words ringing in my ears.

“Everything okay?” Pete asked when I got to our SUV. He was waiting outside by himself, leaning against the driver's door.

“We'll chat later,” I responded. I had no idea how Pete was going to respond to all of this. I stuck my head in the Enclave to see Nate, who was sitting lengthwise in the back row. His leg was propped up with a pillow the hospital had given us, and Nate was leaning the side of his head onto the back of the seat, almost like he was trying to burrow and escape.

“You okay, Bean?” I asked, calling over the middle row of our SUV to the backseat. “Ready to go home now? I was thinking we could pick up pancakes on the way home.”

I waited for him to say yes to his favourite breakfast, or at least manage a semi-smile at the suggestion. But his only response was to turn his face away from me, trying to burrow further as he smashed his nose into the fabric.

16

When we returned home, we got Nate settled into his room. It took five big pillows — two behind his back, one under his hips, and two under his ankle — before he finally seemed to be comfortable. We had offered to put him in the family room, in front of the big TV, but Nate had refused.

“Don't you want to watch some cartoons?” I asked him, anxious to see a flicker of light appear in his eyes. “One of the good parts of having a sprained ankle is that you get to watch them all day.”

But Nate only shook his head, repeating, again, that he wanted to be by himself in his room. He refused to eat. He didn't want to play video games. And he asked me to leave when I offered to stay.

Pete wanted to talk to him about why he left the house, but I convinced him to let it wait. I was worried about the slump Nate was in, and didn't want to push him.

On Monday, Nate begged us to let him stay home from school. We gave in to his request, worried that he might not yet be ready, and concerned about how the other kids might treat a kid on crutches. On Tuesday morning, we echoed the decision and Nate stayed home once again, isolated in his room.

I forced myself to return to work for a mid-morning meeting that I couldn't miss. I'd managed to work from home the day before, calling into my meetings and using the time when Nate napped to plough through my quickly building email pile.

But I couldn't stay away from work any longer. The pressure was mounting with three of our most important accounts, and Jack had clearly expressed that he needed me to be directly involved with every aspect of managing our new client.

By Wednesday, Pete convinced me to make Nate go to school. It was obvious his ankle was already healing by the amount of pressure he was able to put on it when we forced him out of bed to brush his teeth and take a bath. And it wasn't healthy for him to continue to hibernate in his bedroom.

After forcing myself to bury my swelling stress levels, which had heightened after one of my top team members had resigned the day before, I cleared my morning meetings to take Nate to school. It was the only real request he'd made when we'd given him no choice. I helped him get dressed, then walked at a snail's pace beside him as he made his way to the car on crutches.

When we got to school, I brought Nate straight to his classroom. A group of kids from his class snickered and began whispering. One boy I didn't know pointed right at us.

I inhaled sharply. “Hey guys,” I said. “Nate hurt his ankle and could use some friends to help him out until he's better. Can you do that?”

“Yeah right,” one boy snorted. The others snickered outwardly. Then, more quietly, the instigator said to his gang of friends, “Like we'd
ever
help a hyena!” The entire group burst out laughing.

“
What
did you say?” I stopped in my tracks to look straight into the eyes of the obnoxious ringleader.

“Your kid's a hyena — and
we
don't
like
hyenas.” The boy returned my stare as the rest of the group barked hysterical laughter. I ignored them, refusing to back down.

The boy crossed his arms. He took two steps in front of his gang and gave Nate a menacing stare. Beside me, I felt Nate start to tremble and, in that moment, my heart broke for my son. There were no friends at this school for Nate.

“Come on, buddy. Let's get you to see Mrs. Brock.”

When Nate crutched forward, I turned to look back at the brat behind me. “By the way … what's your name? I'll be sure to tell Mrs. Brock that we had a chat.”

The boy answered my question by running in the opposite direction, his crew of unruly urchins following closely behind him. One even gave me the finger as they loped away to the playground.

I was astounded by how outwardly obnoxious they were. I'd recently read an article that encouraged parents to pay attention for signs of bullying from even the most amiable kids, some of whom had a knack for laying on the charm in front of adults, only to turn on their prey the minute it was kids only. The manipulation of the whole act would make it even harder for parents to separate truth from fiction, as many would find it hard to believe the charming kid at school would actually bully their child. If the boys in Nate's class were so openly vulgar in front of his mother, I shuddered to think of what they might be doing when I wasn't around to protect him.

When we reached Nate's hallway, I helped him leave his things in his locker and get settled in his class. There were ten more minutes before the bell rang, and I hoped Mrs. Brock would make an early appearance so I could talk to her about Nate. I needed to let her know what had happened on our way into the school.

Nate and I waited for Mrs. Brock in silence; I tried to ask him questions but he wouldn't respond. Seven minutes before the bell, Mrs. Brock walked into the room, carrying a mountain of papers with her.

“Nate! You're back. We're so happy to have you. How is your ankle?” Mrs. Brock dropped the papers at her desk, and walked directly over to Nate. She crouched down beside him so they were at eye level, and smiled broadly. “Are you comfortable? Do you need to put your foot up at all?”

Nate shook his head. It was the first day his ankle hadn't been propped up, but I sensed he didn't want to do anything to call more attention to himself. Given the combat we'd just had in the playground, I decided that he might be right.

“Mrs. Brock? May I have a word with you in the hall?” Nate stared at the top of his desk while I waited for Mrs. Brock to answer. She looked concerned about leaving Nate, but ultimately agreed to join me in the hall.

“I know we don't have long before the bell, so I'll cut right to the chase. I'm concerned about Nate. Both because he hasn't been himself lately, and because there were a group of kids just now who were downright cruel. They made fun of him, calling him a hyena and other nasty words. One even gave us the finger!”

Mrs. Brock raised an eyebrow at my last comment, but I sensed from her reaction that what I was saying wasn't a surprise to her.

“The kid who was teasing him … I assume it was Tyson and his group?” Mrs. Brock asked. I told her that I didn't know the kid's name as he had run off when I'd asked him.

“Tyson is a bit of a class ruler, with a group of kids following his lead. And he isn't always nice to Nate, I'm afraid.”

My protective warning bells that had started to ring when we'd confronted the group on our way into school now went off like there was a bomb scare. I took a deep breath before asking, “How often is it happening?”

“It goes in fits and spurts, but I'd say twice a week. Sometimes more.”

“Twice a week?!” I spurted. “Why hasn't anyone contacted me before now to let me know? I was just with Mrs. Spencer last week and she said nothing had happened at this school!”

“Nothing severe enough to involve the principal. So Mrs. Spencer hasn't been involved at all.” Mrs. Brock looked at me inquisitively as she continued. “Mrs. Carter, hasn't Mr. Carter told you about this? I've had several conversations with him about it. Knowing what has happened to Nate at other schools, I've been very proactive about informing your husband about everything that goes on here.”

“No. He hasn't …” I was livid, and ready to hurl words at my husband when I saw him next. I felt my face turn a hot shade of red.

“As far as I know, they haven't physically hurt him at all. But they do like to tease him quite a bit, unfortunately.” Mrs. Brock paused. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking mildly uncomfortable. “I think Tyson and the others who go along with him see Nate as an easy target.”

“But why Nate? Are there others that get picked on too?”

“Occasionally. But, Nate … well, he sometimes does things that the other kids aren't used to. He acts a bit different from the other kids.” Mrs. Brock paused again. I met her glance and found compassion in her eyes. I knew she was a wonderful teacher who cared about Nate's best interest.

“Such as jumping on the desk and acting like a hyena?”

Mrs. Brock nodded. Of course the other kids would have thought that was odd. His own mother thought it was strange behaviour.

“How about other things? Do you have any other examples of things?” I asked, beginning to absorb what Nate was facing on an everyday basis at school.

“He does sometimes act out of character and gets fairly wild. I have a hard time containing him, on occasion. But other times he goes into a shell and won't say a word to anyone around him, including me. I don't push him too hard when he gets like that because his teacher from last year said it didn't work very well.” Mrs. Brock looked directly at me. “I have to tell you, Mrs. Carter, that I
am
concerned about Nate. He flips back and forth between extremely frenzied and then, out of the blue, almost nonexistent. I've never seen such an extreme spin of emotions.”

“I see. And have you talked about this with Pete, too?”

“A little bit, but our conversations have been more centred on the teasing from the other kids.” Mrs. Brock glanced at her watch. “We're almost at the bell, but I don't want to brush this off. I'm always available to talk about Nate. Perhaps we could book an appointment with both you and your husband to discuss this further, if you'd like to chat more?”

“I appreciate that, thank you. You've given me a lot to think about.”

“You're very welcome. And I will take very good care of Nate and his ankle today. Will it be you or your husband picking him up at lunch?” Mrs. Brock now rushed her words, anxious to finish our conversation before the bell rang.

“Pete will be here. I need to get to work.”

“Of course. Well, I'll be sure to relay anything to Mr. Carter that you both need to know.”

I thanked Mrs. Brock again and rushed into the classroom to say a final goodbye to Nate, who hadn't moved an inch and was still staring at his desk. As I kissed his cheek and brought him in for a hug, I saw the haunted, hollow look in his eyes, and knew without a shadow of a doubt that my son was, indeed, somehow broken inside.