Queen Bee Goes Home Again (22 page)

Maybe it was just as well that he'd seen how crazy my crazy relatives were.

I probably wouldn't be hearing from him again, which would help me disengage.

I made up my mind to focus on my family and the blessings we still had.

Monday was just around the corner, when I could go to Athens and maybe find out for sure whether or not I had the beginnings of Alzheimer's.

 

Thirty-one

The day of my testing, I slept till seven, ate some eggs and drank a pot of coffee, then put on a face and a bra and my one pair of dark skinny jeans with a white cotton camisole and an unlined emerald silk blazer. Satisfied that I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb on campus, I headed cross-country, careful to slow down in the seven speed-trap microtowns between me and Highway 316.

It was blazing hot when I got to Athens, the air sodden with humidity and the sharp, microscopic haze of lingering summer. Fortunately, the campus was almost deserted (some kind of break), so I found a parking spot right next to the building I needed.

The catch was, I couldn't enter at the closest doorway. I had to hike all the way around the enormous brick structure, then do the whole metal-detector security thing. Sad, sad, sad.

Everybody inside, including security, looked like middle school kids to me.

By the time I got to the fourth floor and the proper office, I needed some water.

More baby professionals greeted me kindly and got me some cold water.

Then they took me to a tiny, cluttered office where a tall, thin young man introduced himself as Dr. Mitchell.

He asked me a lot of questions about my family's medical history, including Daddy's dementia, plus my childhood and school experiences before asking me to describe my weird word thing.

The whole time I was explaining the word thing, he peered at me as if I were some sort of specimen, his brows knotted and a look of intense concentration on his face. When I finished, he pursed his mouth, looked down, and bracketed his chin with slow strokes of his thumb and forefinger.

I took the opportunity to inspect the framed certificates on his wall and see that he had a doctorate in psychology, not a medical degree.

At last, he made eye contact and spoke. “Fascinating. I've been doing this for a long time, and I have never heard of what you just described.”

Typical. Too weird. Again.

“My regular doctor said it could be PTSD,” I offered. “I went through a really bad divorce.” I motioned to the detailed medical history I'd printed out and brought with me, the first page taken up with my specialists and the ten prescriptions they'd given me—God bless my hormones and antidepressants. “It's all in there.”

Young Dr. Mitchell frowned. “So you can write and study, but not read for pleasure.”

“I used to read all the time,” I mourned. “Several books a week in all genres. I miss it terribly.”

He rose. “Let's get you tested, so we can confirm or rule out PTSD and learning disabilities. Don't worry. By the end of the day, we'll know a lot more.”

“Today?” Wow. Talk about fast.

He smiled. “It's all computerized now. I'll add my comments after the evaluation results come in, and you can go home with everything in a folder.”

“Bring it on.”

So the testing began. First came a hearing test, which confirmed I had moderate mid-range nerve deafness, but not enough to merit a hearing aid, thank goodness.

Next, they put me at a built-in desk in a tiny room with a big, sunny, tinted window behind me, and another glass window right in front of me that let me observe the testers in the cubicle beyond, and vice versa.

Then the written tests: ratios, spatial relationships, history, biology, some basic math (no algebra) and geometry (mostly “Which does not belong in this picture?”), and written passages followed by questions. The thing about the reading was, the selections were never more than a paragraph or two, so the word thing didn't crop up.

But this was a test, not a Calgon-take-me-away book, so maybe I used another part of my brain to process it.

By the end of the testing, it was two-thirty and my stomach growled so loud, it echoed in the little room.

The teenaged tester on the other side of the glass told me I could go get something to eat, and the results would be ready at four.

After trekking back to my car, I found a nice neighborhood grill downtown and enjoyed the simple food and funky patrons, lingering over an excellent flagon of iced tea.

I got lost on the way back (all those one-way streets), so by the time I returned to the testing office, it was four-thirty. The receptionist buzzed
Dr
. Mitchell, then said he'd be right out.

Sure enough, he leaned out of his door halfway down the hall and motioned for me to come in. “Everything's done.”

Nervous, I went and sat in his lair to get the results.

Middle school Dr. Mitchell handed me a nice presentation folder with at least ten single-spaced pages with charts and graphs inside.

“I'll go over the scores with you in a minute. But I know you're probably eager to discuss our overall findings.”

I sat up straighter. “Yes, please. You don't need to sugarcoat it. I want the truth.”

He nodded. “We know now that you do not have a learning disability. If so, there would have been some indication in your school history or these tests, but there isn't, and you haven't had any strokes or head trauma, so we can rule that out. We've also ruled out post-traumatic stress; your test results don't fit the profile for that.”

So much for that. I might as well ask the question I feared the most. “What about Alzheimer's?” He knew about Daddy, so I didn't have to explain myself.

Young Dr. Mitchell actually smiled. “No indication of that whatsoever.”

Whew! Big relief. So far. “So what is it?”

“Frankly, looking at your medications, I'm inclined to think the phenomenon is a side effect of one or more of your prescriptions.”

Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot!

Without my antidepressants and endorphin enhancers, I couldn't get out of bed. “So not being able to read for fun could be the cost of remaining sane and functional?” I challenged.

“Quite possibly. And you have been under a great deal of stress. That affects the brain, too. So I'll recommend accommodations.”

“I don't know anybody who's not under a lot of stress lately,” I grumbled.

I started to rise, but Dr. Mitchell stopped me with, “We still need to go through your results, but there's something else I'd like to discuss.”

I subsided. “Okay. Shoot.”

“Have you ever had an IQ test?”

I shrugged. “Way back in elementary school, but my mother never told me the results.”

He showed me a sheet with a bold 140 in the results box. “This is your score. We rarely see individuals of your abilities here.”

You have to have at least a 135 IQ to join Mensa; a friend had told me that. So I knew my score meant I was bright, at least.

My young doctor seemed to be expecting some sort of response, but what do you say to something like that?

Then I heard my voice blurt out, “If I'm so smart, how come I can't balance my checkbook or do college algebra?”

He actually laughed. “I can't answer that for you specifically, but many highly intelligent people have certain areas of difficulty.”

I frowned. “So what does that number mean, really?”

“It means you are in the top one half of one percent in the population,” he answered, “in intellectual capacity. One-forty puts you at entry level into the genius range.”

My eyes narrowed in skepticism. If I was so smart, why had I married Phil? And gotten drunk on our honeymoon and gotten that wretched tattoo on my fanny? And tried to have a fling with Grant Owens? Or even
considered
dating and mating with a Baptist minister?

I shook my head in disbelief. “To be so smart, I've sure done a lot of dumb things in my life.”

He smiled. “Emotional matters are another ball game, entirely.”

One-forty IQ. I still had no idea what to do with that. So I was scraping the bottom of the genius pool. So what? I didn't have a lick of common sense, and I couldn't do algebra.

Seeing me deflate, he shifted to, “If you'll open your folder, we can go over the individual areas of testing and their significance.”

When we were done, I rose and shook his hand. “Thank you. Should I take this to the disabilities office at—”

“No need. We already e-mailed everything over. Encrypted, of course.”

“Well, thanks again.” I paused. “And you're sure about the Alzheimer's?”

He nodded. “For now at least, you're in the clear.”

I was happy with that.

So I took my folder and enjoyed my trip home, arriving just in time for dinner.

 

Thirty-two

I walked into my mother's kitchen and gained five pounds just from the heavenly aromas.

“How did it go?” Miss Mamie asked with obvious anticipation as I washed up to join them.

“Great. I scored really well.” I sat down and covered my lap with my napkin, then accepted the meat loaf Tommy passed me.

“So what's ‘really well'?” she prodded.

“I'll probably be able to CLEP out of a lot of required classes. But I'll still have to buy the prep quizzes and study. That comes to about a hundred fifteen a course, including the test fees.” Thank goodness for that sales commission. “A lot cheaper than taking the actual courses.”

Disappointment congealed Miss Mamie's expression. “And that's it?”

“Yep.” I couldn't discuss the IQ thing in front of Tommy. And who knows? Maybe the test was wrong this time. “That's all.”

Still, you could feel the unspoken thick in the air between us, opaque as a dawn fog in a mountain hollow.

“Oh,” my mother said, clearly rebuffed.

In a gesture of conciliation, I added a glop of mashed potatoes to my plate. As long as I was climbing all those stairs and working in the attic, I could afford to comfort myself with mashed potatoes every once in a while.

“Well, there you go. Finally eating like a normal human, at last.” Miss Mamie beamed with pride. “I told you, you're getting too thin.”

Then she totally mixed her signals by handing me the low-carb catsup for my meat loaf. “Here.”

Tommy had been observing us warily since I'd come in, but wisely remained silent.

I noticed he had on a new suit. And cologne.

Whoever she was, things must be heating up.

After dinner when he left for his meeting, I joined Miss Mamie at the sink to wash up. She washed and rinsed, and I dried.

Now it was safe to ask, “Mama, did I ever have an IQ test in school?” Not that she would necessarily remember.

“Yes. They gave them to all the children.” She handed me a clean plate to dry.

I wiped it. “Do you remember what I made?”

“Yes.” Nothing more.

She wasn't going to make this easy, but I was compelled to ask, “What was it, please?”

She forgot to rinse the next plate, handing it to me with suds dripping. “Why in the world would you want to know something like that at this late date in your life?”

I rinsed the plate under the tap, then started drying it. “I'm going back to school. I need to know.”

She frowned as if I'd asked her when she lost her virginity. “Well, if you insist; it was a hundred forty.”

Whoa. So the test was right.

And my mother hadn't told me. Ever. “Why didn't you tell me?”

She stopped washing and turned to face me. “Your daddy and I talked it over for a long time. We didn't tell you because we'd seen what happened to children who had that ‘genius' label put on them. They never had a real childhood. Shipped off to little think tanks. Skipped grades. They were outcasts with the regular kids.”

She patted my arm. “We didn't want that to happen to you. And we didn't want it to come between you and Tommy, so I swore the school people to secrecy. We let you have your childhood, and your high school years, like everybody else. We'd planned for you to go to college and come into your own, but then you ran off with Phil.”

That still didn't explain why they hadn't told me when I was older.

But it was all water over the dam. What is, is, and what was, was. Nobody could change it, and it wouldn't do either of us any good for me to second-guess my parents' decision.

“Thanks for being honest,” I said. Then my big mouth rebelled with, “It might have made a difference in my life if I'd known when I graduated.”

“Baloney,” my mother said, pointing a sudsy serving spoon my way for emphasis. “You still would have married that Phil. Your IQ had nothing to do with
that
decision. Hormones and adolescent rebellion trump intellect every time. You threw away your chance for a fine education to be a Buckhead housewife.”

Yes, I had. And I'd enjoyed it immensely in clueless bliss till everything hit the fan. “You're right.”

My mother went back to scrubbing the pots. “Darned tootin'.”

To lighten the mood, I said, “I wonder if they have any tests for common sense.”

Miss Mamie smiled. “If they did, you'd flunk, but you'd definitely outscore your daddy, Lord love him.” She handed me the cast-iron skillet to dry, adding a peck on the cheek. “But I love you anyway.”

“I'm glad somebody does.” All that intellect, and not a lick of sense. Except what I'd absorbed from Granny Beth.

I realized God might have been tapping me on the shoulder with all this. Common sense and self-discipline were what I needed, especially when it came to Connor Allen.

I could think of him now without getting horny. Embarrassment over the faint-panty incident had supplanted my lustful urges.