heart. And he was such a lady-killer with his big blue eyes and curly blond hair. In truth, I think he was one of the most appealing-looking children I had come across. He was also one of the most disturbed.
Alejo came next. He was a new child at the clinic, having started only at the beginning of April, and he was seeing Dr. Freeman, so I didn’t know him personally. His parents, a wealthy professional couple who had been childless through sixteen years of marriage, had decided to adopt a Third World orphan when it finally became apparent to them that they would not bear a child of their own. On a trip to Colombia, they found Alejo, then age four, in an orphanage run by a group of nuns. Adopted and brought to the United States, he had now been with his current family for almost three years, but he had never really settled into his new suburban surroundings. He was restless and aggressive and, although he had learned English, he spoke only rarely, preferring his fists to do his talking. His school performance had been uniformly poor and there was now a question of whether his deprived early life had caused permanent brain damage. Alejo himself was a small, rather unattractive boy with thick black-rimmed glasses. He had the flat features of the native South American Indians and a thatch of unruly dark hair that fell forward into his face. He appeared shy in the midst of so many strangers and clung tightly to his father’s hand until Jeff came and knelt down beside him.
Behind Alejo came Jessie. A small black girl with her hair meticulously corn-rowed, she, like Joshua, was autistic. She was not as severely afflicted as Joshua and could talk after a fashion. Recognizing this as a school, she ran past us all to the table, sat down in one of the chairs and began drumming loudly with her hands while shouting out the alphabet song.
Last to arrive was Tamara. Of Mediterranean lineage, with long black hair and huge, soulful dark eyes, she reminded me rather uncannily of the opera singer Maria Callas, which gave me trouble the entire eight weeks in keeping her name straight. Now eight, Tamara had been coming to the clinic for over two years, ever since her parents had first noticed the myriad of small cuts along her arms. Despite intensive therapy, Tamara continued her obsession with self-mutilation. Consequently, she arrived that warm summer’s morning wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and jogging-suit bottoms to cover the myriad of sores and scabs on her arms and legs and to discourage her attempts to create more.
So we started. Like all first days, it was a bit chaotic; however, we had planned well to provide an engaging but low-key morning. Thus, there were no disasters.
Sheila befriended Kayleigh, or perhaps it was Kayleigh who befriended her. Whichever, Sheila spent most of the morning with the little girl, helping her with her activities, taking her to the toilet, finding good cookies for her at snack time. As part of my ongoing therapy with Kayleigh, I had insisted she speak to Sheila from the onset, which she did with only a little urging.
This is right, I thought, watching the two of them together at one of the tables, their heads bent over what they were doing. Sheila was talking to her, pausing occasionally to glance over at the child. Seven years earlier, she had been that small girl. There was something deeply rewarding in seeing her come full circle.
Indeed, as I stood there surveying the group, I became aware of how very happy I felt at that particular moment. The morning was going well; the program was off to a good start. The children were challenging but engaging. Jeff was my absolute favorite colleague to work with in the whole world. When we were getting fired up, the two of us could operate as one mind in two bodies, challenging, growing, building upon one another’s ideas so easily that everything felt possible to me. Miriam, whom I had not known previously, was full of energetic initiative and had a far better sense of organization than either Jeff or I. Consequently, all the small things, like finding the paper cups at break time, happened as they should. Best of all, there was Sheila, back in the classroom with me and it was the first day, with all the future stretching ahead of us. I regarded her. It was Sheila there. For the first time since we had been reunited, I felt certain of that.
After the morning ended and all the children had gone home, the four of us went out to lunch. Miriam, who lived locally, suggested a whole-food restaurant down by the lake and so we found ourselves on benches gathered around a wooden plank table in the cool interior of the restaurant.
We discussed the morning’s events, evaluating how the various activities had gone and making plans to adjust them as necessary. Sheila didn’t say much, even when we went over our observations of Kayleigh in the group. She appeared absorbed in a tradescantia hanging in the window beside our table, its long branches stretching down to a point where she could fiddle with them.
After lunch, I offered to drive her the five miles down to Fenton Boulevard, where she could catch a direct bus back to Broadview.
“So, what did you think?” I asked, once we were alone in the car together.
Sheila was silent for several moments. “I don’t like your partner very much. What’s all this crap about regression motivating neuroses and stuff?”
“Jeff’s a Freudian. You’ve got to excuse him that.”
“It’s crap. Why doesn’t he just talk English?” Sheila asked.
“Freud’s ideas have had very wide-ranging applications. While a lot of people don’t agree with all of them anymore, they’ve still done a great deal to help us understand how minds might work. And people like Jeff, who have really studied the theories, seem to make good progress using them.”
Sheila raised her lip in an expression of disgust.
We went a few moments in silence before I looked over again. “So, Jeff excepted, what did you think? Did you like it? Did you enjoy working with Kayleigh?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Why doesn’t she talk?” she asked, her head turned away from me to watch out the window. “And not Jeff’s kind of explanation. Not ’cause she’s got an anal fixation or something.”
“I don’t know why.”
“I told her that when I was her age, I didn’t talk either,” Sheila said.
“Did Kayleigh respond to that?” I asked.
“Dunno. She just kept coloring.” There was a pause. “I wanted to ask you about that other kid. The kid with the Spanish name.”
“Alejo?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s very difficult at school. He fights with the other kids all the time, quite a vicious little boy, and he does very poorly at his work. We’re trying to determine at the clinic whether this is as a result of psychological problems or a mental handicap.”
“Jeff said he’s adopted.”
“Yes. He’s from Colombia.”
“Where are his real parents?” Sheila asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody knows. He was abandoned. The report I read said that someone had found him living in a garbage can and had then taken him to these nuns who ran the orphanage.”
Forehead puckered, Sheila looked over. “Really?”
“Apparently there are a lot of street kids in some of these South American cities. It’s a serious problem in some places.”
“His folks abandoned him in a garbage can?”
“Maybe he was just sheltering in one. I don’t know. The report’s pretty scant and probably about fifth-hand.”
Sheila was pensive a long moment, before turning back. “Did I hear you guys saying that the parents he’s got now were going to send him back to where he came from?”
“I don’t know. There’s some talk of it. They’re an older couple, both professionals, not very used to accommodating children, and he’s been quite a handful.”
“Can