Song of the Shaman (15 page)

“It’s important for us to take into consideration everyone’s analysis of Zig,” Jackie said, turning over a page. “After reading the teachers’ reports and talking to each of them, we found Zig to be emotional and moody across the board. I’ll quote from the report: ‘He has a short attention span and tends to wander around the classroom. He constantly talks out of turn, won’t take direction, and can be combative at times.’” Jackie looked expectantly at Sheri. Puzzled, Sheri turned to Bruce, who appeared to be deep in thought.

“An active imagination is a wonderful attribute. Zig has plenty in that area. But it can work for or against
him—”

“The playground incident last week was a prime example of it working
against
him,” Jackie added dryly, finishing Bruce’s statement. Her emphatic “against” rubbed Sheri the wrong way. She observed Zig’s interrogators. This was counter to what she discussed with Bruce just several days ago. She kept her mouth shut; flying into a rage would be something she would later regret. Bruce quickly summed up his analysis.

“All we’re saying, Sheri, is we need to step up our efforts to help Zig.”

“What are you recommending?” Sheri looked directly at Bruce.

“Zig would benefit from seeing a therapist twice a month.” He twisted again in his chair. “In addition, a low-dose prescription drug like Ritalin would greatly help him
to—”

“You’re diagnosing him as ADHD?” Sheri blurted out; she could hardly believe what she was hearing. Bruce held up a hand as if to keep her at bay.

“Only a doctor can diagnose that, but it’s possible he has a
mild
case of ADHD. His symptoms stem from more impulsive behavior
than—”

“It was an accident! He didn’t cause Francesca to faint. You yourself said that! The other boys didn’t have a bad reaction.” Sheri dug her nails into the antique armrest, her shrill voice odd in the genteel room. Jackie gave Bruce a cautious look before she spoke.

“Sheri, the PTA is demanding some explanation and rightly so. Every parent deserves to know that his or her child is safe and that what happened in the playground was an isolated incident. But there are clearly other issues at hand here. It’s for Zig’s own good and the good of the school.”

“So you want to medicate him? Exactly how will that help? By suppressing his ‘active imagination’ so you can tell the PTA he’s safe to be around?”

Bruce shook his head emphatically.

“It’s not like that at all. I’ve seen great success with Ritalin, even in very low dosages. It’s quite safe and has minimal side effects.”

“Can’t you find a less invasive way of handling him?” Sheri was exasperated.

“Methylphenidate is not newfangled or dangerous, as touted in the media. It’s been in use for a very long time,” Jackie said in a controlled, almost condescending voice. “I can understand your apprehension, Sheri, but I assure you, once you read the report, you’ll see it’s the best course for Zig.”

“I’m not saying it’s forever. We’d just like to see some improvement in his behavior.” Bruce handed the papers he had on his lap to Sheri. “Here’s a copy of the evaluation. I included a list of Web sites you can go to for information on ADHD, and some recommendations for a psychiatrist. You’ll need a prescription for the proper medication and dosage.” He looked sympathetic yet resolved. “Please feel free to call me with any questions. My extension is on the top of the page.”

He’d completely flip-flopped on her. Bruce’s face had a dog-beaten, spineless cast under Jackie’s glower. This was not about Zig—no one gave a damn about him. The school’s reputation was at stake. They didn’t have the patience or desire to deal with a child who had a gifted imagination, even one with straight As. Zig didn’t conform to Jackie’s standards of excellence in character, so she had to find ways to shrink his head and shove him into Excelsior’s mold. What was she to do?

Somehow she left Jackie’s office without exploding. She told herself she needed to calm down, not rock the boat. The school year had just started. If she refused to comply with their recommendation they might ask Zig to leave. Could she realistically find another school now? Was it worth the risk? She clenched her teeth. Cold as the morning was, she needed to walk, needed the fresh air. On Montague Street she veered toward the Promenade. Except for the scattered pigeons she cut a lone figure on the brick-paved walkway. In the summer months the place was teeming with strollers and tourists; she would often wander there with Zig after dinner at their favorite Japanese restaurant, feeling the warm breezes off the East River, ice cream dripping from their cones down their wrists. She sat on the end of a bench, still clutching Excelsior’s evaluation under her arm. One of the forms—the Parent Rating Scales—slipped out onto the ground. She snatched it up before it blew away and read some of the headings: Hyperactivity. Aggression. Conduct Problems. Anxiety. Depression. Somatization—what was that? She put the form on the bottom of her pile of papers and instead flipped through the teacher evaluations. All three teachers rated him within the same high range in most categories. She paged through to a chart that showed an overview of Zig’s scores in all behavior areas. For each of these areas there was a shaded part on the chart with an asterisk next to it:
*the shaded areas indicate problems your child is experiencing that are unusual and may require treatment.
Most of his behavior scores were in the shaded spots. She stuffed the report in her bag and leaned back on the bench, gazing out at the river. It always appeared cleaner and bluer in the fall, but just below the surface there was surely more garbage than fish. Across the river the South Street Seaport had the appeal of a ghost-town amusement park. Blocks of square buildings, pressed together like a Lego building set, lined the water’s edge. And then there was the massive hole, the chunk cut out of the sky where the World Trade Center towers once stood. At that moment she felt akin to the void, plucked from the order of the universe. A tugboat cruised by, hauling a load of metal junk. Could that be more of the endless debris from 9/11? The city was like the scarab of Egyptian mythology; buildings were constantly being torn down and built up, an endless cycle of urban death and rebirth. She felt rooted to this ever-changing landscape. Her career, her son, and her life were falling apart. Could she restore them to their former state? What was worth salvaging?

A flock of pigeons perched on the iron railing to her right. Some meandered over to her, purling, heads bobbing, angling for the tiniest crumb to fall. In the bleached white sunlight they appeared soft and beautiful, not the germ-ridden “flying rats” they were called on the street. She took out the report again and read it through, her fingers warmed by the sun. Many of the claims were not unreasonable or untrue. Zig had occasional outbursts at home and at school. He was also very calm and focused at times; his behavior did not lean heavily one way or another. What would the prescription do to him? He took enough meds for his asthma, and now she was being forced to add yet another one to his list? She stood up from the bench and made her way to the train station. No. Absolutely not. She would talk some sense into Zig, scare him, make him promise to straighten up. Or else.

THAT EVENING AFTER HIS HOMEWORK was done and all the dinner dishes were cleared away, Zig took his shower and got into bed. Sheri watched him from her usual spot at the end of the bed. He had his Game Boy DS on, playing the latest brainless game that occupied his downtime. Why did she give in to the lure of electronic toys? What happened to the days when he played quietly with blocks and puzzles, his little face brightening at the right spot to place each piece? The puzzles were still there, in shoeboxes under his bed, collecting dust. She couldn’t bring herself to throw them out.

“Ready to tell me the rest of Tima’s story?” he asked. His eyes flashed, his thumbs moved like lightning over the plastic arrow controls, navigating squat, mustached cartoon men who tumbled off cliffs. She had been feeding him bits and pieces about Tima and her Indian adventures every night since last Sunday. They both looked forward to hearing it, especially since Sheri never knew where the story was going until she started to imagine it. All of a sudden a movie screen lit up and whole scenes came to life for her. It was refreshing to completely lose herself in a fantasy for his sake, to watch his enthusiasm grow to the point where he would sprinkle in glittery details to garnish the story. She was reminded of what the native elder said earlier, how children can teach you to live in the moment. But first she had some business to clear up.

“In a moment, Zig. I had a meeting with Jackie and Bruce this morning at school.”

“Oh. They talk about me?” He didn’t budge from his game.

“Of course.”

“Am I in trouble again?”

“No, they just went over a report Bruce wrote about you.”

“He wrote a report about me?” He turned away from the screen and the numbing arcade music for a second.

“Uh-huh—to help find out what’s going on with you at school.”

“Do they want to kick me out?”

“No way! You’re one of their top students! Your grades make them look good. It’s your attitude we have to work on.”

“Attitude! I don’t have any frigging attitude!”

“You’re giving the teachers a hard time, Zig, wandering around the classroom…talking out of turn…”

“Mom, you don’t understand. It’s so boring there. They talk about the same stuff every day.”

“Like what?”

“Like we’re still going over the Haudenosaunees’ longhouse, and we have to make a diorama of it, and Ms. Herman made crybaby Caleb my partner.”

“Look, sometimes school’s a drag, but I need you to be more aware of how you come off to your teachers. The things you do and say are disrespectful and disruptive to the class. It’s getting so
that—”

“I am not disruptive! I’m just trying to keep myself busy until lunchtime.”

“This is very important, Zig. I want you to promise me you’ll behave and keep your mouth closed even if you think Ms. Herman is wrong about something.” She massaged her temples. “Write it down or ask me to speak to her. Just don’t interrupt anymore. And don’t walk around in class like you’re the mayor. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Good, I’m counting on you, Zig.” Her warning had better sink in. The “game lost” theme chimed on his DS. Zig scowled, shut down the gadget, and threw it aside.

“Now, where were we in the story?” She buttoned the top of this pajama shirt. “Oh yes! Tima was mad at her grandfather for not letting her go to a birthing ceremony so she ran into the rain forest alone. She was too proud to mark her path since she knew the forest better than anyone. But she took a wrong turn and lost her way. Some of the animals in the forest sensed her fear and one of them, a coral snake, bit her on the ankle. She tried to get away but her leg grew very heavy. She had to rest and soon she got very sleepy. In a dream she saw very unusual, fantastic things, like fairies and rocks that could sing, and the ground moved like it was rolling under her. Then she felt something lift her off the ground.”

“Grandfather found her! He picked her up and carried her to the river!” Zig unbuttoned the button on his shirt.

“Yes! Her grandfather saw the snakebite and tried desperately to help save her. He took her down to the
river—”

“The
sacred Rain River
.” Zig added.

“Right…the
sacred Rain River
—”

“And all the time she kept pointing up at the sky at the strange bird circling her, until feathers started floating down.”

Zig fluffed his sheets up in the air, turning them into billows that fell gently over his lithe body. His comment jarred her. Shadowy images from her childhood dream began to swell in her mind, like ominous storm clouds. She had never told him about the nightmares she used to have. Zig kept talking, his sheets sailing in the air.

“Grandfather heard what the bird was saying and wanted her to wash her foot in the river, right?”

Confusion washed over her. There was a memory of doing… seeing… being… She started to feel nauseated. Sheri stood and the queasiness eased. Zig was kneeling in bed; his sheets fell to the floor. He nudged her.

“Tima saw something in the water.” He took her hand and squeezed it. Her heart started to pound. She felt hot. Her memory strove to grasp it, the image that was just out of reach. Zig stared up at Sheri, waiting. She had a vision; a girl at a river, a man behind her, a short, wiry, brown man. The girl put her foot in the river, long dark hair fell in her face. She peered into the rushing water, the current strong, steady, the sun’s rays streamed through the ripples, forming a honeycomb pattern, a matrix, then flashes of silver…then an image in the moving water, something not of the water. A girl bending into the river, looking beyond the water… The vision started to fade.

“She did…see…”

“Something in the water.” Zig shook her hand. “What did you see?”

At once the room came back to her. Zig was kneeling in bed, eyes wide, hanging on her every word. All at once she understood. This was no story. She grabbed Zig by the shoulders.

“What did
‘I’
see?” Sheri searched his face.

“I…I meant Tima.”

“You know what she saw in the water.
You know who she is!”

Zig shrugged and sank back into bed, feigning a careless attitude.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“How did you know about the bird, about the dream? Tell me, Zig!” She snatched him again and shook him repeatedly; he tried to pull away.
“What is this about?”
she yelled.

“You tell me, Mom!” he yelled back. “It’s your story!”

A sense of fear gripped her.
“I have no story! It was taken from me!”
she screamed.

“No it wasn’t. No one can ever take your story. You can’t lose something that you are.” He blinked back tears. “You just don’t remember.”

Sheri threw her arms around her son, flooding his neck with tears. “Who am I, Zig? Please tell me.”