Three Weeks With My Brother

  Later, when I finally reached Cat, she was flabbergasted. In excited moments, my wife's New Hampshire accent becomes pronounced.

  "No suh!" she screamed. "No suh!"

  "Yes suh!" I shouted in response.

  Even my dad, when I told him the news, seemed genuinely excited for me; after speaking to him, I spent much of the evening on the phone, talking to various relatives. Micah was almost the last person I talked to that day, and he was silent for a long moment after I finally told him the news.

  "You're kidding," he finally said.

  "It's unreal, isn't it?"

  "A million dollars? For a book that you wrote?"

  "Can you believe it?"

  "Not right this moment, but give me a second." He breathed into the phone. "This is . . . unbelievable . . ." he murmured, before pausing again.

  As close as we were, we weren't completely immune to sibling rivalry. Ever since we'd graduated, Micah had always been more successful in his various careers than I'd been. It had always made sense to both of us; he was the older brother, and--aside from school and track--had been more successful in everything. He was happy for me, but I also knew that part of him wished he'd been the one with the news.

  Yet Micah was able to put all that aside, and his next words meant more to me than anything anyone else had said to me.

  "I'm proud of you, little brother. You done good."

  "Thanks, Micah."

  "Now, there's just one thing left."

  "What's that?"

  "You have to help me figure out how to make my million. You made yours, so now I guess I have to do it, too."

  Though the money seemed dizzying, I decided to keep my job as a pharmaceutical rep. I didn't know how well the book would do once it was released, nor did I know whether I would be able to write a second one. Cat and I viewed our windfall in much the same way we would have viewed a winning lottery ticket. Other than the purchase of a used Ford Explorer, the clearing of our credit card debt, and a new wedding ring for Cat, we spent none of the windfall. Our years in poverty had left us both extremely cautious. The money, we'd decided, would go to three areas: our mortgage, funds for the kids' college educations, and retirement.

  Still, the months of November and December were thrilling. So much was new--book clubs and foreign rights sales, a film sale to New Line Cinema, even the editing process--and every day, there was something new, something exciting, to share with Cat.

  Yet aside from those conversations, our lives went on as normal. Thanksgiving came and went; Christmas came and went. Dana's CAT scan was clear again--making it three years--and she called me on our birthday to sing to me. Dad, we learned, was still seeing his girlfriend, and seemed to get along well with her.

  In January 1996, Miles was four and a half and Ryan two years younger when we brought Miles to the doctor to prep him for the tonsil surgery he was supposed to undergo the next day. While the doctor talked to Miles, Ryan stood quietly between my wife and me. The consultation didn't take long. When the doctor turned to engage Ryan in conversation, Ryan said nothing.

  This didn't surprise either Cat or me. Ryan still hadn't learned to talk, we explained, and the doctor simply nodded. Right before we were to leave, however, the doctor asked us if he could visit with Ryan alone for a few minutes.

  "Sure," we said, thinking nothing of it. We figured the doctor would give him a lollipop, or show him some of the gadgets in the office.

  Strangely, however, the doctor's door remained shut for almost ten minutes. When he finally brought Ryan out of the office, we couldn't help but notice the concerned expression on his face.

  "What's up?" I asked. I knew the doctor well; I'd been calling on his office for months as a pharmaceutical rep and considered him a good friend.

  "I just spent some time with Ryan, going over a few things . . ."

  He paused, drawing a long breath. He glanced down at Ryan, then back at us again.

  "I think," he said slowly, "Ryan may be autistic."

  I think Ryan may be autistic.

  All Cat and I could do was stare at him. My stomach knotted up and all of a sudden I could barely breathe. The blood drained from Cat's cheeks, and the room closed in around us. Ryan stood by our side, his expression glazed and unfocused. We knew he couldn't talk--we'd even grown concerned enough to talk to his pediatrician--but we'd convinced ourselves that it wasn't anything serious. He'll grow out of it, we'd been told. He'll be fine.

  But this?

  They were, I still think, among the most frightening words a parent can hear. We both knew about autism--who hadn't seen Rain Man? Or read about autism in news magazines or seen shows about it on television? I stared at Ryan. Was that our son? Our child? Our baby?

  No, I immediately thought, the doctor was wrong. Ryan wasn't autistic. He couldn't be. He was fine. I'm not going to believe it. I can't believe it. But . . .

  Deep down, I knew there was something wrong with him. Both Cat and I had known he wasn't right for months. But we had never imagined it could be this serious. It couldn't be this. Oh, Please God, not this.

  "What do you mean?" I stammered.

  "It's a disorder . . ."

  "I know what it is. But why? . . . How . . . ?"

  The doctor patiently explained what he'd seen in the office. The lack of eye contact. Lack of comprehension. Inability to talk. Intense focus on colorful items. Lack of motor skills.

  We were in a daze as he went on. We already knew those things; we knew our son. We hadn't known what they meant.

  "Is he going to be okay?"

  "I don't know."

  "What should we do?"

  "He needs to be tested. There's a developmental center in town, and they can answer your questions better than I can."

  At home, Cat and I found ourselves staring at Ryan as he sat quietly in the living room, feeling a tidal wave of emotions.

  Denial. Guilt. Anger. Fear. Hopelessness.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon looking for reasons to believe what the doctor had said, and reasons to doubt him. We talked about Ryan and what we'd noticed over the years. We went back and forth for hours, talking and worrying and crying and sitting by Ryan, trying to convince ourselves that there was nothing wrong with him at all, but somehow knowing that there was. Hoping. Praying. Pleading.

  That night, when I called Micah, I could barely tell him what had happened. My hands shook when I held the receiver. My throat was tight and I couldn't get the words out without breaking down.

  "Jesus," Micah said. "Are you sure?"

  "No," I said. "We don't know anything for sure. We've got to bring him in for tests."

  "What do you need me to do?"

  I began to cry.

  "Micah . . . I . . ."

  "Do you want me to come out there? Help you guys through this? You want me to find out who you should talk to? I'll do whatever you need."

  "No," I said. "That's okay. We don't know anything yet."

  "I feel like I've got to do something."

  "Just pray for Ryan, okay? Can you do that for him?"

  "I'll pray for all of you," he said. "I'll start praying right now."

  The only thing I remember about the next two months was a sometimes nagging, sometimes overwhelming, sense of worry about our son. At times, it was all I could think about; other times, when doing something else, I'd suddenly get the strange feeling that something was . . . wrong and it would take a moment before I realized I'd been subconsciously thinking about my son.

  Dread. It permeated our home, seeped into the nooks and crannies of our lives.

  Over the coming weeks and months, Cat shuttled Ryan to and from various doctors in search of answers. There were long waiting lists--it took six weeks to have his initial evaluation completed--and I remember sitting in the office, waiting for the words I didn't want to hear.

  "Though he's thirty months of age, currently he has the developmental skills of a fourteen-month-old. There are other problems, too. Lack o
f eye contact, for example."

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "I think there's a good chance that he has autism."

  "Is he going to be okay?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is there anything we can do?"

  "I don't know."

  "What can we do at home?"

  "I don't know."

  There were never any answers. But always, at each evaluation, they recommended another test. Again, it would take another six weeks; again, it was all we could think about until the day finally came.

  At the second evaluation, in late April--after three long months of worry--we were seated before another doctor, who perused Ryan's file before finally glancing up at us.

  "I'm sorry," he said, "but I think we might have been in error. We don't believe Ryan is autistic, though he may have autistic tendencies."

  "What does that mean?"

  "We think he might have pervasive development disorder."

  "Is he going to be okay, then?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is there anything we can do?"

  "I don't know. For the time being, however, I'd suggest getting another test. A specialized hearing test. We want to make sure he hears sounds correctly."

  Another month passed. Another round of worries. Another test. Another meeting with a doctor.

  "I'm sorry, but we might have been wrong. We don't think Ryan has pervasive development disorder."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "Ryan," the doctor said, "is profoundly deaf."

  We looked at the doctor. "Then how come he turns when the air conditioner goes on?"

  "Oh, he does that?" the doctor asked. "Well, then let's give him another test."

  Tests. That's all they ever recommended.

  He got another hearing test, one that tests the inner ear. A month later, we talked to the doctor again.

  "You were right," he said, "Ryan can hear."

  "Then what's wrong with him?"

  "The problem with your son is that he's severely retarded, with attention deficit disorder."

  "He's not retarded," I said. "He's smart. He remembers everything."

  Not knowing what else to do, they recommended yet another test.

  After that, at the next meeting, they reverted to autism again, though they categorized it as mild. At the next meeting, they switched back to a diagnosis of pervasive development disorder.

  No one, in other words, knew what was wrong with our son. No one could tell us what to do. No one could tell us whether he was going to be okay. No one could tell us anything.

  My wife lived the day-to-day struggle far more intensely than I. She took Ryan from one evaluation to the next while I worked during the day; in the evenings, she handled the kids while I wrote. In the little free time I had, however, I began to read about childhood developmental disorders. I read through one book, then another, then still another. Within a couple of months, I'd read through forty books--covering the entire spectrum of possible disorders--and a couple of hundred clinical reports outlining various therapies. It was my way of trying to cope, to handle the unknown, to somehow find a way to understand my son. I was searching for something, anything, that could lead to answers.

  By late August, Ryan was coming up on his third birthday. His latest evaluation showed little, if any, improvement. Now, instead of having the skills of a fourteen-month-old, he had the skills of a fifteen-month-old.

  In other words, after eight months of running from doctor to doctor and after dozens of tests and evaluations, Ryan was even further behind his peers than he'd been when we'd first found out he had a problem. And he still never spoke at all.

  As all-encompassing as my worries were, I continued selling pharmaceuticals by day, and by early summer had begun work on a second novel. Working in the evenings-- and drawing inspiration from my dad and his struggles with grief--I started Message in a Bottle. The work was an escape of sorts, for only while I wrote was it possible to keep from thinking about Ryan.

  Micah and I stayed in frequent touch throughout those first few months of 1996. He was the one I talked to about my fears, and he would always listen. At the same time, Micah was moving forward in his own life. In April 1996, he called to tell me that he'd decided to give up his real estate career.

  "I'm thinking of buying a business instead," he said on the phone.

  "What kind?"

  "A manufacturing business. Garage cabinets, closet organizers, and home office systems."

  "What do you know about that?"

  "Nothing. But the owner says he'll train me."

  "Good for you."

  "There's just one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Can I borrow some money? I'll be able to pay you back in a few months."

  After telling me the amount, I hesitated only briefly. "Sure," I said.

  "Thanks." Then, with a quieter voice, he asked: "How's Ryan doing?"

  Micah, alone among my family, was the only one who never forgot to ask.

  There were, however, two bright spots in the first half of 1996. Again, my sister passed her CAT scan with flying colors and seemed perfectly healthy. Other than being tired--twin two-year-old boys can do that to you--she was in good spirits, and we seldom talked about her health.

  My dad, too, finally began to find his way again. As 1996 progressed, he spoke less about Flame and began talking more about the woman he was dating. He spoke about work as well--work was the one area of his life where he continued to function normally--and by the summer he'd even begun listening to my requests that he start talking to his family again.

  "They miss you," I said. "They're worried about you."

  "I know," he admitted. "And I'll talk to them again. I just have to be ready first."

  I think that my dad's hesitation had less to do with a continuing anger than fear of how they would respond to his attempted reconciliation. In the end, he put aside whatever fears he had and called his brother. Later, I would hear from my uncle Monty that my dad did almost all of the talking, that he'd rambled a bit, but after the call, my uncle had broken down. He loved and missed my dad, and the sound of my dad's voice--even if it was less a conversation than a speech--was something he'd longed to hear. It was a step my dad had needed to make, not only for his brother, but for himself, and as the summer wore on, they began speaking more and more.

  After I learned what he'd done, I told my dad that I was proud of him, and for once my dad seemed touched by my words.

  "I love you, Dad," I whispered.

  "Love you, too."

  And a couple of weeks later, my dad called to tell me something else.

  "I'm getting married," he said.

  "You'll like her, Nick," Micah said on the phone.

  I'd called to ask him about the woman my dad intended to marry. While I'd never met her, my brother had. "And she'll be good for dad, too."

  "He seems happier."

  "I think he is," Micah said. "He even went to see Dana and the twins last weekend."

  "That's good," I said. I paused. "It's been a long seven years since mom died."

  "Yes it has. The poor guy--I was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to be okay. Did you hear he called Uncle Monty?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I'm glad. He needs his family. He always has. How's your business going?"

  "It's hard. I've been working day and night, but it's paying off. Sales have been going up every month."

  "Congratulations."

  He paused. "There's something else, too."

  "What's that?"

  "I think I finally met my Cathy," he said. "But her name's Christine."

  "Really? That's great!"

  "Nick, you're going to love her."

  "Sounds pretty serious."

  "It is serious."

  "Yeah, but is it marriage serious, or Micah serious?"

  "Ha, ha."

  My eyebrows shot up. If he wasn't willing to joke about it, I realized I already had the an
swer.

  "Well, good for you," I said. "I can't wait to meet her."

  Two days after my father told me he was engaged--and a month prior to the publication of The Notebook--the CBS television show 48 Hours arrived at our house.

  One of the producers, Andrew Cohen, had read an advance copy of the book in the early part of the summer, and decided to run a segment entitled "The Making of a Best Seller." In addition to filming me, they'd also been filming at Warner Books all summer; sitting in on marketing meetings, conducting interviews with Larry Kirshbaum, the CEO of Warner Books, Maureen Egen, the president, and Jamie Raab, my editor, in addition to filming a book group (composed of strangers) who would discuss the novel.

  They came to the house on a Thursday; two days later, on Saturday, I was supposed to fly to Los Angeles for the Southern California Booksellers Association dinner, which would be the first promotional event of my career. I was, as you might imagine, a basket case of nerves.

  The producer and crew had arrived early in the morning and followed me throughout the day. The crew filmed me both at home and on the job, and host Erin Moriarity interviewed me throughout the day about the process of writing and whether or not the book would be a success. Though Erin and Andrew left in the early evening to catch their flight back to New York, the film crew stayed at the house to get some last-minute footage of me working on my new novel. At around 9:00 P.M., while I was staring at the screen and typing for the camera, my wife came into the office, phone in hand.

  "It's Micah," she said.

  "Can you tell him I'll call him back in a half hour or so?"

  "He needs to talk to you now," she said. "It's important."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know. But he sounds upset."

  I took the phone and felt the cameras swivel toward me.

  "Hey Micah. What's up?"

  "It's dad," he said. He spoke in a low, dazed voice.

  "What's going on?"

  "I got a call from the police department near Reno. He's been in a car accident. I just called the hospital where they brought him in."

  I heard him draw a long breath. I knew enough to say nothing. I could hear the cameras from 48 Hours whirring behind me.

  "He's dead, Nicky," Micah said quietly.