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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.
