Altered Children

Tom Wallace woke up on a late October Saturday morning, uneasy over a nightmare he could not quite remember and strange events he could.

His birthday had been a month before, on Monday, September 26, 2022, but his surprise party had not really been a surprise. The week before, he’d heard his parents talk about it. However, he could not have heard them—they’d been in another room and completely inaudible.

Last month he’d arrived home from preschool and—before opening the door—knew his sister, Laura, had come home two days early from visiting their grandparents. Then, yesterday while he was playing in his room with his Star Wars action figures, he’d thought he heard a voice close by. But, he had looked around and not seen anybody. No one else in their condo had been near his room.

He was reviewing those events in his mind as his mother, Roberta, came into his bedroom to make sure he was awake. Tom turned to her, plucked at his lower lip, and narrowed his blue eyes. “Mommy, you know sometimes I hear people talking and I can’t find them. Why can’t I find them?”

She ruffled his black hair. “I’m not sure, sugar. Maybe you’re hearing a radio or TV from next door. Get washed and dressed. Breakfast will be ready soon.” Tom jumped off his bed and looked in the mirror. He was already three-and-a-half feet tall, somewhat large for his age, and his hair and eyes were like his father’s.

Roberta left the room and went to the kitchen of their two-bedroom condominium. The Wallaces lived near the Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Tom’s father, Mack, was a commander in the navy and CO of the Office of Naval Intelligence at the US Navy Mid-Atlantic Region in Norfolk, thirty miles from their home. Their condo was in a pleasant neighborhood and they were comfortable with the many military families who lived there.

Mack and Roberta had met when he was a twenty-five-year-old lieutenant junior grade assigned to fleet intelligence at Second Fleet headquarters in Norfolk, and looking for a condo to buy. Two years younger than he, she’d been a new full-time real estate agent. Mack had been attracted to her at first glance and they’d hit it off immediately.

The several months of searching before they found an affordable place he liked had given them a lot of time together. They had begun dating shortly after and were married six months later in December 2013—the same month he was promoted to full lieutenant.

She’d been pretty with a trim figure, auburn hair and green eyes, and still was nine years later. Mack had been a strong competitor in field and track while attending the Naval Academy, and had retained his athletic frame. He was near six feet tall, with slightly receding jet-black hair.

Just after Roberta went into the kitchen Mack entered the condo with the newspaper. “Hi all, and good morning.”

Roberta came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Hi sweetheart. Good morning to you, too.”

Mack sniffed around in the air. “What’s that terrific aroma, besides you I mean?” He asked as he brushed by his wife before hanging his jacket in the hall closet.

“That, my dear, is breakfast,” she replied. “We’re having fried eggs, bacon and hash browns. Join me in the kitchen while I finish getting it ready.” As Mack followed her and began to set the table, Roberta said, “I didn’t feel you get out of bed. What time did you get up?”

“Oh, I think it was before six o’clock, even though I got home near midnight. I had trouble sleeping because of the excitement we had yesterday afternoon with a region-wide alert. Coastal defense radar detected several unidentified blips. Then the duty officer at Oceana put the base on alert and scrambled a squadron to go looking for them. The admiral put the region on alert, but it didn’t last long. Pilots reported half a dozen strange lights in the sky; shot up and disappeared at the squadron’s approach.”

Roberta cocked her head. “That’s a little scary. A few days ago, I read an article in Time Magazine about the rash of UFO sightings around the world over the last few years. There haven’t been this many sightings for fifty years or so.”

“And I thought my last tour on the Ford was exciting.” Mack had returned at the beginning of the month from his two-year assignment as intelligence officer for the USS Gerald R Ford’s carrier strike group. The group consisted of the carrier, two guided missile cruisers, three guided missile destroyers, three attack submarines, and a logistical support vessel.

Roberta called Tom and Laura for breakfast. Following their leisurely Saturday meal together, Roberta said, “why don’t you kids go into the living room and read or something. We’ll be out soon.”

After the children left the room, she took her husband’s hand in hers. “You know, Mack, I’m getting a little worried about Tom. He keeps telling me he hears voices and doesn’t know who’s talking. It’s not like having an imaginary friend. Speaking of that; lately he hasn’t been playing with his friends much. I really don’t know what to do!”

“It is getting worse, isn’t it, Robbie?” Mack added, using the nickname he and Roberta’s friends have used for years. “We should talk to somebody. He’ll probably be ready to skip kindergarten and start first grade before his fifth birthday—if this doesn’t get in the way.”

“If he keeps saying he hears voices,” Roberta said, “kids might tease him. You know how cruel they can be sometimes.”

“Sure do,” Mack agreed. “I can leave the office early for lunch on Wednesday and be home a little before eleven. I’ll take a long lunch and go with you to pick Tom up. But before we get him, let’s speak to . . . what’s her name . . . the head of his school and see—”

“Mack, I’m surprised at you,” his wife declared, cutting him off. “You met her before, and by now you should know her name is JoAnn DeVry.”

Mack held his hands up in mock surrender. “Mea culpa, mea culpa. Now, I remember, and I really shouldn’t have forgotten her name. I suppose we should ask her for suggestions about what to do or who else we can discuss it with.” He smiled. “But I’m not sure if we should take him to a psychiatrist or a psychic.”

“Very funny,” she shot back, not smiling.

“Just let me know by Tuesday if we have to schedule for another day.”

“All right,” Roberta said as they rose and cleared the table. “Oh, and something else. Remember the day last month my mother brought Laura home after visiting my parents?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Mack muttered. “He came charging in yelling for Laura.”

Roberta placed her hands on her hips. “Answer me this. How do you think he knew his sister was here when he got home from preschool, but before he came in the house? Tom had no way of knowing she came home two days early.”

“Well . . . uh . . . that . . . uh . . . might have been a coincidence,” Mack stuttered. “He could have been guessing, or maybe he heard her voice before he went in the house. Now, are you going to tell me he can see through walls?”

“Mack, this is serious! He knew she was home. Somehow, he sensed it. It isn’t the first time he’s had these experiences, and it’s happening more often. I remember reading about these things in a magazine article not long ago. You know, telepathy, clairvoyance . . .”

“Are you kidding, Robbie?” Mack was a pragmatist. “There’s nothing to any of that stuff, is there?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she answered softly. “Maybe there is.”

He shook his head. “Not to change the subject, but it’s already started to rain and they expect heavier rain later. Frank, Bud and I had a good start time over at the Aeropines Golf Course, but I think I’ll cancel out and the four of us can go to a movie today.”

“Great idea. The kids’ll love it.”

Mack shrugged. “Yeah, but I guess I’ll have to wait awhile to use those new left-handed clubs you got me.”

The children went to the private Creative Learning School; it provided education from preschool through elementary school. At sixteen hundred and forty dollars per month for both children, its cost was almost thirty percent higher than the average for similar schools, but it had an exceptional reputation and excellent enrichment programs.

Tom attended the preschool five days per week from nine in the morning until one o’clock. Laura was twenty months older than Tom and in first grade already. She attended from nine to four o’clock and was bussed home. Laura had auburn hair, freckles and was nearly the same height and weight as her brother. Mack and Roberta thought highly of the school and were grateful it was not limited to three days a week like many schools.

They lived modestly and, with Mack’s salary and Roberta’s income from her part-time job as a real estate agent, they could afford the tuition. Being employed part-time enabled Roberta to spend time with Tom and Laura whenever they were not in school. Roberta had previously made arrangements with a neighbor, who had a daughter near Laura’s age, to exchange child care responsibilities from time to time. Selling real estate made this unavoidable more often than she liked.

On Wednesday, Roberta dropped Tom off at school and stopped in to see the school’s director. Dr. DeVry had received an MBA from the University of North Carolina and a PhD in education from Duke University. All the teachers at the school had BA degrees in education and were state certified. Three teachers had master’s degrees. The quality of the teaching and curricula helped make it a great school.

Roberta and Dr. DeVry greeted each other. The director was a tall, statuesque African-American with coal-dark skin. She had short hair in tight curls and was in her early forties. Roberta asked, “Dr. DeVry, would you be able to take maybe a half hour to talk with Mack and me when we come to get Tom? We could be here at eleven thirty.”

“Please call me JoAnn,” the director said pleasantly and then checked her calendar. “Yes, I’m clear. As a matter of fact, I was about to contact you to arrange for a parent-teacher conference. We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

Roberta looked concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“Not necessarily. We gave all the children in Tom’s class an IQ test several days ago and we just received the results. His teacher and I would like to discuss that . . . and something else. So, we’ll see you later.”

Roberta was a little puzzled by this, but just said goodbye and went directly home.

Mack got home at a quarter to eleven. He and Roberta had a quick lunch, then went to the school on Laskin Road, not far from First Colonial Road. It took a little over ten minutes to drive the six miles from their apartment. They stopped at Tom’s room and told him they would get him around noon, then went to Dr. DeVry’s office. The director asked Roberta and Mack to sit down. She sent an assistant to get Tom’s teacher and told her to stay with the class until the teacher returned. A short, slender Vietnamese man with graying hair arrived a few minutes later.

Dr. DeVry removed a folder from her desk and pulled out a piece of paper. She smiled and glanced at Roberta and then at Mack, “Do you have any idea how bright Tom is?”

Roberta and Mack looked at one another and he said, “Well, Tom seems pretty smart. I think his language and math skills are advanced for his age.”

“He loves to draw, and his drawings are quite good,” Roberta noted. “I’m not just being a proud parent—I got my bachelors degree in art and I think I can be objective. Let’s see now . . . oh yes, he walked without help before his first birthday, and he could speak simple sentences around the same time. That’s earlier than normal, isn’t it?”

JoAnn DeVry sat back in her chair and answered, “Yes it is. Your Tom is very precocious. In fact—”

Before she could continue, Mack leaned forward, grinned and exclaimed, “I knew he was exceptionally intelligent!”

“But I don’t think you grasp precisely how smart he is.” The school’s director held up the paper she had taken from the file folder, held it so Tom’s parents could see it. “Ordinarily, we don’t give intelligence tests to children so young. However, the aunt of one of our students is doing her doctoral thesis on early intellectual development, and we agreed to help by testing our students. This is the result of Tom’s tests. See here.” Dr. DeVry pointed to a place on the page.

“On the latest Stanford-Binet and Wechsler tests Tom’s IQ measures 196. It’s not only the highest in our school, and probably Virginia, it places Tom in the top one-tenth of one percent of the entire population. The tests are imprecise approximations at IQs above 175 because there are not enough people to compare to. Also, children Tom’s age are still developing mentally. His IQ could turn out to be somewhat lower, or even much higher. The highest IQs ever recorded have been well over 200.”

Roberta and Mack were speechless for a full minute and sat staring at each other.

Tom’s teacher cleared his throat. “If you please.” He had brought a few sheets of drawing paper from his classroom and placed them on Dr. DeVry’s desk in front of Roberta and Mack. “Tom doesn’t socialize much. He spends most of his free time alone drawing and reading—he reads at the sixth grade level, in fact, in both English and Spanish.”

“That’s great!” Roberta exclaimed. “But I wish he had more friends.”

“He also likes to spend time with the computer, especially since we got him a left-handed mouse. I’ve seen him writing stories and producing drawings on the PC. And he’s been writing programs in Python. I know that computer language well, but I have trouble following all his programming logic. A couple of days ago, he wanted permission to create a website on our school Intranet.”

“How did he learn to do all that?” Mack asked, his blue eyes wide in wonderment.

“From our own manuals and other online material,” the teacher replied. “I can’t tell you how proud we are of him, and a little awed. It seems he remembers everything he reads.”

Roberta’s head was swimming. It was a lot to assimilate. “Even with his obvious intellect, isn’t computer programming difficult to learn, particularly by himself?”

“I’ve been checking into it.” Dr. DeVry said. “I found a reference on the Internet for a child prodigy in India named ‘Ajay Puri’.” She picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. “When he was two years old, he demonstrated his computer skills to some Microsoft engineers. Ajay designed his own website at three. At four, he gave a demonstration to the Administrative Staff College of India, in which he created a three-page website on the spot. It included pictures, typed documents, graphs, sorted data lists, sub-totals, query operations, mail merge, and a presentation with animation and sound.”

“My God!” Roberta exclaimed. “You think Tom is that smart?”

“I’m positive,” the director asserted. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take Tom out of our preschool program and put him into our accelerated program for gifted children. Don’t be surprised if he is ready for middle school in a year or so.”

“Wow! If you think he’s ready for that program, then go ahead by all means,” Mack said.

“Robbie, you agree?”

“Yes, definitely,” she concurred. “Just let us know how we can help him at home.”

The director gave Roberta an enrollment form. “We will, and I’m glad you both agree. Please fill this out and get it back to me in the next few days.” She looked at Tom’s teacher. “I think you have something else.”

“Yes. Thank you. Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, please look at these pencil and crayon drawings Tom did recently.” As soon as they finished, the teacher continued. “You were correct about how well he draws, much better than students several grades above him. He’s very talented. These are a small sample of his drawings.” He went through them once more, one at a time. The first was of a horse in front of a barn, and looked quite realistic. The next showed a clown juggling three balls. Another depicted a hillside with trees and flowers drawn in what could be called an impressionist style.

The teacher showed two additional drawings and then pointed to the final one. “I saved this one for last because I don’t know what it represents. It’s so different from his other drawings. It looks a little like ghosts or goblins coming to get a sleeping child, and I wonder if he is afraid of something. He’s done two with similar themes recently. We’ve tried to get him to open up, but Tom’s been unwilling.

“Recently, he wrote a story of a boy being examined by a Klingon, like the characters in those Star Trek TV shows and movies.” They all looked at the drawing. It showed a child’s bedroom with a boy sleeping in his bed, and what appeared like strange tall, red-faced people floating in the air near the window. “Dr. DeVry and I have been discussing Tom and how it might be best to proceed from this point forward. We were thinking—”

“Time out, time out!” Mack interrupted emphatically while making the time-out sign familiar to sports fans everywhere. He tapped his right foot nervously. “Let’s not forget why we came here. We want to discuss concerns we have about Tom. Now you bring up these issues. I wonder if they’re all related.” Mack gripped Roberta’s hand.

JoAnn DeVry asked the teacher to sit again and looked at Tom’s parents. “Okay, why did you want this meeting?”

Roberta and Mack described Tom’s recent behavior and why it worried them. When they finished, no one spoke for a couple of minutes, concentrating on their own thoughts, trying to digest what they had heard.

Finally, the director sighed and said, “Two possibilities come to mind off the top of my head. I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ve read of similar situations, in which brain tumors cause heightened mental activity, delusions and hallucinations.”

Mack leaned forward with his elbows on the armrests, hands clutched together in front of his chest. Roberta put her hand to her mouth and gasped.

“The tumor presses on certain parts of the brain and can result in strange thoughts and behavior. The experts understand its mechanics and how it’s organized pretty well, but even they don’t know exactly how the brain works. With CAT, PET and MRI scans we’re learning more all the time.

“It’s possible this is merely a natural development and Tom is exactly what he seems, a highly intelligent, creative and imaginative child. Some of his special abilities could be coincidences or have rational explanations which we’re just not aware of.”

“How likely is a tumor?” Roberta asked, tears beginning to glisten in her eyes.

“Not very,” Dr. DeVry replied. “But it should be checked out all the same. If you would like me to, I’ll contact our school psychologist, who helped with the IQ tests by the way. I’ll have him recommend a good neurologist. Then you can make an appointment to have Tom examined.

“Once a tumor has been ruled out, as I am inclined to think it will be, let’s all meet with our psychologist. We can discuss those strange drawings of his and also how to provide Tom with the best education and opportunities to socialize with other bright, creative children.”

Mack was in uniform, but neither Dr. DeVry nor Tom’s teacher really noticed. “Thanks for the offer. I do appreciate it and we would like to meet with your psychologist. Though, as far as a neurologist is concerned, I should be able to take care of it through our own doctor,” Mack assured them, “and he can arrange to have the tests done at the naval hospital.

“If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let you know and then you can contact the psychologist about it. We’re very grateful for all you’re doing for Tom.” He turned to Roberta. “Honey, as soon as I get back to the office I’ll call Jeremy Sanchez and make an appointment. I’m sure he’ll want to see us before he schedules any tests.”

“That makes sense,” Dr. DeVry said. “Let me know either way how it works out, and call me when you get the test results.”

“Okay, I will,” Mack promised. “And please keep this confidential . . . just between us.” JoAnn DeVry and Tom’s teacher agreed.

“Unless you have something else you want to mention, it’s past twelve and we have to prepare for the afternoon session,” the director remarked.

Tom’s teacher led Roberta and Mack to the classroom where Tom was waiting and working on another of his drawings. He jumped up with a big grin on his face upon seeing his parents. “Hi, Mommy. Hi, Daddy. Can we stop for ice cream on the way home?”

“Sugar,” Roberta said, “it’s too close to your lunch time. Maybe we can go out after lunch for an ice cream. Get your jacket and whatever else you brought so we can go home.”

Mack drove his family home and returned to his office at the Mid-Atlantic Regional HQ. He sat down at his desk, found Dr. Sanchez’ phone number, and placed the call. Mack made an appointment for the following Tuesday afternoon and confirmed the date and time with Roberta. Luckily, their neighbor would be available to take care of Laura. Dr. Sanchez was a navy commander, with his office in the medical facility outside Oceana Naval Air Station’s main gate.

On Monday, October 31, Roberta, Mack and Tom went to Dr. Sanchez’ building, signed in and sat in the waiting room. In twenty minutes, they were called into his office. Tom’s parents entered and saw Jeremy Sanchez at his desk with the ever-present lollipop in his mouth. The doctor had quit smoking a short time ago, and still craved something between his lips, frequently sucking a lollipop or chewing a toothpick. He was of average height and a little overweight. The fiftyish doctor had sandy colored hair and a cleft palate. Dr. Sanchez gave Tom a sucker and asked him to stay in the waiting room with the receptionist for awhile.

“I understand you’re worried about Tom,” Dr. Sanchez said. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Mack described Tom’s behavior, his claims, and what Dr. DeVry had said regarding the possibility of a brain tumor. “So, what do you think we should do?”

Dr. Sanchez took the lollipop out of his mouth and put it in a small dish on his desk. “First, I’ll need to see Tom and give him a quick exam. Then we’ll have a better idea of what to do next. Mrs. Wallace, please get Tom and bring him to exam room two.”

Roberta went out, and explained to Tom what the doctor needed to do. A minute later she brought a relaxed Tom into the room and helped him onto the exam table.

Cmdr. Sanchez gave Tom the usual physical examination, checking reflexes, vision and hearing, and drawing blood. He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Tom, do you hurt anywhere?”

“No, I feel okay, Dr. Sanchez.”

“Good. What about the times you hear voices? Do you have pain or discomfort then, see flashes of light or hear strange sounds?”

“Well, sometimes I get a little scared when I hear voices and I can’t see anybody talking to me. And once in a while . . . sometimes . . . I feel . . . I think I feel what the person I hear in my mind is feeling. It’s awfully confusing, but nothing more.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, Tom,” Dr. Sanchez agreed. “But no physical pain?”

“No, it’s only in my mind—I’m sure.”

Jeremy Sanchez thanked Tom and told him to go back into the waiting room for a while longer.

“I can’t find a thing wrong based on this rather hasty exam,” Dr. Sanchez admitted. “Your school principal is on the right track though. We do want to eliminate the possibility of a tumor as soon as possible. Can I schedule a CAT scan at the Portsmouth Naval Medical Center?”

“Well, I really think we should get it done, don’t you?” Mack asked his wife.

Roberta looked at the doctor and then Mack. She gave a deep sigh and then clasped her husband’s hand. “There’s no doubt in my mind, sweetheart.”

They looked at Dr. Sanchez, nodded their heads and Mack said, “Let’s do it. But first, Dr. DeVry also mentioned MRI and PET scans. So, can you explain the difference between them and CAT scans?”

“Let’s go back to my office,” Dr. Sanchez said. Once there, he walked to his bookcase and pulled down a book. “Here let me show you.” He found the page he wanted on imaging systems, and explained. “C-A-T stands for ‘Computerized Axial Tomography’. M-R-I means ‘Magnetic Resonance Imaging’. P-E-T means ‘Positron Emission Tomography’. They all generate images of the internal organs and structures of the body. In each procedures, the patient is placed on a moveable bed which slides into the imaging machine.

CAT scanners use x-rays and combine many images with the aid of a computer to generate cross-sectional views. MRI scanners use magnetism, radio waves, and a computer to produce images. PET scanners use trace amounts of short-lived radioactive material to map activity in the brain. Areas with higher radioactivity mean more brain activity. I’ll have someone photocopy these pages and you can read up on the entire process at home.

“We’ll start with an EEG first. It will give us a graph of the electrical activity of Tom’s brain over time. Then they’ll do the CAT scan to image the structure of his brain. After I review the report from the exam, I’ll inform you of the results. If there is any indication of a tumor, we may decide to do an MRI scan to take a more detailed look than is possible with the CAT scan. Is Tom claustrophobic at all?”

“No. I’m sure he isn’t,” Roberta declared. “Why do you ask?”

“These procedures are non-invasive and Tom won’t feel any pain, except a little prick if they need to inject contrast dye. However, because he’ll have to lie perfectly still while he’s rolled into the CAT scanner, he may feel some discomfort. But, as long as he isn’t claustrophobic, it will be minimal.”

“Thanks. Your description helps,” Mack said.

“Yes it does. I appreciate your explanation,” Roberta added.

The doctor called the Imaging Department at Portsmouth and made an appointment for the first opening they had, on Saturday at nine o’clock in the morning. He told them to include a printed graph with the report and a CD from the EEG. Doctor Sanchez hung up and turned to Roberta and Mack.

“Make an appointment at the desk to come back here one week from today. I should have had time to review the report and consult with a neurologist if necessary. If not, we’ll call you to reschedule. They’ll probably have to inject a dye to get the best images, but they may have him drink it instead. So make sure Tom doesn’t eat or drink anything after midnight on Friday.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Roberta answered.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jeremy Sanchez added as Roberta and Mack were getting ready to leave. “The EEG can be done without shaving his head, but his hair must be thoroughly shampooed and clean.”

They said good bye, and made the appointment for their next visit. When they went to get their son from the waiting room, Tom jumped up and said, “Oh boy, Halloween! Can I get into my Captain America costume when we get home?”

“I don’t see why not, Captain,” Roberta said as they left the office.

Early Saturday morning the Wallaces drove twenty-five miles to the Portsmouth Naval Medical Center and informed the receptionist they had an appointment at the Imaging Department. The receptionist, a brown-haired yeoman petty officer third class, glanced over the top of her reading glasses, gave them directions to the elevators and the Imaging Department.

Upon leaving the elevator, Roberta observed, “All hospitals look and smell the same. Gray walls. Medicinal.”

Mack looked at her and nodded his head. “Yup. Not very warm at all.”

At the Imaging Department, an attractive, Latin-American ensign in her twenties with cropped black hair, brown eyes, and a turned-up nose came toward them. Neither she nor Mack saluted. True to navy tradition, they were uncovered indoors and saluted only when wearing their hats. She asked them to sit down and gave Mack a form to fill out. The ensign collected the completed form about fifteen minutes later.

She told them she would take Laura to the day care center until they were finished and she directed them into one of the exam rooms which also served as her office. After the ensign left with Laura, Roberta and Mack sat down in chairs placed against a wall. Another chair was in front of a small desk in a corner of the room.

Framed scans of the brain and other organs hung on one wall along with the ensign’s college degree and the certificates she received for successfully completing her training as a technician for the EEG and imaging procedures. Until the ensign returned, Tom inspected generic diagrams of the brain posted on another wall which showed the forebrain, midbrain, and hindbrain and their connections to the spinal chord, ears and eyes.

The ensign returned and placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Well, let’s get you up here on the exam table so we can check out your brain’s electricity.”

With the ensign’s assistance, Tom climbed up onto the table and looked at her curiously. “Electricity?”

“Yes, electricity,” she repeated. “The nerves in our body, especially in the brain, generate electricity. Not a lot, but enough for us to measure. That’s what we’re going to do with the machine over here.” She indicated the EEG machine on the cart behind the exam table.

“Gosh, it’s kind of like our PC and printer at home,” Tom noted.

The ensign smiled. “Good observation, Tom. It’s a PC with special software that lets us view your brain activity in different ways.”

“Prime!” Tom declared.

“First,” she said. “I use a grease pencil to mark the places on your head where I will attach the electrodes.” The ensign showed them the grease pencil and electrodes. “These connect to the input box on the cart and the box connects to the PC. Now, I need you to lie down with your head here.” She pointed to the back of the table.

“Okay,” Tom said as he stretched out in the direction indicated.

The technician explained how the number of electrodes applied to the scalp varied between eight and twenty-three, depending on the condition under investigation. “If Tom was having problems seeing things clearly and the doctor found nothing wrong with his eyes, we might use eight to ten electrodes and place them on his head back here.” The ensign pointed to the back of Tom’s head. “This is where the brain’s occipital lobe is located. It’s where visual images are processed.

“Since we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for here, we’ll use all twenty-three electrodes, which will measure a range of frequencies coming from different areas of Tom’s brain.”

The ensign finished marking the points where the electrodes would be attached. She rubbed a substance on the first point, applied something else to the electrode, and affixed the first electrode to Tom’s scalp. She glanced at Tom and his parents. “I’m rubbing a mild abrasive cream into these spots so the electrodes will have a better contact. I’m also applying a special paste to the electrodes to help them stay put.”

“Yuck,” Tom said. “Won’t they be sticky?”

“Don’t worry, it washes off easily,” the ensign explained, and then she continued until all twenty-three electrodes were applied.

As she finished, the ensign told Tom, “Now I need you to lie quietly for the next forty-five minutes or so.” She turned to Roberta and Mack, “This is to avoid electrical interference from muscle contractions.” She turned back to Tom. “When I turn on the machine your brain’s electrical activity is recorded in the computer and printed on graph paper.” Soon they heard humming and pens scratching on the graph paper.

“Before we get started, I need to test the system and get some baselines,” the ensign told them. She had Tom blink rapidly, look to right and left repeatedly, count to thirty and open and close his eyes a few times. “We’re ready to begin. Are you comfortable?” she asked Tom.

“Yes, I’m okay.”

The ensign pulled and adjusted an extension arm until the special lamp at the end of it was a foot above Tom’s head. “A light will flash in your eyes every so often. Just relax now. I’m going into another room and set up for the CT scan, but I’ll check on you in a few minutes.”

Roberta had been listening and watching intently. “CT scan? I thought we were having a CAT scan done,” she said as the technician headed for the door.

“Sorry about that. A CAT scan is sometimes referred to as a CT scan,” the ensign explained.

The ensign came in several times over the next forty-five minutes to have Tom open and close his eyes or breathe heavily, and the light flashed in his eyes intermittently. Antiseptic and medicinal smells wafted through the room. Occasionally, through the partially open door, Roberta and Mack saw people in lab-coats or scrubs walking by and a patient being pushed past on a gurney.

The ensign finally came in and turned off the machine, tore off the graph paper, and put it in a file folder. She stood next to Tom, removed the electrodes and cleaned the remnants of the paste from his head. “Tom, you can get up and stretch your legs a bit. I have comic books and magazines here. You can read until we’re ready to do the CAT scan in about . . . oh . . . another ten minutes.” She left the room and everyone walked around for a minute and then reclaimed their seats.

Tom stretched and said, “Boy, my muscles are stiff from lying there so long.”

“We don’t have much more to do, so hang in there,” Roberta said.

Ten minutes later, the ensign returned. “We’re ready for you Commander.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Mack said.

She led them into the CAT scanner room and described the procedure. “Patients are placed on this movable table, and the table is rolled into the center of that large donut-shaped machine, which takes the x-ray images around the body. A full body scan can take from a half an hour to an hour and a half. Your brain scan should take ten or fifteen minutes, but we’ll be doing two scans. The first is a non-contrast scan and a second is a contrast scan.”

“Oh, no! I’m really tired of staying still for so long,” Tom exclaimed.

“What’s the difference between those scans, Ensign?” Mack wanted to know.

“Well, Commander,” she replied, “for the contrast scan we have to inject a small amount of dye into the blood vessel going to the brain. It’s important to get a comparison of the brain structures with and without the dye.”

“Thanks,” Mack said.

“Will it hurt a lot when you inject the dye?” Tom asked.

“Not too much,” the ensign assured him. “I’ll numb the area around where the injection will be made and it will probably feel like a pin prick.”

“Okay, but I’ll be glad when this is over,” Tom said.

“Tom,” the ensign said, “just like with the EEG, it’s important during the CAT scan procedure for you to remain as still and quiet as possible. Doing so significantly increases the clarity of the x-ray images.”

The ensign held both of Tom’s hands, her light brown skin setting off the whiteness of his hands. “In other words, Tom, if you move around the pictures we get will be blurred; sort of like somebody taking a photo of you with a camera. You should have no problems at all. But, if you feel uncomfortable or anything make you afraid during the CAT scan, tell me immediately. Your parents and I will watch you through the observation window the whole time,” she said, pointing to it, “and we can talk with you through an intercom system.” She helped Tom get up onto the table so his head was toward the machine.

As the technician led Roberta and Mack to the control room, she explained, “CAT scans have vastly improved the ability of doctors to diagnose many diseases earlier in their course and with much less risk than previous methods. We’re using one of the newer systems called a ‘spiral CAT scan’. It provides more rapid and accurate visualization of internal organs.”

They entered the control room and the ensign turned on the system. The table with Tom on it began slowly moving into the opening in the center of the machine. Roberta and Tom were able to see the pictures of Tom’s brain on a computer screen in the control room. The procedure continued uneventfully until it concluded at the end of sixteen minutes.

The ensign rolled Tom back out of the device, went to Tom and injected the dye. Then she reentered the control room and ran another scan. Once the second one was finished, the ensign brought Roberta and Mack into the scanning room and then helped Tom off the table. “I’ll prepare the results of the EEG and CAT scans and send them to Commander Sanchez. Do you have any questions?”

“Are we done now?” Tom asked.

Tom’s parents chuckled. Then the ensign smiled and said, “Yes, we’re finished.”

Roberta and Mack informed the ensign that they had none. Mack said, “Thanks for your helpful explanations of these procedures, Ensign.”

“You’re welcome, sir. I hope everything is all right.”

The ensign led them to the lobby, sent for Laura to be brought from the day care center, and returned to her office.

The family left the hospital and walked to the parking lot. As soon as they got into the car, Tom blurted out, “Are we still going to have lunch before we go home?”

“Yeah, lunch . . . I’m hungry,” Laura said.

Roberta looked at Mack, who nodded his head, and then back to the children in the backseat. “Of course we will. Do you want pizza or a hamburger?”

Tom beamed and said, “Pizza. And ice cream. Remember, you promised.”

“Yeah, pizza and ice cream sounds great,” Laura added.

On Wednesday, Mack got a call at his office from Dr. Sanchez, who wanted to change their appointment from Thursday to the following Monday afternoon and to leave Tom at home. Mack verified their neighbor would again be available to take care of Laura and Tom and then confirmed the appointment with their doctor.

At the appointed time on Monday, November 14, Roberta and Mack went to the Oceana NAS Medical Facility. They entered Dr. Sanchez’ office and saw another naval officer with their physician. Jeremy Sanchez stood and introduced them to Dr. Paula Krasicki, a full-figured woman with a round face and white hair.

“Dr. Krasicki is the neurologist I consulted and asked here to explain the results of Tom’s EEG and CAT scans. Paula, please take over.” Dr. Sanchez sat back down and stuck a toothpick in his mouth.

Dr. Krasicki, who looked to be in her fifties, spread two electroencephalograms on the desk and pointed to one of the tracks on the first EEG. “Here is an example of a normal reading. Tom’s graph, however, has unusual patterns on top of the normal brain wave tracing.” She pointed to the smaller oscillating lines that ran along the top of the larger, otherwise smooth wave pattern around it. “As you can see, this strange pattern is repeated periodically throughout the track.” She indicated several places along the graph.

“What does it mean?” Roberta asked.

“Taken alone, not much. But this unusual pattern is too regular to be a natural fluctuation and doesn’t fit here at all. With the CAT scan results, it’s even more unusual,” Paula Krasicki said slowly with a puzzled look on her face.

“Is it serious?” Mack muttered.

“I wish I knew.” Dr. Krasicki placed several pictures from the CAT scan on the desk and pointed at a spot on one of them. “Look at the structure called the occipital horn. It is the most posterior—or toward the back of the head—projection of the lateral ventricles. These are the two largest cavities in the forebrain, where the cerebrospinal fluid is produced.

“Examine closely the spot I’ve circled. Appears to be a small tumor. But something resembling metallic filaments is inside it. See, it’s those bright streaks on the contrast scan. Soft tissue always shows up gray and bone displays whitish, but not bright white like metal.”

Seeing that Mack was ready to interrupt, Dr. Krasicki raised her right hand and hurriedly said, “Wait a minute. In the late nineteen nineties three doctors: Arthur Liu, John Belliveau, and Anders Dale did excellent work at Massachusetts General Hospital on combining the data from an EEG with data from CAT and MRI scans. They’ve obtained higher quality spatiotemporal maps by combining information from both types of measurements.

“I spoke with a doctor there after I received the results from Tom’s tests. He combined the data I sent him, and verified that there appears to be something artificial there. But, at this time none of us know what it is or what to make of it.”

Again, before Mack could interrupt, Dr. Sanchez removed the toothpick from his mouth and said, “It doesn’t look like there’s pressure building anywhere in the area of this . . . this . . . ‘tumor’ for lack of a better word. So, we would like to monitor it for a while and see if it changes in any respect. It’s the only way we might be able to determine what’s going on.”

“Well, what about those voices he hears?” Mack inquired of Dr. Krasicki, running his hand nervously through his hair.

Dr. Krasicki shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s just it. We don’t know what it all means. It’s why we need to monitor Tom. I want to redo the EEG and CAT in one month, and compare those readings with these. Let’s repeat the process every month for the next four or five and watch it closely for changes.”

“Can you do one of those MRI or PET scans?” Mack asked. “Would it tell us anything else, something perhaps missed by the CAT scan?”

“Since we identified what looks like metallic filaments in the tumor,” Dr. Krasicki answered, “we can’t use an MRI because of the magnetic field it generates. At the minimum, the images would be blurred. At worst, however, the magnetism could move those filaments into Tom’s brain and cause serious damage. I don’t want to do a PET scan because of the radiation.”

“Oh. Right,” Mack said. “I forgot about the radiation.”

Roberta turned to face Mack. “Okay, I guess. There’s nothing else to do.”

“I suppose so,” Mack agreed. “Should we make the appointments now?”

“Yes, that would be good,” Dr. Sanchez said. “If doing the exams gives Tom any anxiety, or if those voices get to be a serious problem, I can recommend a psychologist who should be able to help. I can also prescribe a mild sedative if it becomes necessary.”

As they walked out the door, Mack said, “Robbie, when you drop Tom off at school tomorrow, be sure to tell JoAnn what we learned today.”

“You’re right, we did promise,” Roberta agreed.

After the Wallaces left to go home, Dr. Krasicki and Dr. Sanchez stayed behind to discuss this strange case for a while longer.

“Well, Paula. What do you make of it?”

“This is definitely an artificial implant of some kind,” Dr. Krasicki answered. “Several questions come to mind, Jer. Would you jot these down.” She stared into space and started ticking them off on her fingers while Jeremy Sanchez wrote them on a pad of paper. “First, who implanted it? Second, what the hell does it do? Third, why was it implanted? Fourth, how was it done? And last, is Tom the only one with one of those things?”

“Wow! Some list of questions. If Tom is not the only one with this . . . uh . . . artifact . . . how can we find out?”

“Right now, I have one primary concern regarding that question,” Dr. Krasicki said. “If there are others like Tom, they could be in danger if a doctor decides to do an MRI. We should warn other imaging centers and advise them to include the appropriate questions on their MRI patient information forms.”

“Absolutely!” Dr. Sanchez concurred. “So, what’s the best way to inform them?”

She thought for a moment and then said, “We need to fax and e-mail all the imaging centers we can identify, give them the new MRI questions, and suggest they forward the info to centers they know of not on our list. Of course, we have to attach our list. Also, we should have them notify us whenever they turn up another case like Tom. What do you think?”

“Excellent,” he agreed. “But I think we should identify all cases like Tom, even if they don’t get MRIs. Shouldn’t the questions be added to all brain scan questionnaires?”

“Glad you picked up on that one, Jer. Don’t know how I missed it.” She snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot, let’s also attach a copy of the CT image showing the implant.”

“I think we may get a handle on this after all,” Dr. Sanchez said. “I hope we aren’t sending this out too late for anybody—hold on . . . just had a thought. We ought to set up a website . . . with a link to it from our medical center website. We’ll update it as we learn more.”

“Good idea. If you have the time, let’s go to my office at the hospital and get busy right now,” she said with determination. “We can get help from the hospital’s web master. And we’d better include the URL for the new site in our message.”

“I’m ready . . . after we get a quick bite at the cafeteria,” Jeremy Sanchez stated, patting his stomach. “I expect we’re in for a long evening. This has to be as persuasive as possible. Otherwise, it might be ignored.”