January First: A Child's Descent Into Madness and Her Father's Struggle to Save Her (3 page)

“My friends do.”

“It’s not possible. Our bodies are mostly made of water, and at that temperature we would literally start to boil. How can they possibly survive?”

Janni shrugs. “They do.”

I open my mouth, ready to continue arguing the illogic of this, but Janni is drifting away from me so I let it drop.

“Janni,” I call.

She turns around.

“I still have a cat on my head.”

She smiles.

I AM LOOKING at the pizza boxes on the table.

Last year, I ordered six medium cheese pizzas and we ran out before all the guests had even arrived, so Susan wanted me to order nine this time. I did, except that now six of them sit still unopened.

Susan comes over and tells me it is time to do the cake.

“Have you told everybody to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Blue-Eyed Tree Frog?” I ask her.

“Yes, I have,” Susan replies, knowing my fear and hers. The last thing we both want is Janni flipping out on her birthday. “Hopefully, people will remember.” She turns and calls out that it is time to light the candles.

Everybody gathers around the cake, which even says,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLUE-EYED TREE FROG
.

“Okay, you ready?” Susan asks me.

I light the candles. Janni stands between us, rubbing her hands at a speed so fast it looks like it must be painful on her wrists, but she shows no discomfort.

“Okay …,” Susan begins. “Happy birthday to you …”

Everybody sings along. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear …”

Susan looks at me, nervously.

I sing “… Blue Eyed Tree Frog” at the top of my lungs, trying to lead the guests in the correct name and cut off any “mistakes” before Janni can hear them.

“Happy birthday to you!”

Everybody claps, including Janni. I look up at Susan and see her exhaling with relief, as I am.

As Susan serves the cake, I realize it is a smaller group this year. I’ve been paying attention to Janni, playing with her because she won’t play with anyone else, and didn’t notice. That explains the pizza situation. Last year people stayed for hours, long after the cake and the presents. This year, some have already left. Looking around, I realize that Lynn and the twins are gone, too.

CHAPTER TWO
October 2006

J
anni’s IQ is 146.

This can’t be right. I was expecting it to be higher, a lot higher. I was expecting Albert Einstein IQ or Stephen Hawking IQ (although neither man ever submitted to an IQ test).

I am sitting in the office of Heidi Yellen, a therapist who specializes in autism spectrum disorders. As Janni’s behavior has changed, more of our friends have started bringing up autism. Besides the new antisocial behavior, Janni can’t stop moving her hands, which everybody takes as “stimming,” one of the predominant signs of autism. Janni’s pediatrician referred us to her, “just to rule it out.” I didn’t want to take Janni. Autism is the diagnosis du jour, just like hyperactivity used to be when I was a kid. I still resent that the rest of the world seems more concerned with Janni’s behavior than with her intelligence, but I am getting tired of constantly hearing people suggest
it. So I go, terrified Janni will be diagnosed autistic and that that will derail her future.

However, to my great pleasure and surprise, the first thing Heidi wants to do is give Janni an IQ test. This is what I want, proof of Janni’s genius, to refute those who suggest there is something wrong with her.

Except that 146 isn’t what I’m looking for. I want a number so high it allows me to explain away and even justify Janni’s increasing disengagement from kids her age and the preference she has for her imaginary friends. I want to be able to say, when Janni does something antisocial, “Well, she has an IQ of 280.”

“So 146,” I say to Heidi, then look up to see Janni sneaking behind Heidi to her computer. “Janni! Don’t play with Heidi’s computer!”

“I’m bored,” Janni complains as she roughly punches the keys on Heidi’s computer.

Susan isn’t getting off the couch. I think she’s still in shock, too. The trade-off is there’s nobody to keep Janni engaged while I try to comprehend this. Then again, it’s not like Susan can keep Janni engaged anyway.

“I just need a few minutes, Janni. This is important.”

I watch Janni to see whether she’s going to give in or bolt from the office. She has a grin on her face that disturbs me because it alters her expression, making her look calculating and manipulative. But what really bothers me is that it doesn’t look like Janni at all. If I believed in demonic possession, I would swear that in these moments she’s possessed.

Janni is sneaking back to the computer.

“Janni.” Heidi turns to her. “I asked you before not to play with my computer. I have important files on it.”

“I’m working,” Janni replies, the same twisted smile on her face, still randomly punching away at the keyboard.

“Janni, she asked you not to touch her computer! We have to respect other people’s things.”

“Here, you can play with this.” Heidi hands her a toy.

Heidi turns back to me. “You need to look at the percentages. On the next page.”

I nervously look away from Janni, knowing that toy will only hold her interest for a few seconds. I turn the page of the document Heidi has given me. I see things like “
Verbal >99.9%
.”

“This is why I needed you to come in instead of just mailing the results,” Heidi goes on. “There are things I need to explain.”

“I want to go,” Janni whines.

“We’re going to go. I just need a second.”

“If you look at all her percentages,” Heidi goes on, “some of them, such as verbal, are even greater than ninety-nine percent.”

She points to one of the marks that show >99.9%. “This means that she reached the maximum the test can calculate.”

“What?” I ask, distracted as Janni breaks for the office door. “Janni! Come over here. We’re almost done.” I stand up, terrified Janni is going to run, which she does. “No” and “Stay here” have no meaning. If we don’t go where she wants, Janni will literally just walk out the door. I only have a few more seconds to get as much information as I can. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means she broke the test. One-fifty is as high as the Stanford-Binet Five test goes. She’s at 146, and that was without any writing. I couldn’t get her to do any writing.”

“Yeah, neither can we,” I say, holding on to Janni’s arm, keeping her next to me as she tries to run again.

“She knows how to write, but gets frustrated because she can’t write like a computer. She screams and tears up the paper,” Susan adds.

“There could be some OCD,” Heidi says, relenting. “But here’s
the issue. Mentally, she’s between ten and eleven. That is where all your problems are going to come from.”

I let this sink in:
mental capacity of a ten- or eleven-year-old
. Janni is four. Her mind is older than her body. She is angry because she is mentally older than she looks, but all everybody other than Susan and I sees is a little kid.

“So what do we do now that we know?” I ask.

“She needs to go to a gifted school.”

Yes! That is what I want, so maybe Janni will find others like her.

“Can you recommend any?”

“Mirman.”

I sigh. Mirman is a school for highly gifted kids. We’ve already contacted them. But there are two problems. One, all kids must be potty-trained and Janni is still wearing Pull-Ups. She knows how to go but refuses to do it in the potty. She runs around without a diaper for hours. When she has to go, she gets a diaper, puts it on, does her business, then takes it off and puts it in the trash. There is no bribing her, for the same reason that punishing her doesn’t work. At one point, trying to get her to behave, I took away all her toys except for her favorite stuffed bear, Hero, which she sleeps with. I would never take him. Her toys sat up above the kitchen cabinets for weeks and Janni didn’t care. The only things she really cares about are her imaginary friends, and I can’t take them away.

Mirman also requires an “entrance interview.” In my mind, I can see how that would play out. The principal walks in and says, “Hello, January,” and Janni screams, “I’m not January!” And that would be the end of that.

“We have already talked to Mirman,” I say to Heidi. “They won’t take her unless she is potty-trained.”

“Well, maybe when they see these numbers they’ll change their mind.”

I have my doubts. Mirman seems pretty strict about their rules.
I am convinced that all Janni needs is kids like her, kids with her genius, and everything will be fine, but stupid rules prevent her from reaching her potential.

“You just have to keep trying,” Heidi replies. “There is no other option. She has to go to Mirman. She will not make it in regular school.”

I lose my grip, and Janni flies out the door.

CHAPTER THREE
February 2007

W
here are we going?” Janni asks. “I want pizza.”

“We’re going to Violet’s birthday party.” I grit my teeth, knowing what’s coming.

“I don’t like Violet!”

I sigh.

“Janni, she’s a nice girl.”

“I hate her,” she says, like she’s pointing out it’s a sunny day. There is no animosity in her voice, which is why I don’t believe her.

“Why do you hate her? Hate is such a strong emotion, Janni. We reserve hate for people who really hurt us. Violet’s never hurt you.”

“I still don’t like her.”

Janni doesn’t have many friends left, but I cling to hope with Violet. Violet is a smart girl. I can dismiss how Janni treats other kids when they’re not on her “level,” but that’s not the case with Violet.

“Why not?” I press, desperate for her not to alienate Violet.

“She doesn’t like dogs.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No.”

“How do you know she doesn’t like dogs?”

“I just know.”

“How do you know?” I persist.

“400 tells me.”

I consider reminding her that 400 isn’t real, but that never works, so I ask, “And how does 400 know?”

Janni shrugs. “I don’t know. She just does.”

“Violet’s not a thirteen, Janni. She is smart. She has to be pretty close to a twenty.”

Janni is silent for a moment. “I’m a twenty-five now.”

Deep inside me, the fear that I refuse to acknowledge stirs. She’s raising her “number.” “When did you become a twenty-five?”

“I just am.”

This bothers me. Every time I think we may have found a friend closer to Janni’s number, she raises it, like she’s deliberately trying to create distance between herself and everybody else.

“Well, just promise me that you won’t tell Violet that you don’t like her.”

“I am going to tell her that.”

This catches me by surprise. It’s like she is tattling on herself. Even if she planned to, why not lie to me? That would be the logical thing to do.

“Remember what Mommy said about not saying anything if you can’t say anything nice?” I reply.

“Violet doesn’t get my imagination.”

I sigh.
I know, Janni
. The imagination of kids her age seems to be limited to pretending to be princesses and crap like that. None of them are capable of conceiving of an entirely separate world like Janni is with Calilini. I hate seeing Janni try to communicate her world to
other children. Every time it happens, I grow more afraid inside, fearing that one day she’ll just stop trying.

SARA, VIOLET’S MOTHER, opens the front door to greet us, and I hand over Violet’s present.

Violet runs up to Janni and extends her arms, stepping forward to hug her, but Janni shrugs her off like a coat, her head down, unwilling to make eye contact.

It’s already starting, just like always.

“Janni, tell Violet ‘Happy birthday,’ ” I command.

“I hate you,” Janni says to Violet.

“Janni! What did I say?” I refuse to look up for fear of what I will see in Sara’s face. Instead, I turn to Violet.

“I’m sorry, Violet. Don’t take it personally. Janni says that to everyone.” It occurs to me how ridiculous that sounds. I just told a five-year-old not to take something personally. I have gotten so used to talking to Janni like an adult that I forget other kids her age can’t understand.

Violet stands there, not sure what to do.

“Well, we are glad you could come, Janni,” Sara says politely, but I can feel her trying to brush off Janni’s rudeness like it’s no big deal. And this worries me, too. If I can feel it, I worry Janni can, too. I want to protect her from the judgment of others, not keep exposing her to it. I get angry at Susan for making us come to this party.

“Do you have pizza?” is all Janni asks.

“No, I’m sorry. There’s no pizza,” Sara replies apologetically.

There goes my only chance of keeping her here for any length of time. The only reason I was even able to get her to come was by telling her there would be pizza.

“But we have plenty of other food,” Sara adds sweetly, as if Janni is just any other little girl.

I look over at the spread. The food seems more for adults than for kids; bagels and cream cheese, veggie platters. Nothing Janni will eat.

I AM PUSHING Janni on the swing set in Violet’s backyard while the other girls are in the house playing a game.

Some other parents are talking on the patio, holding their paper plates with veggies and dip, cheese and crackers. I feel a tinge of bitterness. They can let their kids run wild, never having to worry about their son or daughter saying or doing something hurtful to another child.

Hovering below the other parents, waiting for any food that might fall, is a small white dog. So much for Janni’s conviction that Violet doesn’t like dogs.

“Janni, are you sure you don’t want to go in and play?” I expect she’ll refuse, but I ask anyway because I am tired of us always being on the fringes. “It looks like fun.”

“No.”

“What if I play, too?”

“No.”

I resign myself to the continued isolation and push her on the swing.

“I’m ready to get off,” Janni announces, so I grab one of the swing’s ropes and slow it down.