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father, who had been voted chief-of-staff of his

hospital. I stood at the window and watched Dad lead

her proudly to his car.

Late, way after two, I heard them come in. I

had yet to fall asleep, and I could hear their

conversation in the living room.

"Chris, I don't understand Bart at all, the way he

talks, the way he moves, or even how he looks. I feel

afraid of my own son, and that's sick."

"Come now, darling," he said with his arm

about her shoulders, "I think you exaggerate. Bart will

grow up to be a great actor if he keeps this up." "Chris, I know sometimes high fevers leave a

child with brain damage. Did the fever destroy part of

his brain?"

"Look, Cathy, Bart tested out just fine. Don't go

getting notions just because we gave him that test. All

high fever patients have to undergo such examinations."

"But did you find anything unusual?" she

persisted.

"No," Dad said firmly, "he's just an ordinary

little boy with lots of emotional problems, and we, if

anyone can, should understand what he's going

through."

What did that mean?

"But Bart has everything! He isn't growing up

as we did. He should be happy. Don't we do

everything we can?"

"Yes, but sometimes even that isn't enough.

Each child is different, each has different needs.

Obviously we are not giving Bart what he needs." Mom was given to hot quick answers. Yet she