Page 56 of The Truth About You and Me
He taps his note pad with a pen. And waits. And waits. And waits.
‘Reading is part of me it’s…’
‘No. It’s not. Not any more.’
‘What am I doing here then?’ I ask, frustrated. ‘Isn’t that your job? To teach me? Shouldn’t we be reading right now?’ I’m being unnecessarily rude, but losing Maggie, not sleeping and the pressure of the new shop is taking its toll.
‘You can’t read.’
‘I know!’ I throw my hands up.
‘Good. Now we can start.’
Wait, what?
He leans forward with a green plate in his hands. ‘Choccy biccy?’
Christ. This is going to be worse than I thought.
Over the next hour I’m forced to try to read for his baseline assessment. He told me not to think too hard, to be honest. And honestly? I can hardly recognise any of the words on the page he gives me. I’m sitting at the desk in the corner of the room, the sun too warm on the back of my neck. Dr Levin is sitting opposite. The setup is the same as my parents’ desk at home. He barely blinks; eyes scrutinising my every move, every attempt.
‘Llllllll—’ I stop take a breath and look back at the paper. ‘Lllllll… aaaaaa.’
‘Move on.’ He uses an extended pointer stick and taps the paper.
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen, but as I made my way here, I’d be lying if I didn’t feel a small seed of hope trying to grow. All the last hour has taught me is that I. Can’t. Read. And that Levin seems to have little patience with my pathetic attempts. I let out a breath, waiting for him to tell me I’m a lost cause. Instead, he produces another sheet of hieroglyphics.
This test is different. Four or five sets of ‘words’.
‘Can you tell me which of these are real words and which are fake?’
‘I can’t read.’
‘I know. Now tell me which is real and which is fake.’ He taps the paper again and I want to take the stick and shove it right up his— ‘Today, Jack. Not next week.’
I let out a long breath, staring back at the paper. ‘This one is fake?’
‘No, that one says “king”. Try again. Next box.’
When I look at the next box, something clicks. I can’t read it, but my body seems to shift internally, like I’m readjusting my balance when I’m standing on a bus and it brakes.
‘This one is fake.’
‘Good. Next one.’
I do as he says. I can somehow differentiate some of the fake words and even more bewilderingly, on the next sheet, I can spot words that are in Italian as opposed to English.
I finish the list. My head is pounding but I feel… I feel. Pleased? ‘How do I know that?’
‘It’s a common aspect of alexia. You can still recognise syntax patterns.’
‘Huh.’
‘That’s it for now. It’s lunchtime and if I don’t get to the deli all the pumpernickel bagels will be gone. I’ll see you Monday.’
‘Monday?’
‘As I explained to your father, this is an intensive course, Jack; I see you three days a week for six weeks.’
