The Law of Similars

by Chris Bohjalian

  When the hymn ended, Carissa and Abby blew out their candles almost as one. Abby looked up at me, smiling, and then I saw her face abruptly turn worried.

  "Daddy? Are you crying?"

  "I am," I said, aware that my face was indeed growing wet. "But it's because I'm happy."

  "Happy," she repeated.

  "Happy," I said. This is happiness, I thought, desperately in love with the woman and the little girl who surrounded me. This is what it feels like to be happy. Complete. To see a family intact.

  I couldn't imagine a better present at Christmas.

  Chapter 11.

  Number 1

  The physician's highest calling, his only calling, is to make sick people healthy.

  Dr. Samuel Hahnemann,

  Organon of Medicine, 1842

  .

  We are no longer a body with all that word means in the particulars of a unified whole. An indivisible system of organs and flesh, tissue and synapse and soul. We are parts. We are divisible.

  Sometimes we say the brain is dead though the heart is alive: The heart is working, in other words, but no thanks to the brain. The brain is gone.

  Well, not all of the brain. Even when someone is by all accounts brain-dead, there may still be an infinitesimal bit of cerebral matter continuing to signal the pituitary gland to create the hormones that help the kidneys produce urine.

  But most of the brain has expired.

  Somebody somewhere had to invent the concept of brain-dead. For millennia we based death on the heart. But then we discovered that hearts were more transferable than passports--they were recyclable cherry-shaped pumps that could be reconnected to a second set of hose lines--and so we broke the body into components. Take the heart though it's beating: He's brain-dead, that's what counts.

  Someday we'll get to a point where we'll only need a part of the brain to be dead to begin the harvest.

  His brain stem is working--the section that controls his heart rate, his blood pressure, the ways his eyes might be moving beneath his lids. But those parts of the brain that allow him to think, that make him sapient and feeling and present? Gone. No electrical activity whatsoever. He's as good as dead, I assure you. I mean, he's still alive. Technically. But he's no longer...there.

  It was Jennifer's sister, Bonnie, who had asked whether Richard Emmons was an organ donor. And it was Bonnie who told me she had handled the inquiry badly.

  "They'll want to know at some point, you know. I guess sometimes they learn these things from a driver's license or something. But of course he didn't have his wallet with him in the middle of the night," she told me she'd stammered when she saw the anger and astonishment that had transformed her sister's face after she had made the mistake of broaching the subject.

  Jennifer had stared at her for a long time, her hand lingering on the spot on Richard's leg where his shin met his ankle, a sheet resting upon him like a tent that's collapsed.

  Finally Jennifer had said, "He is."

  "Of course it won't come to that," Bonnie remembered adding, but she had known her lie was hollow.

  "We know it will," Jennifer had said, though she had responded in a whisper just in case Richard could hear.

  "Look, I'm sorry."

  "I understand."

  "If they ask, should I tell them?"

  "Tell them what?"

  "Tell them he's a donor," Bonnie had said.

  "Sure. But please remind them he's alive."

  Bonnie had sighed and looked up toward Richard's face. Anything to avoid her sister's gaze. And though Richard had indeed looked alive at that moment, there was still that silver disk in his forehead, and it still disturbed her. Yes, it looked a bit like a watch battery, nothing more. But it nonetheless meant that someone had drilled a hole into her brother-in-law's head, someone had bored a shaft into his skull.

  "You know it's the right thing to do," she had said, her voice defensive.

  "Without a doubt," Jennifer had agreed. "But we haven't come to that point yet. Now, have we?"

  It is inevitable: Sometimes when I recall my happiness that Christmas Eve and that Christmas Day--my happiness, even, upon waking up the day after Christmas--I think of Jennifer Emmons. I think of Richard.

  I wonder if Jennifer groups those days before Richard awoke in the night and fumbled with a little bag of cashews, and then those after. For a long time, I certainly grouped my life into the period prior to Elizabeth's accident, and then the days since.

  Now, it seems, I have three parts, with a car accident and a cashew forming the two great divides.

  Sometimes I find myself imagining how the Emmons family spent their last moments before their lives were changed forever. I see them wrapping a few remaining presents Christmas Eve, I envision Jennifer filling her children's stockings. I line the four of them up together in a pew in the church for the last time, standing and singing at the seven o'clock service.

  The service before the one Carissa and I would attend.

  Then there they are once more, all of them, spending Christmas Day at the hospital ICU, while I am driving to and from central New Hampshire almost inconceivably happy.

  I can remember thinking Christmas Day in the car that English muffins had never tasted so good. Abby and I had eaten Carissa's English muffins for breakfast Christmas morning, and all the way to and from my sister's in Hanover, their taste kept floating to the surface of my mind.

  And then I'd conclude that while the muffins had been delicious, a little toasted bread dough and farina sure as hell couldn't compete with anything I'd tasted the night before. My God, I thought once as I approached the interstate exit, even Carissa's body lotion had tasted like heaven.

  I would recall all the parts of her body I'd tongued, my mind making an inventory, and then quickly I'd stop myself: She isn't a map; you're not counting the number of states you've visited! But flashes would come back to me nevertheless, and the experience would grow real once again in my mouth and my nose. There was that aroma along her neck--just below her ear--that I associated with Elizabeth's garden and she had murmured was freesia. There was the scent of an apple, her shampoo, as I ran my tongue from the tips of that fine mane down her spine--literally, my tongue never leaving her skin--and there was the taste of vanilla body lotion mixed with perspiration, offering me for the first time an understanding of why cake recipes often called for a pinch of salt. And there were the heavenly smells of soap and musk when I'd finally pulled off her panties near the Christmas tree, but more than that there had been the astonishing texture of thick, sweet cream on my tongue.

  Still, it was the English muffins, in my mind, that had become a symbol for everything--and not just the sex, though that had indeed been amazing. They'd become a symbol for the dinner we'd made together, embellishing the pasta I'd planned with the garlic and cashews she'd brought. A memory of those muffins would instantly conjure for me the candlelight church service we'd attended with Abby, my wondrous little girl at that moment asleep in the booster seat beside me. Napping after all the excitement that had come with the presents. We'd both been awake since six.

  It had been the English muffins, after all, that had given credence to my fantasy that Carissa might be interested in more than just dinner, and it had been the muffins that had become an icon for what had been the single best evening I'd had in well over two years.

  I remember deciding to call her from the interstate while Abby was dozing, and reaching carefully for the phone by the radio. I knew she was with her brother's family--with Whitney's dad's family--and so I knew I'd hear only her voice on the answering machine. No matter. I just wanted to leave her a message. I just wanted to tell her I was falling in love.

  By the time Abby and I had returned to East Bartlett Christmas night, it was close to ten o'clock. Together we stared for a moment at the layer of crinkled wrapping paper that coated the living-room floor like mulch, and then Abby picked out the toys and books and trolls that she wanted upstairs beside her in bed. />
  I was disappointed when there was no message from Carissa on my answering machine, but not overly concerned. I wondered if the old Leland would have convinced himself he'd scared her away with the message he'd left on her answering machine. Probably, I decided. And while for a brief moment I feared that the fact that such a ridiculous notion had even crossed my mind meant the arsenic was wearing off--or whatever it was that arsenic did--I couldn't imagine there was really any reason to worry. It was highly unlikely she liked me any less because I'd told her I loved her.

  Of the half-dozen messages on the machine, most of which were from friends and cousins calling to wish Abby and me a Merry Christmas, only one might even necessitate a call back in the morning. Rod Morrow. I had known Rod since high school, but it was clear Rod wasn't calling solely in his capacity as an old acquaintance. It sounded like Rod was calling in his role as a detective sergeant with the state police.

  A fellow named Richard Emmons had almost killed himself Christmas Eve. Or something like that. It was still pretty unclear what had happened. Rod had been on duty Christmas Day when Emmons's wife had called, wanting them to arrest some witch doctor that very instant.

  Rod said that based on the story the woman had told him, they weren't about to arrest anybody. At least not right away. He'd told her he wasn't even sure if a crime had been committed. But he had met her at the hospital that afternoon with the trooper who'd handled her call, and together they'd taken a formal statement.

  "Anyway," Rod babbled into the machine, "I figured you should know. She's upset--not without cause--and I think she's going to call you folks directly. Besides, the guy lives in Bartlett, so I figured there was a chance you two might even be friends."

  I was pretty sure I knew who Richard Emmons was--a businessman, I thought, who did something with advertising or marketing--but I wasn't positive. We certainly weren't friends.

  Still, it was a terrible shame. The poor guy was up in Burlington in a coma.

  Most years, most of the world seemed closed to me the day after Christmas. In my mind, only supermarkets and shopping malls were open on the twenty-sixth. Not that year, not with Christmas falling on a Monday. The courts were open, and so was my office.

  Of course, Abby's day care was closed--along with the public schools. It's inevitable, it's a law of nature: If something can happen to make a single parent's life harder, it will. And so I'd arranged to drop her off with Mildred in the morning, and then--because Mildred had plans in the afternoon--made arrangements for Greta's mom to pick Abby up at noon for a play date till dinner.

  In any case, I was up as usual at five-thirty Tuesday morning, and I seemed to be moving with especial efficiency. I was showered and shaved and dressed in twenty minutes, and I'd finished my melon and juice by six o'clock.

  I wondered if this, too, was a side effect of the arsenic: an ability to knot a necktie in seconds, or shave with uncanny speed. Maybe it was simply a result of having slept soundly. I had, as usual since I'd been given my arsenic, fallen into a deep sleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

  I considered waking Abby to see if she wanted to play with me before we left the house for the day, but then I decided she probably needed sleep right now more than Dad. She had stayed up late two nights in a row and was undoubtedly exhausted.

  And so I made myself a cup of herbal tea and sat down in the den with the computer. I logged on and took a quick peek at the on-line edition of The New York Times to make sure the world hadn't exploded while I'd slept, and then visited USA Today to see that paper's daily paragraph about Vermont on the "States" page. I was always fascinated by the single story from my state that someone had determined was big enough for inclusion in the section but still too small to warrant a news article. In the fall, I could always count on an entry about the colors of dying leaves, and between Christmas and New Year's--any day now--there was likely to be a forecast of how the Vermont ski areas would do that season, based on the number of visitors who were descending upon the slopes that holiday week.

  Sometimes there were forty or fifty words about what was a huge story in Vermont ("WINDSOR--The gasoline additive discovered in the drinking water at Windsor-Stearns Hospital does not pose a safety threat, hospital officials insist."), and usually the paper noted each of the state's infrequent homicides: We had between ten and fifteen a year, and single homicides usually wound up in single-paragraph form in the roundup section, while domestic murder-suicides were usually given a small story of their very own.

  Other than foliage, skiing, and murder, however, there was just no telling what about Vermont would wind up on that page. As I clicked through the menus to get to the section, I decided this morning probably wouldn't be the ski day. That would come later in the week.

  When I reached the little green rectangle symbolizing Vermont, I abruptly fell back in my chair.

  Son of a bitch! I thought as I stared at the name of the village next door in bold. Bartlett! In USA Today! I couldn't believe it: There was the teeny-tiny town on the Web. And in print. I sat forward and read:

  BARTLETT--A 43-year-old advertising executive and father of two went into anaphylactic shock on Christmas Eve after eating cashews and today remains in a coma. Neighbors say Richard Emmons was an asthmatic and may have known he was allergic to the nut.

  I read the paragraph a second time. With the exception of notable celebrity suicides, USA Today never goes out of its way to advertise the fact that a person has killed himself. Or tried to kill himself. It's a courtesy, of sorts, for the family. Most newspapers do this.

  But there are code words or signals reporters use, and as a state's attorney I'd read enough death notices in which I knew what had really occurred to be able to separate the suicides from the accidents and natural causes.

  And though this Emmons story was short, it had the unambiguous signal of suicide written into it: The allegation from neighbors that he may have known he was allergic to cashews. The absence of the word mistake.

  That poor, sad family, I thought. And on Christmas Eve.

  I'd always heard that the December holidays could be particularly stressful for the lonely or the depressed, and I could certainly remember how difficult that first Christmas after Elizabeth died had been for me. But I still couldn't imagine being so despondent that you might try and kill yourself.

  I tried to find a picture in my mind of Richard looking downcast and downhearted, but there wasn't one I could conjure. I barely knew what the guy looked like when he was happy. It was possible that as soon as I saw his wife I'd recognize her, and then realize I'd known the whole family all along. For all I knew, they went to the same church I did, and I'd seen the kids some Sunday morning when they'd come forward through the pews for the children's moment. Perhaps Abby and I had seen them a half-dozen times last summer, while buying soft ice cream at the Creemee stand in Bartlett.

  I wondered if Rod Morrow would be working the day after Christmas, or whether I'd have to bother the detective at home. I couldn't wait to get the inside story on this one.

  Chapter 12.

  Number 259

  Considering the smallness of the dose, which in homeopathy is as necessary as it is effective, it is easy to understand that during treatment everything that could have any medicinal action must be removed from the diet and the daily regimen, so that the subtle dose is not overwhelmed and extinguished, not even disturbed, by any foreign medical influence.

  Dr. Samuel Hahnemann,

  Organon of Medicine, 1842

  .

  By seven-fifteen in the morning, I figured, there was a pretty good chance that Carissa was awake. But I still couldn't bring myself to phone her. Not just yet, anyway. It was, after all, the day after Christmas. I decided I'd wait until at least seven twenty-five. Perhaps even seven-thirty. I would make calling her the very last thing I did before Abby and I left the house.

  When I finally did dial her number, pleased with myself for hanging in there until seven twenty-eight, I was p
repared to apologize if I'd woken her up by explaining--with absolute candor--that I had to hear her voice. I simply had to. And then I'd tell her how much I hoped I'd see her that night, how I hoped she'd come to my house and play with my daughter and me until my daughter went to sleep, and then play with just me.

  That's what I'd say, I decided. I was ready.

  I wasn't, however, prepared for her to answer her phone and sound like death. I discovered instantly that I wasn't ready at all for her hello to be the two-syllable monotone of someone--my mother, I remembered--who has just been told she has inoperable cancer.

  "Carissa?" Asking her name was a reflex of sorts: I knew it was her, but her voice nevertheless sounded too beaten and sad for my homey.