“Welcome,” he says. “I’m glad to meet you. I understand you’re all interested in this clinical trial?” He does not wait for the answer we do not give. “This will be brief,” he says. “Today, anyway, is just a chance for you to hear what this is about, the projected schedule of preliminary tests and so on. First, let me give a little history.”
He talks very fast, reading from a notebook, rattling off a history of the research on autism, starting around the turn of the century with the discovery of two genes associated with autistic spectrum disorders. By the time he turns on a projector and shows us a picture of the brain, my mind is numb, overloaded. He points to different areas with a light pen, still talking fast. Finally he gets to the current project, again starting at the beginning, with the original researcher’s early work on primate social organization and communication, leading—in the end—to this possible treatment.
“That’s just some background,” he says. “It’s probably too much for you, but you’ll have to excuse my enthusiasm. There’s a simplified version in your folders, including diagrams. Essentially what we’re going to do is normalize the autistic brain, and then train it in an enhanced and faster version of infant sensory integration, so the new architecture works properly.” He pauses, sips from a glass of water, and goes on. “Now that’s about it for this meeting; you’ll be scheduled for tests—it’s all in your folders—and there will be more meetings with the medical teams, of course. Just hand in your questionnaires and other paperwork to the girl at the door, and you’ll be notified if you are accepted onto the protocol.” He turns away and is gone before I can think of anything to say. Neither does anyone else.
Mr. Aldrin stands up and turns to us. “Just hand me your finished questionnaires and the signed nondisclosure—and don’t worry; you will all be accepted onto the protocol.”
That is not what worries me. I finish my questionnaire, sign the statement, hand both to Mr. Aldrin, and leave without talking to the others. It has wasted almost my whole Saturday morning, and I want to go back to my reading.
I drive home as quickly as the speed limit allows and start reading as soon as I am back in my apartment. I do not stop to clean my apartment or my car. I do not go to church on Sunday. I take printouts of the chapter I am on, and the next, with me to work on Monday and Tuesday and read during my lunch break as well as late into the night. The information flows in, clear and organized, its patterns stacked neatly in paragraphs and chapters and sections. My mind has room for them all.
By the following Wednesday, I feel ready to ask Lucia what I should read to understand the way the brain works. I have taken the on-line assessment tests in biology level one, biology level two, biochemistry levels one and two, organic chemistry theory one. I glance at the neurology book, which now makes much more sense, but I am not sure it is the right one. I do not know how much time I have; I do not want to waste it on the wrong book.
I am surprised that I have not done this before. When I started fencing, I read all the books that Tom recommended and watched the videos he said would be helpful. When I play computer games, I read all about them.
Yet I have never before set out to learn all about the way my own brain works. I do not know why. I know that it felt very strange at first and I was almost sure I would not be able to figure out what the books said. But it is actually easy. I think I could have completed a college degree in this if I had tried. All my advisers and counselors told me to go into applied mathematics, so I did. They told me what I was capable of, and I believed them. They did not think I had the kind of brain that could do real scientific work. Maybe they were wrong.
I show Lucia the list I have printed out, of all the things I have read, and the scores I got on the assessment tests. “I need to know what to read next,” I say.
“Lou—I’m ashamed to say I’m amazed.” Lucia shakes her head. “Tom, come see this. Lou’s just about done the work for an undergraduate biology degree in one week.”
“Not really,” I say. “This is all aimed at one thing, and the undergraduate requirements would include a course in population biology, a course in botany—”
“I was thinking more of the depth and not the breadth,” Lucia says. “You’ve gone from lower-level to challenging upper-division courses… Lou, do you really understand organic synthesis?”
“I do not know,” I say. “I have not done any of the lab work. But the patterns of it are obvious, the way the chemicals fit together—”
“Lou, can you tell me why some groups attach to a carbon ring adjacent to one another and some have to skip a carbon or two?”
It is a silly question, I think. It is obvious that the place groups join is the result of their shape or the charge they carry. I can see them easily in my mind, the lumpy shapes with the positive or negative charge clouds around them. I do not want to tell Tom I think it is a silly question. I remember the paragraphs in the text that explain, but I think he wants it in my words, not parroted. So I say it as clearly as I can, not using any of the same phrases.
“And you got that just from reading the book—how many times?”
“Once,” I say. “Some paragraphs twice.”
“Holy shit,” Tom says. Lucia clucks at him. She does not like strong language. “Lou—do you have any idea how hard most college students work to learn that?”
Learning is not hard. Not learning is hard. I wonder why they are not learning it for long enough to feel like work. “It is easy to see in my head,” I say instead of asking that. “And the books have pictures.”
“Strong visual imagination,” Lucia murmurs.
“Even with the pictures, even with the video animations,” Tom says, “most college students have trouble with organic chemistry. And you got that much of it with just one run through the book—Lou, you’ve been holding out on us. You’re a genius.”
“It may be a splinter skill,” I say. Tom’s expression scares me; if he thinks I am a genius maybe he will not want to let me fence with them.
“Splinter skill, hooey,” Lucia says. She sounds angry; I feel my stomach clenching. “Not you,” she says quickly. “But the whole concept of splinter skills is so… antiquated. Everybody has strengths and weaknesses; everybody fails to generalize many of the skills they have. Physics students who make top grades in mechanics mess up driving vehicles on slick roads: they know the theory, but they can’t generalize to real driving. And I’ve known you for years now—your skills are skills, not splinter skills.”
“But I think it’s mostly memorizing,” I say, still worried. “I can memorize really rapidly. And I am good at most standardized tests.”
“Explaining it in your own words isn’t memorizing,” Tom says. “I know the on-line text… You know, Lou, you haven’t ever asked what I do for a living.”
It is a shock, like touching a doorknob in cold weather. He is right. I did not ask what his job was; it does not occur to me to ask people what their jobs are. I met Lucia at the clinic so I knew she was a doctor, but Tom?
“What is your job?” I ask now.
“I’m on the university faculty,” he says. “Chemical engineering.”
“You teach classes?” I ask.
“Yes. Two undergraduate classes and one graduate-level class. Chem-E majors have to take organic chemistry, so I know what they think of it. And how kids who understand it describe it, as opposed to those who don’t.”
“So—you really think I do?”
“Lou, it’s your mind. Do you think you understand it?”
“I think so… but I am not sure I would know.”
“I think so, too. And I have never known anyone who picked it up cold in less than a week. Did you ever have an IQ test, Lou?”
“Yes.” I do not want to talk about that. I had tests every year, not always the same ones. I do not like tests. The ones where I was supposed to guess which meaning of the word the person who made the test meant from the pictures, for instance. I remember the time the word wa
s track and the pictures included the mark of a tire on a wet street and some cupolas on top of a long, tall building that looked—to me, anyway— like the grandstand at a racetrack. I picked that for the word track, but it was wrong.
“And did they tell you the result or just your parents?”
“They didn’t tell my parents, either,” I say. “It made my mother upset. They said they did not want to affect her expectations for me. But they said I should be able to graduate from high school.”
“Umm. I wish we had some idea… Would you take the tests again?”
“Why?” I ask.
“I guess… I just want to know… but if you can do this stuff without, what difference does it really make?”
“Lou, who has your records?” Lucia asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I suppose—the schools back home? The doctors? I haven’t been back since my parents died.”
“They’re your records: you should be able to get them now. If you want to.”
This is something else I never thought of before. Do people get their school records and medical records after they grow up and move away? I do not know if I want to know exactly what people put in those records. What if they say worse things about me than I remember?
“Anyway,” Lucia goes on. “I think I know a good book for you to try next. It’s kind of old, but nothing in it is actually wrong, though a lot more’s been learned. Cego and Clinton’s Brain Functionality. I have a copy… I think…” She goes out of the room, and I try to think about everything she and Tom said. It is too much; my head is buzzing with thoughts like swift photons bouncing off the inside of my skull.
“Here, Lou,” Lucia says, handing me a book. It is heavy, a thick volume of paper with cloth cover. The title and authors are printed in gold on a black rectangle on the spine. It has been a long time since I saw a paper book. “It may be on-line somewhere by now, but I don’t know where. I bought it back when I was just starting med school. Take a look.”
I open the book. The first page has nothing on it. The next one has the title, the authors’ names—Betsy R. Cego and Malcolm R. Clinton. I wonder if the R. stands for the same middle name in both and if that is why they wrote the book together. Then blank space, and at the bottom a company name and date. I guess that is the book company. R. Scott Landsdown & Co. Publishers. Another R. On the back of that page is some information in small print. Then another page with the title and authors. The next page says “Preface.” I start reading.
“You can skip that and the introduction,” Lucia says. “I want to see if you’re okay with the level of instruction in the chapters.”
Why would the authors put in something that people weren’t going to read? What is the preface for? The introduction? I do not want to argue with Lucia, but it seems to me that I should read that part first because it is first. If I am supposed to skip over it for now, why is it first? For now, though, I page through until I find chapter 1.
It is not hard to read, and I understand it. When I look up, after ten pages or so, Tom and Lucia are both watching me. I feel my face getting hot. I forgot about them while I was reading. It is not polite to forget about people.
“Is it okay, Lou?” Lucia asks.
“I like it,” I say.
“Good. Take it home and keep it as long as you like. I’ll e-mail you some other references that I know are on-line. How’s that?”
“Fine,” I say. I want to go on reading, but I hear a car door slam outside and know it is time to do fencing instead.
Chapter Twelve
THE OTHERS ARRIVE IN A BUNCH, WITHIN JUST A COUPLE of minutes. We move to the backyard, then stretch and put on our gear and start fencing. Marjory sits with me between bouts. I am happy when she sits next to me. I would like to touch her hair, but I do not.
We do not talk much. I do not know what to say. She asks if I got the windshield fixed, and I say yes. I watch her fence with Lucia; she is taller than Lucia, but Lucia is the better fencer. Marjory’s brown hair bounces when she moves; Lucia wears her light hair in a ponytail. They both wear white fencing jackets tonight; soon Marjory’s has little brown smudges where Lucia has scored hits.
I am still thinking about Marjory when I fence with Tom. I am seeing Marjory’s pattern, and not Tom’s, and he kills me quickly twice.
“You’re not paying attention,” he says to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My eyes slide to Marjory.
Tom sighs. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, Lou, but one reason to do this is to get a break from it.”
“Yes… I’m sorry.” I drag my eyes back and focus on Tom and his blade. When I concentrate, I can see his pattern—a long and complicated one—and now I can parry his attacks. Low, high, high, low, reverse, low, high, low, low, reverse… he’s throwing a reverse shot every fifth and varying the setup to it. Now I can prepare for the reverse, pivoting and then making a quick diagonal step: attack obliquely, one of the old masters says, never directly. It is like chess in that way, with the knight and bishop attacking at an angle. At last I set up the series I like best and get a solid hit.
“Wow!” Tom says. “I thought I’d managed real randomness—”
“Every fifth is a reverse,” I say.
“Damn,” Tom said. “Let’s try that again—”
This time he doesn’t reverse for nine shots, the next time seven—I notice he’s always using a reverse attack on the odd numbers. I test that through longer series, just waiting. Sure enough… nine, seven, five, then back to seven. That’s when I step past on the diagonal and get him again.
“That wasn’t five,” he says. He sounds breathless.
“No… but it was an odd number,” I say.
“I can’t think fast enough,” Tom says. “I can’t fence and think. How do you do it?”
“You move, but the pattern doesn’t,” I say. “The pattern—when I see it—is still. So it is easier to hold in mind because it doesn’t wiggle around.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Tom says. “So—how do you plan your own attacks? So they aren’t patterned?”
“They are,” I say. “But I can shift from one pattern to another…” I can tell this is not getting across to him and try to think of another way of saying it. “When you drive somewhere, there are many possible routes… many patterns you might choose. If you start off on one and a road you would use for that pattern is blocked, you take another and get onto one of your other patterns, don’t you?”
“You see routes as patterns?” Lucia says. “I see them as strings—and I have real trouble shifting from one to another unless the connection is within a block.”
“I get completely lost,” Susan says. “Mass transit’s a real boon to me—I just read the sign and get on. In the old days, if I’d had to drive everywhere, I’d have been late all the time.”
“So, you can hold different fencing patterns in your head and just… jump or something… from one to another?”
“But mostly I’m reacting to the opponent’s attacks while I analyze the pattern,” I say.
“That would explain a lot about your learning style when you started fencing,” Lucia says. She looks happy. I do not understand why that would make her happy. “Those first bouts, you did not have time to learn the pattern—and you were not skilled enough to think and fence both, right?”
“I… it’s hard to remember,” I say. I am uncomfortable with this, with other people picking apart how my brain works. Or doesn’t work.
“It doesn’t matter—you’re a good fencer now—but people do learn differently.”
The rest of the evening goes by quickly. I fence with several of the others; in between I sit beside Marjory if she is not fencing. I listen for noise from the street but hear nothing. Sometimes cars drive by, but they sound normal, at least from the backyard. When I go out to my car, the windshield is not broken and the tires are not flat. The absence of damage was there before the damage occurred—if someone came to d
amage my car, the damage would be subsequent… very much like dark and light. The dark is there first, and then comes light.
“Did the police ever get back to you about the windshield?” Tom asks. We are all out in the front yard together.
“No,” I say. I do not want to think about the police tonight. Marjory is next to me and I can smell her hair.
“Did you think who might have done it?” he asks.
“No,” I say. I do not want to think about that, either, not with Marjory beside me.
“Lou—” He scratches his head. “You need to think about it. How likely is it that your car was vandalized twice in a row, on fencing night, by strangers?”
“It was not anyone in our group,” I say. “You are my friends.”
Tom looks down, then back at my face. “Lou, I think you need to consider—” My ears do not want to hear what he will say next.
“Here you are,” Lucia says, interrupting. Interrupting is rude, but I am glad she interrupts. She has brought the book with her. She hands it to me when I have put my duffel back in the trunk. “Let me know how you get on with it.”
In the light from the street lamp on the corner the book’s cover is a dull gray. It feels pebbly under my fingers.
“What are you reading, Lou?” Marjory asks. My stomach tightens. I do not want to talk about the research with Marjory. I do not want to find out that she already knows about it.
“Cego and Clinton,” Lucia says, as if that is a title.
“Wow,” Marjory says. “Good for you, Lou.”
I do not understand. Does she know the book just from its authors? Did they write only one book? And why does she say the book is good for me? Or did she mean “good for you” as praise? I do not understand that meaning, either. I feel trapped in this whirlpool of questions, not-knowing swirling around me, drowning me.
Light speeds toward me from the distant specks, the oldest light taking longest to arrive.
I drive home carefully, even more aware than usual of the pools and streams of light washing over me from street lamps and lighted signs. In and out of the fast dark—and it does feel faster in the dark.
The Speed of Dark Page 19
