"That was... incredible. Do you people have any idea what you've got here? Why haven't you gone to the media with this?"
"Because it's not a parlor game," Julie snapped and caught a warning look from Dr. Siegal.
Easy, girl, she thought. So far, so good. Don't blow it now.
"What Dr. Gordon means," Dr. S. said quickly, "is that we don't want this technology exploited in an unseemly fashion. It's not the latest high-tech toy for thrill seekers or talk shows. It makes vulnerable the most private moments of an individual's life. Just imagine abducting someone, sedating them, and then invading their mind. What a tool for blackmailers. Or industrial espionage."
"Or for the courts," Henderson said. "Looks to me like the ultimate lie detector."
"Yes and no. A memory is not necessarily an accurate reflection of reality. It's a recording of a perception, colored by emotion, and often influenced by intervening events. Someday, after endless court battles, this might be accepted as a legal tool. But as a method for exploring memory itself, dealing with the loss of memory—"
"That's where Alzheimer's might come in, I should think." Henderson turned to Julie. "Have you ever visited an Alzheimer's patient's memoryscape?"
"No. I'd very much like to, but I'm willing to bet it wouldn't be too startlingly different from Lorraine's on the surface—at least not until actual organic degeneration of the cortex takes place."
"Why do you say that? Their memories are shot. I'd expect a desert, a barren wasteland."
"That's because you're confusing the existence of memories and the ability to access them," Julie said. "All memories are fragmented, with bits and pieces scattered all over the brain. Take the memory of a chocolate-chip cookie, for instance: Its smell is encoded and stored in the olfactory cortex, the look of the cookie is in the visual cortex, the soft warm feel of it in your hand is in the tactile cortex, and the taste in the gustatory cortex. So when your olfactory nerve picks up the smell of a freshly baked Toll House cookie, the convergence systems of your brain assemble all the pieces ... and your mouth begins to water. But if your brain can't find the links and access those memories—even though all the components of the cookie memory are still intact—the odor means nothing to you. It's not a cookie—it's just a smell."
"Of what benefit would this be to Alzheimer's patients?" Henderson said.
Julie hesitated.
"Come on," he said. "This is a magnificent breakthrough. I want the Bruchmeyer Foundation to be a part of it. But the board of directors will not part with a dime unless they feel it will ultimately benefit Alzheimer's patients."
Julie spoke slowly, carefully, trying to keep her tone casual. They'd hooked him; now they had to land him.
She glanced over at Dr. Siegal. As crucial as this was to her, it was absolutely vital to him. He'd already lost his wife; Julie was not going to let him lose his project.
"I don't want to make promises we can't keep, but broken memory links can be restored via the memoryscape."
Henderson rose to his feet. "Is that theory or has it been done?"
"It's been done," Julie said, trying to hide her excitement. Yes, it had been done. But by only one person, on one isolated case. "It's damn hard, but I've done it." She held up a hand. "But not in an Alzheimer's patient."
"But I thought the memoryscape was purely symbolic."
Julie nodded. "It is symbolic, but not as purely symbolic as we originally thought. We can't change memories, but reestablishing links in the memoryscape appears to carry over into real-life function. The thing is, we don't know why it works. That's why I was hesitant to mention it."
Henderson looked like he wanted to pace but there was no room for it. "But wait a second—if we supplied you with funds and brought you Alzheimer's sufferers as volunteers—you'd know soon enough, wouldn't you?"
Julie nodded. "I imagine we would."
"Excellent!" He bounded to the coat hook on the wall, grabbed his Burberry, and turned to them. "This is wonderful! I'm going straight to Mr. Bruchmeyer himself—today. He'll want to know about this immediately. He'll be very interested."
"How interested?"
"You mean in dollars and cents? Well, the Bruchmeyer Foundation never lends halfhearted support. If it's a go, we'll back you all the way. Of course we'll need a detailed experimental protocol to place before the board. How soon can you have that?"
"Two weeks?" Dr. Siegal said, glancing Julie's way.
Julie nodded, using all her willpower to keep from screaming Yes! and pumping her fist into the air. "That sounds doable."
"We'll be waiting to hear from you," Henderson said, opening the door. "End of the month at the latest."
As soon as he stepped out the door, Dr. Siegal flung his arms around her. He laughed aloud and spun her around.
"We did it!" he cried. "We're going to get a grant!"
"Let's not count the money yet." She never allowed herself to be too optimistic. Things had a way of backfiring when you became complacent. The Bruchmeyer board would be scrutinizing the documentation very carefully. Everything would have to be perfect.
"Julie, you were wonderful!"
"Nothing to it," she said, enjoying his elation. So good to see him happy again.
"Oh, right," he said, pushing her back to arms' length. "As if there weren't a couple of moments there when—"
"I was in control—total, complete control. Except when I wanted to—"
"What's going on?" said a voice behind them.
Julie turned. Lorraine was sitting up on the bed, looking groggy and slightly befuddled.
"How'd I do?" she said.
Dr. Siegal rushed over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "My dear, we did fine! And you were magnificent— at least your memoryscape was!"
Julie watched them. She wished she could show her gratitude to Lorraine like Dr. Siegal had—hugging and clasping Lorraine's hand. But that wasn't her style. Something always held her back. She felt glued to the spot.
"You done good, kid," she said.
2
"What are you doing for lunch?" Dr. Siegal said as he followed her into her office.
Julie glanced at Cindy's empty desk and then at her watch. 12:05. That explained where Cindy was.
"Lunch? Who's got time for lunch? I'm days behind now."
"And I know what you're going to do first."
"No. Not lunch. I don't do—"
"I'm not talking about food. I'm talking about your uncle. Weren't you going to call him?"
Uncle Eathan! Damn! He'd completely slipped her mind.
"The number ... where is it?" She pawed through her lab-coat pockets. "I had it right—here it is."
"Good," Dr. Siegal said, pointing to her inner office, set off by gray room dividers. "You call, I'll wait out here. Then we'll do lunch."
She gave him a look. "Dr. Siegal..." Truly she didn't have time for lunch, but he wasn't going to quit. "All right. This will only take a minute."
She punched in the number, waited through a few rings, then heard "Bonjour."
Julie recognized the voice. "Eathan. It's Julie."
"Julie! Thank God! I've been going crazy trying to reach you! Didn't you get my messages?"
She realized from his frazzled tone that something was seriously wrong. This wasn't Eathan being the over-solicitous uncle. He sounded scared, frantic, and now a sense of foreboding enveloped her. Damn! She should have called sooner. She hoped he was okay.
"I'm sorry. It was impossible for me to get away until now. What's wrong?"
"It's Samantha."
"Oh." Julie felt a sudden cold seep through her. She bit back adding Is that all? and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. What else is new?
"What is it this time?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. Not yet, anyway. That's why I'm calling you."
"Well, she's disappeared before and popped back up again after everyone went crazy looking—"
"She isn't missing. She was found u
nconscious in her studio."
"Great," Julie muttered. "Another overdose. What's the hot new drug in Paris these days?"
"Please, Julie. This is serious. She's been comatose for two weeks."
"Two weeks?"
"I just found out about it yesterday. I rushed to Paris immediately. She's a very sick girl. And it's not drugs—all the toxicology tests were negative."
"Then what—?"
"I spoke to the hospital chief of staff. No one knows what's wrong. Every test they do comes back negative."
"She's been checked for encephalitis? Meningitis? Did they look for any sign of a blow to the head? A fall?"
"Yes, yes. And all the possible metabolic causes. It's a public hospital but they were very thorough. They say they can't do anything else for her."
"There's got to be something. Every coma has a cause—it's not a state the body goes into just for the hell of it."
"I'm having Dr. Elliot fly over to consult."
"The neurologist? From Oxford?"
"Yes. He's supposed to be the top man in coma."
"He is." Julie knew his reputation. "No one even comes close. He'll find out what happened."
As usual, Uncle Eathan was pulling out all stops for Sam. Of course, Julie knew he'd do the same for her, but it always seemed to be Sam who needed rescuing.
"If Dr. Elliot agrees with the others—that we'll just have to wait—then I'll have Samantha moved to a nursing home where we'll... just. . . wait."
"Well, I hope he can help her."
"God, so do I. Samantha's been through so much."
Julie didn't respond to that. The correct way to say it was that Samantha had put herself through so much.
A pause, then Eathan spoke: "When are you coming over?"
"To Europe?" Oh, no. He didn't expect her to ... "I—I can't. I'm right in the middle of something very important. That memory project I've been telling you about."
"Oh." He sounded crushed. "I thought maybe you could help."
"Me? You're the M.D."
"I haven't practiced for almost a quarter century—you know that."
"But I'm not a medical doctor; I'm a Ph.D."
"In neurophysiology. Anything you can add ..."
"I can't add anything to Dr. Elliot. He's world class. Look, you know that if there was something I could do, I'd be heading for the airport now. But I can't. And I'm stuck here. The work is at a critical juncture." She waited a beat. "You can do without me there, but I'm needed here."
"Julie... I know you and Sam haven't been getting along..."
Getting along? she thought. We haven't spoken in years.
"That's not it. And I promise I'll come over as soon as 1 can get free. I mean it."
"Please do. The instant you're free. This is very serious."
"Keep me informed of any changes, all right? I'll call you tomorrow. I'll stay in touch. I promise."
"Very well." She could hear the disappointment in his voice. "I'll be at this number."
Julie said good-bye and hung up.
Damn. Here she was, twenty-eight years old and still allowing her uncle to make her feel guilty. Or did she feel guilty because of Sam?
"Everything all right?"
Julie looked up and saw Dr. Siegal standing in the doorway.
"Family problems," she said. She felt almost embarrassed telling him.
"Anything I can do?"
"No. It's my sister. Nobody could ever do much with my sister."
"The sister you never talk about?"
She nodded. "My evil twin."
"A twin? How fascinating. You mean there's two of you?"
"Hardly. She's the most unidentical identical twin you could ever do
"She's in some sort of trouble?"
Julie summarized what Uncle Eathan had told her, and he asked most of the same questions she'd asked Eathan.
"Don't you worry about a thing," Dr. Siegal said. "I'll keep things running here. You just get over there first flight that you can. Go. Be with your family. Take as long as—"
"Oh, I'm not going anywhere."
Dr. Siegal's eyes were wide, incredulous. "Your sister—your twin—is in a coma and you're not going to her side?'
"I've got too much to do here, especially with the Bruch-meyer protocol. And besides, she's in good hands."
He stared at her strangely for a moment, then stepped forward and took her arm. He pulled her toward the door.
"Come. No argument. If you don't want to have lunch, then we'll have something else."
"What?"
"A talk. About priorities."
3
A warm, sunny October day, with the trees in Washington Square starting to change color. The park was crowded with people eating their lunch, drinking their lunch, smoking or snorting their lunch, or trying to bum change off the rest so they could buy some lunch.
Julie let Dr. Siegal drag her along the littered walks until they found an empty half of a park bench next to an entwined couple who appeared to be having each other for lunch. They sat down.
In true New York fashion Julie and Dr. S. ignored the amorous couple. Harder to ignore were the scattered papers and empty bottles and cans and fast-food containers that dotted the park. An unusual amount of litter, Julie thought. Even the parks were suffering from cutbacks.
"Is this talk really necessary?" Julie said. As much as she liked him, she couldn't help feeling annoyed. This was wasted time.
"That's what I mean by priorities," he said. "Nothing is as important as family. Work is simply work. We're not saving mankind here, Julie
"I'm convinced we might be—and I know you feel the same. Besides, I don't have a family. You know that."
"Except for an uncle and a black-sheep sister you now tell me is your twin. You told me your parents are gone. Did they die when you were young?"
For a moment she resented his probing, then remembered sitting beside him in that stuffy little room in Saint Vincent's Hospital, watching him clutch his dying wife's hand as if he could keep her from slipping away.
Maybe this was important to him.
"Yes. When we were five."
"I'm sorry. An accident?"
"A fire. Our house burned to the ground."
"Oh, Lord. You were there?"
Julie nodded. "We both were."
"Why didn't you ever tell me? That must have been terrible."
"It was." She said it flatly, looking at the trees, trying to take some pleasure from the golden colors against the blue sky. Such a perfect New York day—but she was beginning to feel trapped.
She stared at the bright red leaves....
And then bright, clear memories of the fire flashed through her mind: choking smoke, searing heat and flame, paralyzing fear. Then she remembered her father's strong arms around her, the way he scooped up Sam and her and carried them from the house, dropping them on the grass, then dashing back into the flames to find their mother. She could feel her own arms around Sam as they huddled on the dew-wet grass, clutching each other, chilled by the night air but feeling the heat of the fire from so far away. She remembered screaming, waiting for Daddy to bring Mommy out of the fire ... waiting ... and waiting....
The nearest she got to seeing her parents again was at the closed-coffin funeral.
A trio of pigeons flew down from the nearby Washington Square arch and began pecking the ground only feet away.
"Eathan Gordon—Uncle Eathan—was my father's brother. After the fire he took us in and raised us like his own."
"He must be very special to you."
Julie smiled. "He was. I mean he is. I just don't think of him as part of my life any longer. Back then, he was an internist and a bachelor, living in the same town as my parents. After the fire he closed his practice, dropped everything, moved us all to England. He devoted his life to raising us."
Had there been anything else in his life during our childhood? He could have hired nannies but he personally took on the daunting task of
playing father and mother to two little girls. A full-time job. Of course there'd been Glyndebourne and the opera season, and he loved his gardens—he became the compkat Brit—but "personal" relationships? If he'd had any, he hid them well.
"England... you did mention you were raised there. But why England, do you think?"
"I asked him later on. He said we were both so traumatized by witnessing the fire that killed our parents that he felt we'd never be right if we stayed in a place where we'd be reminded all the time. And truthfully, I think he wanted to move himself away from the area too. He and my dad were very close." Julie smiled. "So he got us as far away as he could."
Car horns started blaring behind Julie, and she looked over her shoulder to see a line of frenzied cabs blocked by a delivery truck.
The park seemed like a peaceful island, alive with people enjoying the day, oblivious to the trash. Moms pushed their kids on swings and dog owners sat and talked while their pets ran free in the fenced-in dog run.
"Where'd this fire happen?"
"Up in Putnam County. A sleepy town called Millbum."
"For a complete change of scenery he could have taken you to California. I still don't—"
"Eathan didn't think much of American culture. Still doesn't. Whenever he's compelled to put the words Ameri' can and culture together, he inevitably divides them with soi'disant."
Dr. Siegal pursed his lips. "A snob, in other words."
"Yes, but a very good, decent snob. He was an Anglophile. And he couldn't have been more supportive as we were growing up. Too supportive sometimes, I think."
"Ah," Dr. Siegal said, and leaned forward. "I have a feeling we've arrived at the matter of your twin. Do I take it he tended to favor her?"
"Not a bit. He was remarkably evenhanded, I'd say. But he didn't know how to be a parent. He wasn't cut out for it, and I think he knew that. Thus his bachelorhood. But we were thrust upon him and he did the best job he could. He made an excellent guardian, but a lousy parent. He should have reeled Sam in when she was little. But he didn't know how. He tried counselors and psychiatrists and special schools, but nothing worked. She was a first-order flake. Eventually she turned self-destructive."
F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 Page 3
