"Money? What about her trust fund?"
"Well, as you know, your trusts pay out in stages, a certain percentage every year until—"
"We're thirty-five. I know."
That gave Julie a little over $100,000 a year, disbursed every January 2. At thirty-five she'd get the rest of her trust in a lump: three million at last count. She'd be able to fund the memoryscape project herself then. But that was seven years away. It was this year that was do or die for the project.
"Sam ran through her last installment by midsummer. Like most of the installments before it." *"What does she do with it?"
"I can only guess. But I didn't want lack of funds to stop her from painting. We both know she's enormously talented. I want her to be recognized for that talent. I want her to be famous."
Famous. How many times had they heard that growing up? Fame had always been one of Uncle Eathan's hang-ups. He'd supported both of them in every endeavor, but it never seemed to be enough that they merely succeeded in life. He wanted them to be recognized for their work, revered—famous. And that didn't quite go with his low-key, almost reclusive lifestyle. He didn't crave the limelight for himself, but he certainly wanted it for his nieces.
Maybe it was a vicarious thing!—he'd feel famous through them. It was curious.
"Sounds like you were always on call."
He shrugged. "I got used to that during my years as an internist. But it's become more of a problem since I took the position at the university. The department head has been generous with leaves, but I can push him only so far. I've made a point of keeping tabs on her, dropping in on her regularly, helping her out when she needed it, giving her encouragement when she got into one of her funks. And when she agreed to therapy, I helped find the right person. You, on the other hand..." He reached over and patted her hand. "I've never had to worry about you. You're the self-starter of the pair. But I hope you don't feel neglected."
"Not at all," she said, and meant it. She didn't want anybody, even her dear uncle Eathan, looking over her shoulder all the time. "Sam's always been the squeaky wheel."
Then Eathan slowed.
"We're here?"
"Almost... I'm not too sure we can park on this block."
Julie looked right and saw a man with jet-black eyes and a sinister mustache looking at her. She pushed the lock button on the door.
In the middle of the rue was a cluster of gray-stone apartments, standing shoulder to shoulder, leaning over the narrow sidewalk.
"This is where she lived?"
"She wanted to be near the galleries up on Montparnasse. I never liked that she lived here."
Then Eathan pulled in behind some cars parked on the left.
"This looks okay...."
He killed the ignition and got out. Julie sat there a moment, reluctant to leave the car. Why? Scared of the neighborhood? Worried about what she might see inside? Or was it just fatigue?
Why did she want to come here? What did she expect to find? She supposed she wanted to see Sam's latest version of herself. Sam was constantly redefining herself. Maybe the apartment would give a clue to the latest iteration... and maybe a clue to the cause of the coma. Maybe even her paintings would have something to say about what was wrong with Sam.
She followed Eathan up the three steps to the front door. He rang a bell labeled DUPONT and waited. A moment later, a middle-aged woman with a worn apron around her middle and her hair in a scarf opened the door. A little girl with dark hair and dark eyes, determinedly chewing gum, hovered behind her.
The woman nodded to Eathan, addressed him as "Dr. Gordon." Then she looked at Julie and cried out. She threw her arms around Julie's neck and sobbed as she hugged her, crying, "Samantha! Samantha!"
It took Eathan a while to pry her off Julie and convince the woman that this was Samantha's sister. Mme. DuPont seemed crushed. Julie struggled to understand her as she inquired in rapid French how his other daughter was doing. Eathan's French was much easier to understand as he corrected the woman regarding his relationship with Sam and Julie and told her there'd been, tcmt pis, pas de change.
He asked if Sam's sister might see her apartment.
"Mais end," was the reply as she pulled a key ring from her apron and led them to the third floor.
Stocky Mme. DuPont was panting by the time she reached the final landing. She waited a moment to catch her breath, then went to the door on the left. Julie noticed that the door-jamb was unpainted and the lock looked shiny and new.
"Mon Dieu!" the woman cried as the door swung open.
Hands on hips, she stormed into the apartment and began shouting in machine-gun French far too rapid for Julie's un-practiced ear. Julie stepped inside and froze as she realized what Mme. DuPont was shouting about.
Sam's studio had been ransacked, though from what Julie remembered of Sam's room when they were kids, this was not too for from the usual state of her sister's living quarters. Sam thrived on disorder.
But the landlady was running around, hands to her face, pointing at the open drawers, the papers on the floor—
Eathan hurried to calm Mme. DuPont while Julie drifted through Sam's space.
And that's what it was—a space. A single open room with a window at the far end and a huge, dingy skylight in the slanted roof. An empty easel in the center of the room, unframed canvases on all the walls and stacked on the floor, an unmade bed in the corner, and a single dresser. An empty dresser. All the drawers had been pulled out and dumped onto the floor. Bras and panties, some shirts, crumpled bits of paper, matchbooks.
No syringes, at least, Julie thought.
She poked at one of the piles with the toe of her shoe and saw a metallic flash. She stooped and pushed a tangle of bras aside. A gold chain lay on the wooden planks. She picked it up and examined it. No pendant, just a fine herringbone chain of good quality, possibly twenty-four karat. She poked around some more and found a gold ring set with a ruby. She pocketed both as she rose. The jewelry bothered her.
Obviously whoever had ransacked the place had something other than robbery in mind.
Was there a connection between this and Sam's present condition?
She turned to say something to Eathan and found herself inches away from one of Sam's paintings, a brilliant mass of orange and red. She stepped back for a better look.
More abstract than what Julie remembered of Sam's work. No recognizable images. She was struck by the ferocity of the colors and the brush strokes, as if Sam had been slashing at the canvas. The painting radiated danger and heat. She sensed that if Sam's brush had been a knife, she'd be looking at shredded canvas now.
She felt as if she were staring into the heart of the sun— about to go nova.
Not a painting I'd want in my apartment.
Julie moved to the next canvas, this one all blues and blacks, with a heart of darkness, seemingly fueled more by fear and hopelessness than anger.
And on to the next, and the next; the emotional intensity of the series was almost overwhelming. These canvases more than spoke to Julie; they reached out and grabbed her by the throat and yanked her in. By the time she'd made a circuit of the room, she felt exhausted by their power.
"Ah—it's that boyfriend of hers," she heard Mme. DuPont saying. She seemed calmer now and was speaking slowly enough for Julie to understand.
"Boyfriend?" Julie said. "What boyfriend?"
"Oh, he was about all the time, practically lived here until the week before she became sick. Then she wouldn't let him in. I heard him yelling at her."
"They had a fight?" Julie said.
She gave a Gallic shrug. "Possibly. I do not know. She would not let anyone in during that last week. She kept the door locked and would only open it when I brought food to her room and insisted that she eat. I was worried about her. But at least she ate the food."
Julie caught Eathan's eye. "Sounds like a breakdown," she said in English. Then in halting French to Mme. DuPont: "Do you know what she was doing in here al
l that time?"
"Of course! She was painting. Yes, her hands were always full of paint, dripping with color. And—and I saw a large canvas on her easel. But Mademoiselle Samantha looked sick. Very pale. Her eyes were strange. Her hair was not combed. And I must tell you: She was not bathing. I thought she was going mad."
Maybe Sam truly had been going mad, Julie thought. Why hadn't this woman called someone? Maybe she didn't know anyone to call.
"But about this boyfriend—was he here?"
"He came every day—many times a day. Banging on her door so loudly. But she had it bolted from the other side and would not let him in. He was very angry. Many times I picked up the phone to call the police—but he always left."
"What was his name?"
"Jimmy ... she called him Jimmy Walsh."
"Where does he liver'
Another Gallic shrug. "I do not know." She swept her arm toward the empty bureau and its scattered contents. "But even though I have changed the lock, I am sure that he did this."
"Then he could have been in and out without your knowing it?"
"Of course. I have six tenants. I can't keep track of all their comings and goings. But I knew when he was here that final night." She pointed to the new lock and doorjamb. "He broke the lock,
Julie shivered at the violence done to the wood. "He didn't hurt her, did he?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. I heard the crash and was on my way upstairs when he came racing down shouting that Samantha was sick, unconscious. Already I was worried about her because she hadn't answered when I last knocked. I went up and saw that she was lying on the floor before her easel... then 1 called for an ambulance. As soon as it arrived, her young man fled."
"Have you seen him since then?"
She shook her head. "No. But I bet he did this, I bet he's been back. I know it. And I'm going to call the police."
"Do you really think that is necessary?" Eathan asked, touching the woman's shoulder. "I wish you wouldn't."
Julie was struck by the request. Why didn't he want the police involved? Then Eathan shot Julie a look that said, I'll explain later.
"No, I'm sorry," she said, heading out the door onto the landing. "I cannot have strange men coming into my house."
As she started down the stairs, Julie turned to Eathan.
"Why not call the police?"
Eathan glanced out into the hall, then gently shut the door.
"Because ... 1 know who this Jimmy Walsh is," he said in a low voice. "And that's not his name. His real name is Liam O'Donnell and he's wanted by Scotland Yard."
"Oh, great. Can Sam pick them or what. What's he wanted for? Drugs?"
"1 almost wish."
Julie stiffened. "What, then?"
"Terrorism. They want him in connection with a number of IRA fire bombings in London and Belfast. Even now before the cease-fire they say he's an arsonist."
"Oh, God! Did Sam know?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes."
Julie was shocked speechless for a moment. What on earth had Sam got herself into?
"That's why I didn't want the gendarmes called in. If they find out who this fellow is they'll come asking about Samantha. It could be dangerous for her. She's not protected here. I think she's got enough trouble at the moment."
"How did you find out about him.7"
"I ran into him here on one of my visits. After only a few moments of conversation I felt sure that he was hiding something. I hired a detective to run a check on him. I tried to warn Sam...."
"Ever the guardian angel."
He sighed. "In Samantha's case, somebody has to be."
"Do you think this O'Donnell had anything to do with her coma?"
"I don't know. From the way Mme. DuPont tells it, it doesn't sound like he had time to do anything, and there were no marks on Sam's body. But who knows?"
Julie looked around. Sam's studio suddenly had a terribly sinister feel to it... filled with the presence of whoever did this. Julie tried to shake off the feeling. She looked around the studio....
What had happened here? What had gone on in Sam's life, in her mind, during that week of seclusion before her coma? What had she been painting when she locked herself away?
"What about all this?" she said, looking at the paintings. "What will happen to them?"
"They stay right here. I've paid the rent in advance till the end of the year and nothing will be touched. When Sam comes back I want it to look just as she left it. I want her to be able to resume her life ... her art."
She turned and looked at Eathan. "What did we ever do to deserve you?"
"Don't be silly," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I'm just doing what your father would do."
On the way out Julie stopped at Mme. DuPont's apartment.
"Madame?" she said as the woman opened the door. "Which painting was my sister's last? You said that you saw her working on a big canvas."
"Ah yes, but I do not know," she said. "The easel was empty when I found her."
Six
So what is consciousness, after all? How does that three-and' a-half-pound lump of gray cheese inside our skulls produce a mind? The philosophical debate gets politicized, but scientifi' colly, we're closing in on the nuts and bolts of the process. And it does appear to be a process rather than a state. The latest work from Llinds and others points to a 40 cps binding wave moving front to back across the cortex—one pass every 0.025 seconds—that links up all the areas of the cortex and conveys their information to the thalamus.
—Random notes: Julia Gordon
1
As soon as she got back to the inn, Julie placed a call to New York. It was a little after eight there now. They should all be hard at work. She was glad to hear Dr. Siegal's voice.
"Yes, yes. The proposal and protocol are coming along fine, just as you laid them out. Now, tell me about your sister."
He was sympathetic and as baffled as everyone else after she filled him in on the medical details of Sam's condition.
"I don't understand. You're sure there's no toxin?" he said.
"They ran a complete toxicology screen—all negative."
"Julie, no toxicology screen is complete. They can't possibly screen for everything. They screen for the usual."
"But even if there is some unknown toxin at work, if it's potent enough to put her in a coma, wouldn't it affect the EEG?"
"Not necessarily. The EEG registers cortical activity. So what if your sister has been exposed to a toxin that affects sub-cortical activity?"
"I hadn't thought of that. Is there such a thing?"
"What do I know from toxins? Nothing. But I do know from unconscious. And with an unusual case like your sister's, maybe we should go back to basics and ask ourselves, What is consciousness? Neurologically speaking, of course. We're not interested in epistemology at the moment, so maybe I should rephrase: What does the brain require to be conscious?"
"A functioning cortex, of course," Julie said. "And the arousal mechanisms of the reticular activating system ..."
"And communication between the cortex and the RAS."
Julie considered that. The reticular activating system wasn't an anatomically discrete organ; it was a functional unit spread out through the upper brain stem. So there was no single connection.
She said, "So what if Sam's cortex and RAS aren't communicating—no anatomical lesion, just a functional block between the two? What sort of clinical picture would you have?"
"You'd have an unarousable, unresponsive person with a completely normal neurological exam."
"Right! Which describes Sam perfectly," Julie said. They were onto something. She could feel excitement beginning to percolate through her. "How do we confirm it?"
"I haven't the foggiest," Dr. Siegal said. "It's a hypothetical condition. If you had some history, someone who was with her before she passed into unconsciousness ..."
"No good. She locked herself in her room."
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to wai
t until she wakes up to ask her."
"No one's sure she will wake up. She . . ."
Julie's voice trailed off as an idea burst in her brain with the force of a bomb.
"Julie?" Dr. Siegal said. "Are you still—?"
"Ask her!" she cried. "God, I'll ask Samantha!"
"That's the spirit. She should come around soon and—"
"No-no. In her memoryscape. I can go into her memoryscape and find out what happened during that lost week."
She couldn't remember being this excited in years. It was so obvious, and so simple. All she had to do was—
"No." Dr. Siegal's voice was firm, almost angry. "Absolutely not. I'm sorry. I won't allow it."
Julie felt as if someone had dashed ice water in her face.
"Why on earth not? We only use it on unconscious subjects. Sam is unconscious with a vengeance. This will be an actual clinical application of the technology. This could be a huge breakthrough."
"No. We're not ready for that. I'd have strong reservations even if she weren't your sister."
"What does being my sister have to do with it?'
"You've heard the maxim that a doctor shouldn't treat a member of his own family? Well, that holds doubly true here."
"I'm not a physician and I wouldn't be treating her."
"The bond is too intimate. She's your sister. You'll be entering a memoryscape in which you are a participant. You're in there, Julie. Have you thought of that?'
"Well, no ..."
Truthfully, Julie hadn't. It was a disturbing thought.
"You'll be running into yourself, not necessarily as you were, but as your sister perceived you. Since you tell me you two had a stormy relationship, that might not be too pleasant."
"I can handle it."
"Knowing you, I'd say you probably can. But there's another factor that concerns me even more."
"What's that?"
"The genetic factor. You did tell me she's your identical twin?"
"Yes."
"So you share not only a history, but an identical set of genes as well. That's an unpredictable and possibly dangerous combinmore."
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