Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  He smiled thinly. “I’ll be in charge.”

  “So you’ve done these procedures before?” Martin asked.

  “Yes.”

  The guardedness in his manner was almost palpable. Rachel could sense that they were treading on territory that had vaguely been charted—some forbidden zone behind the chrome and green Italian marble veneer. “What about the risks?”

  “Risks are inherent in any operation, but with this procedure they are very small. At worst, there would be only a minimal regeneration of neuronal networks, with modest improvement in performance. But that possibility is far exceeded by the benefits.”

  “Such as?” Martin asked, his eyes wide with supplication. He was suddenly enthralled by the possibilities.

  “Your son’s IQ will be higher.”

  “It will?” Martin’s voice skipped an octave. He could not disguise his excitement. “How much higher?”

  Malenko smiled. “How much would you like?”

  “You mean we have a choice?”

  Malenko chuckled. “Enhancement can’t be fine-tuned to an exact number, of course.” He then unlocked a drawer from a file cabinet behind him and removed a folder from which he removed some charts. The first was a lopsided bell curve showing the IQ distribution of high school seniors and the colleges they attended. On the fat right end of the curve where the scores went from eighty-five to one hundred and five, the schools listed were community colleges and Southern state schools. But at the long thin tapered end were the A-list institutions—Stanford, Cal Tech, MIT, WPI, and the top Ivy Leagues.

  “Dylan’s IQ is currently about eighty-two. Let’s say, for instance, that it was enhanced by fifteen points, he would just get by in the typical high school. Another fifteen points would mean he’d perform well in high school and just passably at a mid-level college. Another fifteen points would mean he’d do well at the better colleges. Another fifteen points—an IQ about one hundred forty—would mean he’d do a sterling job at the better colleges. Another fifteen points and he would have an incandescent mind capable of doing superior work at the very best institutions.”

  “Incandescent mind.” The phrase hummed in Rachel’s consciousness.

  “Wow,” whispered Martin.

  Malenko seemed bemused at their sudden display of interest. Or maybe it was the kind of sneaky pleasure one gets from sharing secrets.

  The second chart showed a correlation of IQ scores with various occupations—physicians, mathematicians, scientists, accountants, lawyers, business executives, teachers, bus drivers, and so on.

  “As you said, there was a time when people of high intelligence were scattered across a range of employment. But over the last two decades, that population has squeezed into a handful of high-powered professions. No longer do you find the brilliant shoemaker or ditchdigger. Instead, they’re running laboratories, law firms, the world’s most important corporations, and”—he gave a little smile—“egghead—recruitment companies. So the benefits can promise years of success for Dylan.

  “But they go beyond professional. The statistical correlation of high intelligence with financial and intellectual achievements is an obvious gain. Not so obvious are the intangible benefits of high intelligence, such as maturity, superior adjustments to life, general health, and happiness—all of which I assume you desire for your Dylan.”

  He raised another chart—an actuarial graph of life expectancy measured against IQ. “One of the ancillary benefits of high intelligence is lifestyle, including diet, personal health care, and basic survival. In other words, as you can see, smarter people are happier, healthier, and live longer lives.” He ran his finger up the curve showing the higher survival rates for those at the upper end of the IQ scale.

  While Rachel listened half in awe, it became clear that this was not just a glib explanation of some experimental neurophysiological procedure, but a sales pitch. That Malenko had had these charts prepared, and that he had been through this spiel with other parents who had sat in these same chairs, twisting with anxiety and hope that they could make life better for their children.

  Malenko is selling IQs.

  “I should add that individuals at the lower end of the spectrum are, statistically speaking, people with more serious psychological problems and emotional disorders. Nor should it surprise you that the majority of people on welfare and in prisons in the United States have an average IQ of eighty-seven.”

  That comment jabbed Rachel like an ice pick. “Those are blind statistics,” she said. “And I resent the implication.”

  “Of course, of course, they’re blind statistics,” Malenko said. “And in no way am I suggesting that Dylan would otherwise grow up to be a criminal or on welfare. I’m just telling you what studies have found.”

  He slipped the charts back into the drawer and locked the cabinet. “So?” he said, waiting for a response.

  “So, you’re saying that you can do this—that you can increase Dylan’s intelligence?” Martin asked.

  Malenko smiled. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  “That’s incredible.” Martin’s face looked like a polished Macintosh.

  “What about the side effects?” Rachel asked again.

  “Side effects might be the wrong term, madam,” Malenko began. “Intelligence is holistic. It’s intricately bound up with a person’s ego, his self projection, his personality, and character—and all his or her assorted talents. So, the person that Dylan will become would most likely not be the same person he would be were he not enhanced. Depending on the emotional complexity of a person, much of the difference would have to do with confidence and self-esteem.

  “Studies have shown that intelligent people are more centered, more self-assured, more self-confident, and less timid than those who are intellectually challenged.” He turned to Martin. “You see it all the time in your profession—that special poise, presence, and strength not found in people possessed of lower intellectual skills.”

  “But you’re talking about changing who Dylan will be,” Rachel said. “I don’t want him to be intellectually enhanced if his personality changes …”

  he kissed my boo-boo

  “ … or he loses his love for singing or baseball.” Although he could not read music, he had a voice like wind chimes. It was a talent that distinguished him and brought him pleasure.

  “Mrs. Whitman, forgive the analogy, but he would be like the child who had been stricken with polio. Without the vaccine, he’d grow up wearing leg braces or confined to a wheelchair. Now consider that same child who at age seven was given his legs back and all that went with that. Which child do you suppose would have the happier, longer, better life?”

  He did not expect an answer, nor did they offer one. But Rachel was vexed by the man’s pronouncements.

  “Before we go any further,” he said. “I must know if this is something you would consider for Dylan. Mrs. Whitman?”

  Rachel felt confused and overwhelmed. “I don’t know where to begin.” It was as if Malenko were no longer a physician but some kind of self-proclaimed Fairy Godfather. “You’re talking about surgically manipulating my son’s native intelligence. That’s not something I can make a snap decision about. There are too many questions and unknowns.”

  “Of course, nor am I asking for a snap decision. I’m simply asking if you are interested in pursuing the matter. If not, then we can go back to our original plan for an instructional program.”

  “Well, I’m interested,” Martin announced. He looked at Rachel beckoningly. “I mean, isn’t this what we wanted?” He was almost giddy.

  Rachel was not sure what they had wanted. “I think I need time for all of this to sink in.”

  “Of course, but I should caution you that the time for best results for the procedure is when the child is between three and six years of age. Any older and enhancement diminishes in effectiveness. And Dylan is six years and two months.”

  “You mean there’s a deadline?”


  “The earlier the better. As a child approaches puberty, everything changes. Yes, nerve cells are still generated—even in adults. But the massive wiring of the brain takes place early. More importantly,” he added, moving his finger across his head, “the long axonal connections from one section of the brain to another are most important in terms of cognitive functions, and they’re laid down and fine-tuned well before puberty. At six, your son’s brain is still experiencing large-scale cognitive development. But it’s already begun to diminish.”

  “I understand,” Martin said. He was beaming.

  Malenko’s face seemed to harden. “There’s something else that you’ll need to factor into your decision: I ask that you maintain total confidentiality even if you decide against this. And I’ll be honest with you: Enhancement is not standard clinical procedure for the treatment of LD children. It’s an alternative, but it’s not FDA-approved.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “Because, although the procedure is medically safe and sound, it would be something of a social taboo. It’s not politically correct. And unless they wanted full-scale riots on their hands, no government administrators would support the procedure. And until they do, we play hide-and-seek.”

  The unexpected element of secrecy made Rachel even more uneasy and confused. On top of all the disquieting medical unknowns, she now had to be concerned with social and ethical issues. Malenko was right: If word got out about a medical procedure that enhanced the intelligence of children, the social implications would be astounding. Every parent who could afford it would have his or her LD kid fixed. In the long run, that would throw off the balance of society, the intellectual diversity. Not to mention the class problems—the haves versus the have-nots. Enhanced versus the enhanced-nots. Not to mention how every liberal left of Joseph Goebbels would raise a stink about eugenics and social engineering. And rightfully so. But at the moment, social questions weren’t most pressing. “But you say the procedure is medically safe?”

  “Absolutely, and one hundred percent effective.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning every enhanced child is now a genius.”

  Martin looked at Rachel in wordless amazement. “And how many is that?” she asked.

  “Several.” His expression was unreadable.

  Trade secret, she thought.

  “But what about the ugly stuff,” Martin asked. “Cost?”

  Malenko made a bemused smile. “A lot, but nothing we should discuss now. First things first, and that’s letting this all sink in.” He stood up and came around the desk. The meeting was over.

  “What I’d like you to do is go home and think about this. Think if this is something you want to go through with, because you’ll be making a lifetime decision for your son, probably the most important in his life and yours. It’s a decision that transcends the merely medical. If you’re uncomfortable with the philosophical or social implications, then this is not for you. If you feel this runs counter to some ethical position you maintain, then this is not for you. But if you take the less global view—that this is your son and that your son has but one life to live—then you may accept the tenet that intelligence is its own reward.”

  Rachel and Martin rose.

  Malenko walked them out of the office to the front door. “Once again, I must caution you about confidentiality. Security is supremely important. Be it understood that this will not work if people talk. You are not allowed to discuss this with others. You are not allowed to seek others’ opinions. You are not allowed to put anything in writing. There will be no enhancement if I suspect that you will breach confidentiality. Is that understood?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Martin said weakly.

  Rachel nodded.

  “Good. If we agree that this is the best thing for Dylan, then you’ll be asked to sign a nondisclosure agreement, the details to be explained later. Then we’ll discuss the ugly stuff.” He shook their hands. “Now go home and think about all this, and we’ll talk next week.”

  Throughout the interview, Rachel had seen in Malenko a man of intimidating self-assurance and intelligence, a man whose polished rhetoric and keen instinct had nearly stripped her of defenses, had maneuvered her and Martin nearly to admit that they were here because of their dissatisfaction with their own son. And while part of her hated how she had bought into the presumption that intelligence was it own reward, this was the first time in their hour-long discussion that she sensed an abstract menace behind the porcelain smile.

  Malenko opened the front door. “By the way, is Dylan right-handed or left?”

  “Right,” Martin said.

  “Good,” Malenko said, but did not elaborate.

  “Doctor, I want you to know that before I can make a decision,” Rachel said, “I would have to meet some enhanced children.”

  “You already have.”

  Then like a half-glimpsed premonition she heard Malenko say: “Lucinda MacPhearson.”

  32

  “But she’s brilliant?”

  “She is now,” Sheila said. “They raised her score by seventy-something points.”

  They were at the Dells, in the café just outside the day care center having a muffin and café au lait.

  “It’ll be two years in December. We took her in over the Christmas break from preschool, and when she returned her hair had grown back and nobody even knew. Then over the next months, she began to show signs of improvement—talking better, understanding better. In a year she was reading and reasoning and thinking. God, it was like somebody cranked up the rheostat.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “You’re telling me? And they can do the same for Dylan. I mean, it’s a miracle. She was this hairless little monkey, and now she’s … Lucinda.”

  “Hairless little monkey.” Was that how she regarded Dylan?

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what was the nature of her problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brain deformities or anomalies or whatever?”

  “No.”

  “Some kind of accident or trauma?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, what made you bring her?”

  Sheila looked at her incredulously. “She was slow.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re mean these enhancement procedures aren’t just for kids with neurophysical defects?”

  Sheila’s face darkened. “Well, a few are.”

  “You’re saying that most are kids with no physical abnormalities—lesions, tumors, malformations—or whatever? They’re just … slow?”

  Ever since Sheila had hinted at enhancement, Rachel had assumed it was a medical procedure to correct some anatomical defect of the brain. Now she was hearing something else: a secret practice for raising the intelligence of kids who tested low and whose parents had financial resources. In Martin’s words “an IQ jack-up” for the privileged. Rachel was about to articulate those thoughts, when Sheila’s eyes suddenly filled up and her mouth began to quiver.

  “I didn’t want to tell you at first,” she whimpered, “but I could see how you were agonizing over his problems. I knew exactly what you were going through, watching your child struggle with things other kids get automatically. Lucinda couldn’t follow the simplest directions. She didn’t understand the simplest concepts. It would kill me to watch her try to put together her little puzzles—baby puzzles—cutouts with the pictures under them. She couldn’t do them,” Sheila said, wiping her eyes. “It ate me up to see how frustrated she’d get and end up throwing pieces across the room. So I knew completely what you were going through. But I really couldn’t say anything.”

  Rachel nodded, feeling a vague uneasiness in Sheila’s tearful response.

  “So, I’m telling you it’s like a miracle what they did for her, and they can do the same for Dylan.”

  “Except I’m not sure I can grapple with manipulating his intelligence. Or even what that means. I thought you were telling me about a procedu
re to medically correct brain abnormalities.”

  “I am, and it means making him smarter, simple as that.”

  But it isn’t as simple as that, thought Rachel.

  “Look, no two brains are alike—like people’s faces. Slow brains are different from smart brains, is what they told me. So, it’s like a brain lift.” Sheila wiped her eyes and chuckled at her own analogy.

  “What do you know about the operation?”

  “Just that they make little incisions and implant some kind of neurostimulation like what they do for epilepsy and Parkinson’s disease—stem—cell stuff. I don’t know the details, but what I do know is that after a year or more, the kid’s a little whip. Like day and night.

  “At three, Lucinda couldn’t distinguish red from green even though she wasn’t even color-blind-the next year, she was reading at third-grade level. The year after that she was doing fifth-grade math. What can I say? A miracle. She was like a sponge—and still is. Everything she’s taught she learns like that and remembers. And what’s more, she’s a regular Miss Confidence. Sometimes it’s Miss Obnoxious, but she’s got self-esteem up to here. What can I say?”

  As she listened to Sheila, Rachel had a mental flash of Lucinda sitting poker-straight at her computer screen, her dual golden ponytails rising from the top of her head like bullwhips, her fingers on the keyboard like a concert pianist, her little pink mouth flapping directions on how best to navigate the search engines. Miss Confidence.

  Miss Obnoxious.

  Then Rachel saw that fat pink chipmunk face fill with noxious glee.

  “That’s not a tiger, it’s a cheetah.”

  “You must be taking stupid pills.”

  “Hey, Dylan, thanks for the free goal!”

  Children could be astonishingly cruel, but Lucinda was a soulless little bitch. “And she’s okay?” Rachel said. “No personality problems, behavioral issues, side effects, headaches?”

  “Uh-uh. It’s been great. She’s already talking about being a doctor when she grows up.”

  Rachel nodded, studying Sheila’s responses. “And where is it done?”