Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  Eeeep, eeeep. Eeeep …

  One of the wheels on the gurney squeaked, and she tried to look down. It sounded like mice in a cage. She once had mice in a cage at home. They weren’t hers, but belonged to the school. One Christmas vacation she had volunteered to take them home for the break. Her mom didn’t like the idea because they were too close to rats, and rats were mean and filthy animals, Mom had said. But Lilly convinced her that these mice were clean and cute and wouldn’t be any fuss. By the end of the vacation, Mom got to like the “little critters.” She also got a kick watching them run through the Styrofoam structure the kids had made in class.

  The gurney squealed down a corridor that seemed to be a long bright tunnel with rows of windows with venetian blinds pulled down. That was strange.

  They took a hard turn to the right and pushed their way into a big bright room.

  Inside she saw lots of fancy equipment—machines with wires, dials, and lights, some computer equipment, a sink, and more drip bottles. She had not been in a real hospital since she was born, and she didn’t remember that; but this looked like one of those operating rooms in the hospital shows her mom watched.

  She closed her eyes again to doze off. But that did not last long because something snapped them open.

  A buzzing sound.

  Like the electric clippers her mom’s hairdresser used. Sure enough, she felt somebody from behind run it across her scalp. For a moment, she just let the buzz fill her ears, as the cool metal mowed its way across her head. Then she looked down to see large chunks of her hair land on the ground.

  “Don’t take so much off,” she insisted.

  “Don’t worry,” somebody said. “It’s not going to hurt.”

  Because there was no mirror in front of her, she couldn’t tell how much they were cutting—but her head suddenly felt cool. Naked. She tried to raise her hands to feel, but they were clamped to the sides.

  Hands brushed away the hairs from around her. Then the sound of somebody vacuuming the floor under her.

  Then it was quiet, but for feathery-soft voices and the squeal of the wheels as she was rolled across the room.

  Somebody said something, and she felt herself being lifted off the gurney and onto a table under a huge round dome with lights blazing down on her. She could feel their heat.

  Then she was being cranked up a little. She looked down the length of her body and saw lots of the machines with colored lights and screens with orange squiggles going across, and some people moving about. But the light was too bright, and her mind was too fuzzy to make them out clearly. They seemed so small and far away, as if the world had gone to miniature.

  Hanging over her was a large television, but there was no picture—just bright blue with what looked like ruler lines making a cross right in the center—like looking through the scope of her father’s rifle. On another screen next to it were black-and-white pictures of a skull with numbers and lines drawn through it.

  All around her, she heard the soft hum of the machines and the murmur of voices. She tried to move, but her hands were tied for the new IV somebody taped onto her arm. Then she felt herself lifted up as a pillow was placed under her neck.

  “Lilly, how do you feel?” she asked.

  She knew that voice: Vera.

  She didn’t like Vera. She was a fake. She would pretend to be friendly so Lilly would take her medicine or eat the food or do the tests. She said things like how they had her locked up like a jailbird—such a shame. But if she ate and took her meds, Vera would talk to Phillip to let her outside. But she lied. They brought her outside only once—to dance with Mr. Nisha.

  “Fine.”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  Silly question, they all knew her name. “Lilly Bellingham.”

  “Good,” Vera said. “Oh, look, it’s Lilly dancing.”

  Lilly opened her eyes again, and there on the television was a video of her dancing with Mr. Nisha.

  “And who’s dancing with you, Lilly?”

  “Mr. Nisha.” Why were they asking such dumb questions? Nothing like the tests.

  “Good girl.”

  Lilly kept her eyes fixed on the video, trying not to doze off. Suddenly she felt something on her head. From behind her, a hand drew marks on her scalp. Four marks—two on her forehead just above the hairline, another two at the back of her head just above the ears.

  “These are where the screws will be inserted,” said a man with a soft voice.

  He had a funny accent—“broken English,” as her mom would say.

  “Since the brain itself is not sensitive to pain, only the surface requires local anesthetic.”

  “Lilly, how you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good girl. And when this is over, Oliver is going to take you for an airplane ride. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, I would,” she said. She couldn’t see any faces because everybody was wearing green masks and caps. Just eyes staring down at her. And hands.

  “Nurse Cooper is going to put a little cream on your head so you won’t feel anything,” the man with the accent said. “Dermal analgesic, please.”

  Hands spread some cool sticky stuff to her head.

  “An equal mixture of lidocaine and prilocaine,” the man continued, “the substance works subcutaneously and is one hundred percent effective. We’ve used it for years. As you’ll notice it has a strong almond odor.”

  Lilly could smell the stuff, although she didn’t know what almonds smelled like. Then she felt some dull scratching on her head.

  “We make four small incisions for the screw supports of the frame,” the man said to the others.

  She felt someone dab her head in places.

  “This is going to keep your head still. So, make Mr. Nisha happy and don’t try to move. Okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  Movement. Lilly forced her eyes open. Gloved hands had clamped a heavy metal frame to her head while somebody turned the screws. There was no pain—just a dull squeezing across the top of her skull.

  When they were through, her head was frozen in place. And all she could see was the thick metal bar across her eyes—and hands turning knobs and moving things.

  For a brief spell, she closed her eyes, and …

  She was at Crescent Lake Beach with her mom and dad. Her mother was saying not to go out into deep water.

  “Lilly, don’t fall asleep. We need you to be awake to talk to us, okay? Just watch the video.”

  “‘Kay,” she said. On the television monitor she was still dancing with Mr. Nisha. She looked so silly with him attached to her like that, his big fat trunk swaying with the music.

  Someplace in the background she thought she heard the squealing of the gurney.

  “Because the brain is completely encased in bone, reaching surgical targets is more difficult than for surgeries on other parts of the body. And the reason, of course, is that critical structures or vessels limit the choice of possible trajectories. But that’s not our concern here.”

  Then Lilly heard another voice. “Doctor, the first target is two millimeters below the midcommissural line and twelve millimeters laterally which locates us in the subthalamic nucleus.”

  “Good,” the doctor said. “This halo structure has major advantages over conventional stereotaxic frames for determining coordinates,” he continued, although Lilly had no idea what he was saying. “It’s precisely calibrated with little stopples to prevent the probes from straying or probing too far. It’s one of the wonders of finely tooled machines—the ultimate in precision drilling.”

  She closed her eyes. Someplace in the fog she heard, “Don’t be afraid. It’s not going to hurt.”

  Small voices. Kids blurred on the beach behind her as she waded into deeper water. “Not too far.” She tried to look back at the beach, to her mother sitting on the blanket. She could hear her calling her name, but because of the big metal thing on her head, she couldn’t turn.

  “Lil
ly, look at the movie and tell me your name.”

  “Lilly Bellingham.”

  “Good girl.”

  She closed her eyes and was back at the lake, now in waist-deep water. Voices on the shore fading, and her mother calling her name. “That’s far enough.” Suddenly she heard something that snapped her eyes open.

  Zzzzzzrrrrrrr.

  She tried to turn her head, but it was anchored in place.

  Zzzzzzrrrrrrr.

  The sound was right behind her. On top of her.

  “Lilly, do you feel anything?” Miss Vera.

  “Uhnnn.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No, I don’t.” Her words sounded clear.

  “Good. What’s your name?”

  “I told you it’s Lilly Bellingham.”

  The buzzing was louder, almost as if there were some kind of bug in her head trying to get out.

  “How you doing, Lilly?”

  “Fine.”

  More buzzing at the other side of her head. And a funny tingling sensation deep inside as hands worked away on the instruments.

  Suddenly the drilling stopped.

  “Lilly, how you doin’?”

  “Fine.”

  She started to doze off, when the same man in the green mask said, “First hollow needle, please.”

  “Localization?”

  “Target.”

  “Good.”

  Out of the crack of her eyes, she saw a hand with a large hypodermic needle full of cloudy pink stuff.

  “Lilly, tell me your name.”

  “Lilly Bellingham.”

  She waded farther into the water up to her chest. Strange, the water was turning cloudy. She tried to look back to shore, but could not turn her head. She heard her mother’s voice.

  “Needle.”

  A little later, somebody said something. “Lilly, tell me your name.”

  “Lil-ly Bell-ing-ham.”

  “Good girl. Needle.”

  The water was turning pink. A milky pink. Like calamine lotion.

  “Lilly, what’s your name?”

  “Lilbingum.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lilbingum.”

  “Good girl. Needle.”

  Lilly moved deeper into the water which she knew was not a good idea because her mother said not to go in past her waist especially after eating, and she had just eaten a sandwich what kind she forgot but she just could not stop moving away from shore and the funny thing was that the water became cloudier as she moved deeper—cloudy pinkish-white and bright as if it were blending in with the blank white clouds on the horizon or as if the water were turning into milk which was so strange because it was dark brownish-green earlier when she walked into it and she could see her feet through it but now it was cloudy white like the sky ahead and above—just a big white mass.

  “Lilly!” Her mother, calling from far away.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Needle.”

  So many needles.

  “Lilly, tell me your name.”

  “Libum.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lib.”

  “Needle.”

  Lilly could barely hear her mother calling her. She wanted to call back and tell her mom that she could not stop and that she had to come and bring her back before it was too late—but the strange thing was she could not answer her.

  “Lilly? Are you okay? Tell me your name, Lilly.”

  Lilly opened her eyes.

  The woman’s face was right above her. And behind her on the television monitor was a picture of a little girl. She could see it clearly and she could hear her words.

  “Your name, Lilly. Tell me your name.”

  She had no idea.

  48

  Saturday was a stunningly beautiful day. The air was light and sultry, the sky was a delft-blue with cumulus puffs rolling overhead, and a full face of the moon hung above like a silver wafer. The mid-morning sun lit up the Charles Tracey baseball field with stereoscopic clarity. The red clay diamond, etched into the brilliant expanse of green, seemed to blaze as if lit from within. In the distance, beyond the trees, spread the Atlantic like a vast sheet of amethyst all the way to the horizon where it merged with the sky into a seamless blue vault.

  The teams were gathered along the sidelines—Dylan and his mates in their bright blue Beacons T-shirts and caps, and the Lobsters, of course, in red. It was the first day of actual intramural T-ball, and Dylan was beside himself with excitement. Last weekend and on a couple afternoons, they had practiced hitting, fielding, and running the bases. Now was the “Great Big Game,” as he had called it. All week long he had been talking about it. “I’m gonna hit a big one for the ole Mama Rache,” he had promised. The ole Mama Rache. She didn’t know where he got that from, but she loved it.

  From the little grandstand along the first base line, she and Martin watched the coaches try to calm the kids for instructions. For the first time in weeks, Rachel let herself relax into the moment—a moment that she would give her life to hold on to forever.

  When they were ready, the Beacons took to the field. Luckily Dylan started and was sent to left field because the coach said that he had a strong arm.

  Dylan waved at Rachel and Martin as he trotted off with his glove, looking back to the coach who signaled where to stand.

  The first Lobster got up to the plate holding a fat plastic bat almost as big as he was. Laughing to himself, one of the coaches brought him a smaller one and showed him how to choke up. The head coach served as pitcher, gently lobbing the balls underhand to the batter. The first boy struck out. The second sent a dribble to the third baseman who overthrew as the batter made it to first, and the crowd in the opposing grandstand cheered him on. In a less than ten minutes, the sides retired and the Beacons came in. Rachel and Martin didn’t know where Dylan was in the lineup, but the inning was over with the fifth batter. And Dylan was sent back to left field.

  Rachel was thoroughly enjoying the game and letting the sun soothe her spirit. Yet, observing the other parents even at this level of play, she could sense a competitive tension—one that she imagined would evolve into one of those sharp-edged things as the years progressed. While she could not imagine Hawthorne Little League parents coming to fisticuffs, something just below the surface made her uncomfortable. A nearby couple appeared to take it hard when their son struck out or when a batter from the opposing team scored. The woman two rows below cried “Oh, shit!” when her Clayton was tagged running home. And downbench from them people were keeping a running tally as if this were the Red Sox and Yankees.

  At the bottom of the second inning, Rachel spotted Sheila MacPhearson approaching the grandstand, and her stomach tightened. Rachel didn’t want to talk to Sheila. She didn’t want to be distracted from the pleasure of watching her son. She did not want to share the moment with anybody other than Martin.

  Sheila waved and climbed up toward them. “I saw the blue uniforms,” she said, settling next to Martin. “So I knew you guys would be here. There he is,” she chortled, fluttering her hand in Dylan’s direction even though he was looking the other way. “He looks adorable. I love the blue on him,” she said as if she were a favorite aunt.

  “Aren’t you working today?” Rachel asked.

  “I will be,” she said and checked her watch. “So what’s the score?”

  “Seven to three, Beacons,” Martin said.

  Rachel looked at him. He too had been keeping score. Like it mattered!

  “Good for them,” Sheila said. “I hope they whip their butts.”

  “How are sales?” Martin asked.

  Sheila rocked her head. “Mezzo mezzo. With the economy, things are slow even with price drops. People don’t have the money they used to. It’s gotten tough.”

  Rachel nudged Martin. Dylan moved up to the plate. He tapped his sneakers with the bat like the pros and took a few practice swings. Rachel’s heart flooded with love.

  “
You’re a hitter, Dylan,” Martin called.

  “GO DYL-AN!” Sheila shouted.

  Rachel felt her insides clench. All she wanted was for him to feel good about himself, and that meant just one little hit, even if he popped out or got tagged. Just for him to feel the ball crack against the bat.

  The first ball went by him almost without his notice. They weren’t counting balls and strikes. Dylan let four perfect pitches go by. When the fifth one passed him and he still hadn’t taken a swing, Rachel began to wonder if he was scared or wasn’t sure what to do. The coaches kept up a constant litany:

  “Come on, Big D!”

  “You’re a hitter, Dylan.”

  “Nice easy swing.”

  “Keep your eye on the ball.”

  “Is he okay?” Sheila asked.

  Before Rachel could answer, Dylan smashed the next pitch.

  Instantly she was on her feet, jumping up and down and cheering as the ball shot past the second baseman on a fly and toward center. The outfielder missed the catch and took off after it. By the time he got the ball, Dylan was bounding toward third base while the coaches waved him on and the crowd cheered.

  Rachel was so excited she heard herself hooting. The second baseman threw the ball to the shortstop, backed by the kid from third. But the throw was high, and while the coaches shouted for Dylan to slow down as he rounded third, that he’d be safe, he didn’t stop but made a dramatic slide home in a cloud of dust just as he had seen on TV. Instantly, the coaches and Beacons were all over him with pats and high fives.

  Rachel’s heart was pounding, and her eyes were wet. “Way to go, Dylan!”

  Beaming at them, Dylan waved, then he pointed his finger at her. “A big one for the ole Mama Rache.”

  Thank you, God.

  Now she didn’t care what happened for the rest of the game.

  When the shouting died, Martin leaned to Sheila. “How’s Brad doing?”

  “Well as can be expected, what with a double death.” Then she pressed into a conspiratorial huddle with Rachel. “I don’t know him well, but I think he’s in shock. He went to his sister’s in Oregon.” She then shook her head. “She was a driven woman. And sometimes under pressure you do careless things. It’s not like she was a dummy and couldn’t write her own book. But there’s a lot of pressure to produce, and she fell to temptation. What can I say?”