“Yup, anytime you’re ready.”
She laughed. “We’re done, Jim.”
“Oh.”
She leaned over me again and undid the strap. I rubbed my forehead to restore circulation; the strap’s texture had been impressed into my skin.
“And what’s the scoop?”
“You’re a Q3, just like me and Kayla,” said Vic.
“A super position to be in,” I said as I sat up.
“Is he always like that?” Vic said, looking at Kayla.
Kayla sighed affectionately. “I’m afraid so.”
I got off the gurney and walked over so I could see the monitor they were looking at. Vic pointed. “See the three spikes? Each one is an electron in superposition.”
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to a wobbly horizontal line much higher up on the display.
“We’re not sure,” said Vic, frowning. “It’s always there when we do our runs, and it never changes. It looks like some sort of quantum entanglement, but . . .” She shrugged.
“We’ll identify it eventually,” said Kayla, “but—yeah, it’s been driving us nuts.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
19
KAYLA had work to do that day, which left me with many hours to kill. I wanted to fill in as much of my missing six months as possible, and so I decided to see if anyone I knew from that period happened to live in Saskatoon now. Kayla set me up in an empty office at the Light Source, and I typed this query into the computer there:
“University of Manitoba” graduated 2003 Saskatoon
I looked at the first batch of results—LinkedIn pages, business listings—but didn’t recognize any of the names. I clicked “Next,” and, lo and behold, there was someone I knew well: David Swinson; we’d had adjacent dorm rooms. He’d become an optometrist, it seems, and his business address, according to Google Maps, wasn’t far from the Light Source. What the hell, I thought, and headed off to ask Kayla if I could borrow her car.
—
The shopping mall was small by the standards of such things, just a couple dozen stores, most of which were chain clothing shops: The Gap, Lululemon, Old Navy. But there were also a few professional offices: two family practitioners, an accountant, and my friend Dave the optometrist. His unit had a front window with posters of people wearing glasses. Actually, I was convinced they were posters of people wearing glasses frames: there was no distortion or reflection to give any indication that they had lenses in them.
I swung the door open, and a little chime sounded. Inside was a receptionist’s desk, some chairs, wooden racks filled with frames, and another door that presumably led to the examining room. The receptionist must have been away because a man emerged from the back wearing a navy-blue lab coat. I wouldn’t have recognized him on the street. All but the barest fringe of Dave’s hair was gone, and a full beard hid much of his lower face. His blue eyes were bracketed by crow’s-feet, and his skin had both a roughness and looseness it hadn’t possessed when he’d been in his early twenties.
“Dave?” I said.
He looked at me without the slightest hint of recognition, which disappointed me. I liked to think I’d aged better than he had. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” I said. “Jim. Jim Marchuk. You know, from U of M.”
The eyes went wide, and color came into his lined face. “Fuck,” he said softly.
“I know it’s been a long time, but—”
“Get out.” His voice had taken on an edge. “Get the fuck out.”
“Dave, I—”
“Don’t you fucking ‘Dave’ me. Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ.”
I tried to keep my tone friendly. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“About what? About how you almost ruined my whole life? What the hell are you doing here? I’m going to piss on your fucking grave, asshole—and you can’t be in it soon enough.”
“Dave, honestly—”
A vertical vein was standing out in the middle of his forehead. “‘Honestly’?” he sneered. “‘Honestly’? You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Dave, I don’t know what you think I did, but—”
“But nothing,” he said. His fists were trembling at his sides. He seemed to be aware of the fact that he was losing it, because he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. And then he spoke, low, measured: “This is private property. I’m asking you—I’m telling you—to leave. Right now.”
“Dave . . .”
“Right now, or I call the goddamn police. Understand?” He pointed to the glass door, his arm shaking as he did so.
I looked at him a moment longer, then shrugged a little. I was worried about what he might do if I turned my back on him, so I backed out, wondering exactly what the hell I had done to him all those years ago.
—
I walked around the mall in a daze for a while, trying to regain my equilibrium and waiting for my heart to stop pounding. When I at last felt in control enough to operate a motor vehicle, I drove back to the Light Source to return Kayla’s car.
Although my business there was technically concluded—I’d been analyzed on the beamline, and could take a cab to the bus station for the long trip home—it was now Friday afternoon, and, to my delight, Kayla suggested I stay through the weekend. She didn’t live far from the Light Source, and rather than have me hang around there while she worked, she volunteered to drive me back to her house. We swung by Victoria’s office first, and Kayla retrieved her spare key from Vic—apparently, they each had a key to the other’s home—so that I could go out for a walk later, or whatever, and then she drove me back. I thought she was just going to drop me off, but she turned off the car, and came on in with me, and—
—she swung me around, draped her arms around my neck, pulled me close, and kissed me.
When our lips finally separated, I said, softly, “Wow . . .”
She smiled up at me, blue eyes twinkling. “I wasn’t sure before, but you did pass the test. Plus, Vic thinks you’re a catch.”
She took my hand and led me upstairs to her bedroom, its walls painted a soft mint green, and soon our clothes were off, and we were lying on the bed. I’d certainly fantasized about something like this happening, but, well, it was midafternoon, and, even with the lights off, plenty of illumination poured in through the window. I couldn’t help but feel an even worse case of the discomfort I’d experienced when Kayla and I had met at lunch. Nobody looked as good at thirty-nine as they did at twenty, and although I tried to get at least some exercise every day, she was doubtless thinking I’d aged since the last time she’d seen me naked.
But I thought Kayla looked absolutely stunning: smooth skin; flat tummy; small, high breasts; and a landing strip that was presumably her hair’s natural dark brown. She also had a gorgeous tattoo of a turquoise butterfly, its body running parallel to but just above her panty line. I traced the leading edge of its upper wing with my fingertip and was surprised to find that it covered a raised ridge.
She must have anticipated my question. “That’s why I got the tat,” she said. “Looks so much nicer than an appendectomy scar.” And indeed it did; it was lovely, just like its bearer.
Kayla had condoms in her night table, and we rolled around, most pleasantly, for half an hour—until she had to return to work.
—
Kayla returned four hours later, accompanied by her six-year-old daughter. Ryan bounded into the living room, where I was sitting reading, to say hello. She had long light-brown hair and brown eyes, and, when she smiled, a dimple in her left cheek; she was wearing a T-shirt showing a singer named Lorde (helpfully labeled beneath her photo—otherwise, I’d have had no idea).
“Ryan,” Kayla said, catching up with her, “this is Jim.”
“‘Jim,’” she said, trying it out.
“I think I’ll call you ‘Jiminy,’ like Jiminy Cricket.”
“Then I’m going to call you ‘Ginger Ale,’” I said.
“Why?”
“’Cause adults sometimes drink rye and ginger ale.”
She frowned, puzzling it through, then, “Oh!” Her smile was radiant. “Okay, Jiminy!”
Our secret names established, Ryan said, “Do you like Taylor Swift?”
“Are you kidding? She’s one of my top-ten favorite Taylors!”
“She’s got a new video!” exclaimed Ryan. “Let me show you . . .”
I smiled at Kayla, who smiled warmly back at me, and Ryan took my hand and led me over to the couch, where a MacBook was sitting. She opened it up, went to YouTube, and as she played me a string of her favorite videos, I ooohed and aaahed appropriately.
Having not yet had a chance to shop since returning from Winnipeg, Kayla didn’t have much food in the house. I volunteered to pay for pizza to be delivered, Kayla recommended a place called TJ’s, and we got two pies—a large #14 (pepperoni and mushrooms) for the girls, and a small #19 (“veggie supreme”) with no cheese for me.
After dinner, I watched while Ryan showed off her skills at Minecraft and Platypus Pirates. When it was time for her to go to bed, she gave me a big hug. Kayla took her upstairs, and I read news on my phone. Appallingly, three Latina women—maybe illegally in the US, maybe not—had been found shot to death just outside Dallas. Meanwhile, the NDP caucus, which had almost immediately declared Naheed Nenshi party leader, was getting good press: The Toronto Star had an editorial with the headline “We Need Naheed,” which was fun enough to say that I suspected it would become a meme.
When Kayla returned, she sat next to me on the couch and put a hand on my thigh. “Ryan really likes you. Normally, she can’t wait to get away from my friends.”
“She’s sweet,” I said. “I enjoyed every minute.”
“You’re really good with kids. Seriously. Ever thought about having one of your own?”
I looked away. “Yeah,” I said. “From time to time.”
20
“ANNA-LEE, Jim, thanks so much for coming in,” Dr. Villager had said—three years ago now, I guess it was.
“Sure,” I replied, taking the left-hand seat facing her desk, and, “Of course,” said Anna-Lee, settling into the right-hand one.
“I have some news,” Villager said. Anna-Lee must have heard something in the doctor’s voice; she reached over and took my hand, squeezing it. “As you know, I always recommend amniocentesis for women over thirty-five, purely as a precaution. And, well, there’s good reason for that. The risk of certain anomalies goes up dramatically after that point.”
“My God . . .” Anna-Lee’s voice was almost inaudible.
Dr. Villager nodded. “The fetus has Down syndrome.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, knowing, of course, that she must be.
“Yes, absolutely. He—it’s a boy—has three chromosome twenty-ones. The provincial health plan will pay for an abortion if you wish.”
“My God,” said Anna-Lee, again. “My God.”
“You don’t have to decide today,” Dr. Villager said. “But you should decide soon.”
—
Anna-Lee and I were lying in bed, side by side, each of us on our backs, each staring up in the dark at the featureless ceiling. “Sweetheart,” I said, “we talked about all this before you took the test.”
I was hoping for a verbal acknowledgment, or, at least, the rustling of the pillow to indicate that she was nodding in agreement. But there was nothing.
“I mean,” I continued, “since we’re only planning on having one child, we need to consider whether this child is the best use of our resources, right? There’ll be enormous extra expenses, and, no matter what we do, the child will almost certainly have a life not only of lesser quality but also lesser quantity; people with Down rarely live past their twenties.”
She was immobile, a toppled statue.
“And, well, you know the utilitarian position: one can’t give special consideration to one’s own needs; you can’t put them above those of others. But you can factor them in as you would anyone else’s. This isn’t the life we wanted. Yes, sure, parenting is always a full-time job, anyway, but this will leave no room for anything else. And the economic impact . . .”
I trailed off, wishing she’d give some sign—any sign—that I was getting through to her.
“That’s our son you’re talking about,” she said at last.
I blew out air. “An embryo has no—”
“Please,” said Anna-Lee firmly.
But I pressed on. “An embryo has no more moral standing than what we’d give to an animal with a similar level of self-consciousness, rationality, ability to feel, and so on. The utilitarian position—”
“Fuck utilitarianism,” she said, and rolled onto her side facing away from me.
I rolled onto my side, too, wanting to spoon her, but I knew enough not to reach out and touch her just then. With my ear pressed against the pillow, I could faintly hear my heartbeat.
Or—
No, no. Of course it was my own heartbeat. Who else’s could it have been?
—
I was there in the delivery room when Virgil came out into the world. He was quiet; even after Dr. Villager slapped him gently on the bottom, he made no sound. I’d hoped, against all logic, to see a normal child, but even with his features squished and wet, it was obvious the prenatal diagnosis had been correct. Virgil’s face was flat, and his tongue protruded slightly. Dr. Villager handed him to Anna-Lee, who still had tears on her face from the pain of delivery, but her expression was joyous as she held the boy—until she looked up at me. Although I was doing my level best, her gaze went cold.
—
They kept Virgil and Anna-Lee at the hospital for four days after his birth; apparently there was a whole suite of things that could go wrong early on for a Down child—respiratory problems, difficulties suckling, and more. I spent as much time as I could at the hospital; Anna-Lee’s mother was there during those visiting hours when I couldn’t be.
When they were finally ready to discharge Virgil, I came to take him and Anna-Lee home. I went into the familiar hospital room, with its pale-yellow walls; my faculty health plan covered the extra cost of the private room. I was surprised to find my mother-in-law there, too, standing silently next to the bed.
“I’m not coming home,” Anna-Lee said the moment I entered. Virgil was sleeping on her chest.
“But Dr. Villager said—”
“I’m leaving here,” Anna-Lee said, “but Virgil and I are going to stay with my parents.”
I was silent for a time, digesting this. “May I ask why?”
“I never want Virgil to see that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
“The look that says you wish he’d never been born.”
“Anna-Lee, please . . .”
“It’s true, isn’t it? That’s how you feel.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t find any words.
Anna-Lee held our baby tightly and shook her head. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jim.”
—
I shook my head, dispelling the memories, and turned back to face Kayla, in her living room, in the here and now—and I quickly sought to move the conversation on from the topic of children. “Are these of Travis?” I said, getting up to look at a cluster of photos in little frames on one of her bookshelves. I could see the family resemblance to Kayla: they both had high cheekbones, generous noses, and perfectly vertical foreheads.
She moved in to stand next to me. “Yup.”
He was wearing a brown-and-yellow University of Manitoba T-shirt in one of the shots. “He went to U of M, too?”
“Yeah. Business school. He was quite an athlete—grea
t runner, but also did snowboarding, motocross, and more.” She pointed at another picture. “That’s him finishing the Boston Marathon.”
“What year was that?”
She picked up the frame, flipped it over, and looked at what had been written on the backside. “Two thousand,” she said. “‘The Millennial Marathon.’” I was about to say, “Actually . . .” but she beat me to it: “Of course, not really—but that’s what they called it.” But then her voice grew wistful. “Last time he ever got to run it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He’s been in his coma since 2001.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What date?”
“I don’t remember. Sometime before you and I started dating, though.”
“Which was the beginning of March, so, if you’re sure it was 2001, then that means January or February.”
“I guess.”
“You’d said they found him passed out. Where?”
“In a classroom.”
“On the U of M campus?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know which building?”
“No. Why?”
“Was he by any chance a subject in Professor Warkentin’s experiments?”
“I have no idea.”
“Jesus.” I moved back to the couch and collapsed onto it.
“Jim? What’s wrong?”
“Menno Warkentin told me something a little while ago. He said he felt so guilty about what happened to me, he . . . well, he tried to kill himself, he said. It didn’t work out; he crashed his car, and ended up blind—”
“My God! Really?”
“That’s what he said. But, when you think about it, what had happened to me? According to a reading he saw on his oscilloscope, I’d lost my inner voice. But, externally, my behavior was pretty much the same as before—so that’s an awfully abstract thing to feel suicidally despondent over, even for a psychologist. And, yeah, he’d tried to fix what had gone wrong, using lasers, but that only made it worse, causing my time of . . . of bad behavior. But what if I wasn’t the only one who’d fainted because of Menno’s equipment? What if an athletic business student had passed out, too, and he had never recovered? That would weigh on you, month after month, if the guy never woke up, if his life had been totally ruined because of you.”
Quantum Night Page 15
