by H. G. Nadel
As she made the final few turns into her quiet San Clemente neighborhood, the rain stopped. Julia turned off the wipers, the stereo, and finally the engine, as she parked in front of her apartment building. That’s when she saw something move in her periphery. She looked toward the narrow space between the neighbor’s house and her building. The two buildings, a large bougainvillea, and a weedy little tree created competing shadows. Nothing.
“Okay, you’re just hallucinating now, Julia. Get some sleep,” she said to herself as she opened the car door and hurried up the sidewalk.
The sound of her own voice in the dripping quiet after the rain only made her more nervous, and her hands shook as she fumbled for her keys. Her dad always told her to have her house keys out the moment she got out of the car, and she usually did. When she heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind her, she looked over her shoulder and saw a man walking toward her. He wore an oversized sweatshirt, and his hands were stuffed deep in the front pouch. His hood was pulled low over his face, so that she couldn’t make out his features even when he passed under a street lamp.
Her body felt suddenly wet and cold—not because it was raining, but because a chill sweat was surging through every single pore as she sprinted toward her stairway. She tripped up the stairs and leaped to her doorway, where she dropped the keys. She felt around for them in the dark, wondering why there was no light like there usually was. Something sharp cut her hand, and she jerked it back with an involuntary gasp of pain. As she heard the metallic echo of feet on the stairway, her hand landed on the keys. She shoved her key into the lock, turned the key, then pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind her. She quickly locked the deadbolt and chain, then leaned against the door, coughing and panting for air.
Julia steeled herself and then turned to look out the peephole. Just then, the apartment door across the hall from her opened, and a group of boisterous college girls spilled out into the hall. The hooded man walked past the girls, past her apartment, and around the corner into another section of the building.
Once she caught her breath, she remained in the doorway for several minutes, uncertain of what to do. She called Austin, but she hung up when she heard the voicemail greeting. Then she felt foolish. The guy probably lived in the building. She knew only a small fraction of her neighbors. She told herself that she was so traumatized from the other night, she must have overdramatized it all.
Mustering her courage, Julia walked to the kitchen and turned on the light. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and guzzled it down. Some of the water spilled out of her mouth and down her neck. She slid a hand across her neck, and it came away slick with water and sweat. She pulled out one of her two red Naugahyde kitchen chairs and sat facing the front door, staring. She imagined a body hurling at the door, the doorjamb splintering, the door flying open, and the guy in the hoodie rushing toward her. Julia shook from head to toe.
She became aware of a ticking sound. She looked at her retro diner clock. Midnight. She rarely came home this late on a weeknight, so the guy was probably just a neighbor she’d never seen. She walked to her front window, where she pulled the curtain aside a tentative crack. Shocked, she pulled it back all the way. Now she knew why her doorway had been dark: the light fixture and bulb in the outdoor hallway were broken. She looked at her hand holding the curtain and let go. Blood stained the curtain and dripped from her palm, where she’d cut herself on the broken glass that was lying on the hallway floor. It hadn’t been a flimsy fixture, but thick, foggy glass. Someone had broken it on purpose.
She realized the kitchen light was on, and her body was making a shadow against the curtain that anyone outside could see. She dropped to the ground, quivering, and didn’t move until the morning light cast its rays through the cracks in the curtain.
TEN
The medieval great hall is cavernous, with thick stone walls, elegant marble columns, and high arched ceilings. Rich tapestries depicting detailed royal legends and biblical events cover the walls from floor to ceiling. Her wandering eyes turn from the room’s distractions back to the open book and half-blank parchment, which sit atop the hand-carved cedar table before her. She dips a quill into a pot of ink, taps away the excess, and writes three words. Then she dips the quill again. She feels no frustration at the slowness of this process and doesn’t feel puzzled to find herself writing in French.
Yet some part of her knows that the only portion of this scene that should feel familiar to her is that she’s writing about the soul. This time it’s not about the pineal gland or electricity or PCP, but about something Aristotle called the rational soul—what it is, where it resides, how it functions, and why it’s important in the life of man. Man? Why just man? She dips the quill again and adds the words, “and woman.” She understands that there are some, scholars and religious clerics alike, who would find her addition of that word heretical. She turns to cast a questioning look over her shoulder at Pierre. He smiles and nods encouragement.
“Why not? If body and soul are connected, then how could your brain hold such thoughts unless you had a rational soul? If Aristotle had met a woman like you he might have thought differently.”
“Aristotle would never have bothered to teach me anything. He would have assumed I was only soil, fit for a man’s seed. So he wouldn’t have given himselfthe opportunity to find out that his hypothesis about women was false.”
“Are you saying that men are the irrational sex?”
“No, only that all humans must be vigilant in the maintenance of their souls and, therefore, their search for truth. Accepted truth is only as good as the tests used to prove it. So I would not say Aristotle was wrong but only suggest that his work was unfinished.”
“Aristotle would encourage the questioning of accepted truths. But take care with whom you share these thoughts. Many men become irritable when questioned by women.”
“Not you, dear teacher.”
“Not me. But then we might hypothesize that I am a man made irrational by love.” He bends closer to examine her work but then turns his head as if to kiss her.
Just then a cough startles them. Pierre bolts upright, and she leaps to her feet, as an older man dressed in black enters the room. Did he see them? Does he suspect that they have become more than teacher and student? But his face is as unreadable as blank parchment.
“Hello, Uncle!” She feigns an enthusiasm she doesn’t feel.
“Hello, my child.”His voice is ceremonious, almost cold. He turns to Pierre, “How is my protégée doing?”
“Amazingly well, Your Excellence. Inside that lovely head rests the most luminous mind in all of France.”
She wishes he wouldn’t pour it on so thick.
Her uncle’s lips tighten. “High praise for a woman, though I’m happy to know that someone else appreciates the jewel of my household.”
“It’s no empty flattery. She offers an outstanding analysis of Aristotle’s degrees of the soul: nutritive, sensitive, rational. And she recognizes the different values that might flow from Plato’s concept, in which soul and body are separate, as opposed to Aristotle’s concept, in which soul and body are inseparable.” His unguarded enthusiasm contrasts sharply with the stern formality of the older man.
Her uncle stares directly into Pierre’s eyes, until the younger man drops his gaze in confusion. Her uncle’s look strikes her as threatening. “I can see that my niece appreciates your appreciation. “As he turns his gaze on her, it softens into something closer to sorrow than anger. “I hope you appreciate the education my money affords you.”
“I do, Uncle. You have been good to me in every way.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek—a move that felt natural when she was a child. But now her lips shrink from his beard-stubbled and wrinkled face. She steps back to gauge his reaction. He smiles at her, and his look softens, though not completely. There is affection in that glance … and something more.
Her uncle’s voice turns gruff. “Don’t
let me keep you from your work. I’ll expect you to entertain me at dinner with the new ideas this teacher has put in your pretty head.” He nods, and she and Pierre bow. Then the old man leaves in aflutter of black.
As soon as his footsteps fade into another part of the large house, the two young people turn to stare at each other, wide-eyed as children who have weathered a sudden storm. Then they break into giggles of relief. She sits down again at the table and resumes writing, but her hand is shaking and her letters are uneven. Pierre places a hand over hers, stopping the progress of her quill. He guides her hand to set the quill down on the blotter, and then he leans over her chair and enfolds her in an embrace that takes her breath away. She sighs and looks up at him. They kiss, their lips barely touching, as if this would make it easier to part should her uncle return. But the feathery touch only makes her want more. Her lips press harder against his. Shefeels as ifsomeone is still watching, but this time she cannot stop.
Julia woke with a start. She looked around the room, expecting to see her uncle. What uncle? His name was on the tip of her tongue. She thought of Pierre, who still had the face of Austin, of course. Her hand rose to her mouth, and she ran a finger across her bottom lip.
Julia’s dreams were becoming increasingly vivid—so vivid that she almost couldn’t tell them from her waking life, except for the dead giveaway that the dreams took place in another era. Her apartment was bright with sunlight as Julia picked herself off the floor and straggled into the kitchen. She pulled out the French press and brewed herself a cup of dark French Roast coffee. As she poured the boiling water into the press, she remembered how her father had teased Michele about serving Julia her first coffee when she was only fourteen.
“You’ll stunt the girl’s growth with that stuff.”
“I drank coffee when I was her age.”
“And look how petite you are.”
“You never complained before.” She had arched one brow, and her father had thrown his arms around her and kissed her neck.
“Maybe you two should take it to the bedroom,” Julia had said, rolling her eyes.
Yet now she loved the way the smell of fresh coffee brought that image to mind. The way her father had looked at her mother was the way the young man in her dream had looked at her. Wasn’t it also the way the older man had looked at her, for just a moment?
As she recalled the dream, she lost track of how many minutes the coffee had been steeping. She pushed the plunger down. It didn’t matter all that much. Her mother always made it strong, and Julia still liked it that way. The only change she’d made to their old morning ritual was replacing her mom’s nonfat milk with soy. The dark roast stayed. As she took a sip, tears sprang to her eyes. If her mother were here now, Julia would tell her about her dream while they sipped their coffee. “Just between us girls, non?” her mom would whisper and try to help her interpret the dream.
Julia peered out the window at the broken glass left from the night before. She was still nervous about opening the door, as if someone might be waiting to pounce on her the moment she did. There was no reason for her to return to the lab today, anyway, since Bertel was still missing. And she could still do plenty of work from home, thanks to her laptop.
Julia reached for her computer and turned it on. Nadia had e-mailed her a link to a fashion site, along with a note, “If you’re going to go gaga over the big-boy cop, time to shop in the big-girl stores.” Julia usually ignored Nadia’s hints about her nonexistent sense of style: “Guess you didn’t get Mommy’s French fashion gene, huh?” But this time, Julia clicked the link and wasted fifteen minutes looking at baby doll dresses, maxi dresses, and jeggings. Then, confused by the game of hide-and-seek legs, she closed the window on fashion and opened the file with her research.
She looked through some calculations—proposed dosages for a drug compound she’d been working on. She had e-mailed them to Bertel, and he’d e-mailed them back with comments inserted here and there, most of them enthusiastic: “If each drug multiplies the reactions of the other, the results could be just what we’re looking for!” and “Incredible imagination!” and “How did you think of using those side effects as primary effects?” The ghost of a smile passed across her face. In high school, most of her science and math teachers had been perfectionists, automatons, or just plain angry old men, who didn’t put much stock in giving praise. If you earned an A, they figured your effort was its own reward. Bertel was different.
Julia brushed her hand across his comments. “Where are you, Doc?” she whispered softly. The last day they’d spent together, he’d said, “We’ve been working together for two months now, and I’m not your teacher. Do you think you could call me by my first name?” Now she whispered, as if afraid of being overheard, “Caleb, are you still alive?” At that moment, the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She felt sure someone else was in the room. She saw a reflection in her laptop, something passing her bedroom door. She looked over her shoulder but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She shrugged off the sudden chill and turned back to her work.
They were very close to discovering whether the pineal gland was the link between body and soul. Yes, they had watched the pineal gland regain momentary activity at the chemical level, a change no one had ever achieved before. But a week later, they had also done follow-up tests with two more brains, and that time they’d created a change that had lasted long enough to yield another measurement: weight. For just two seconds, each brain had gained twenty-one grams.
It was impossible to ignore the possibility: This was the same twenty-one grams that Dr. Duncan MacDougal’s test subjects had lost upon their deaths in 1901, causing him to speculate that he had discovered the precise weight of the human soul. The results Julia and Bertel had achieved were tentative; but, if they were proven, the scientific implications were staggering. Bertel had been as giddy as a teenager.
“We’ve found it, Julia: Descartes’ seat of the soul! Do you think the soul enters the pineal gland at birth or before that?”
“Even light has weight, Dr. Bertel. It could be that we’ve simply reintroduced some form of energy into these brains. We still have a ways to go before we can call it a soul.”
“Yes, we do. But come on, Julia, give in to your imagination for a moment. Can you picture what it will be like if we get there?”
She grinned. “Pretty awesome!”
“That’s my girl!”
Although Julia wasn’t sure she believed in God, she considered life after death a possibility. What others called “the soul” could simply be the energy associated with the human brain. If energy and matter couldn’t be created or destroyed, but could only change form, then where did that energy go after death? She was willing to concede the possibility, especially because it made Dr. Bertel so happy.
“Dr. Bertel,” she said, “there’s one thing that worries me.”
“What’s that?”
“Dr. Frankenstein.”
“Julia, that’s just a story.”
“Yes, but it’s about the hubris of man trying to usurp the role of God. There might be something to that.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“Okay, Nature then. I mean, maybe death is, you know, natural.”
“Viruses and bacteria are natural too. Do you think we should let them run rampant?”
“Of course not. I just think the possibility of raising the dead raises moral questions.”
Bertel’s face had changed when she’d said that, becoming almost manic—whether with joy or fear, she couldn’t tell. “Of course, Julia!” He gripped her shoulders. “And I don’t want you to even think about trying such a thing on your own. We’re a long way from clinical trials.”
Julia realized now that it wasn’t Bertel she’d been trying to convince. She kept thinking about the moment the breath had left her mother’s body. She’d imagined injecting a chemical into her mother’s pineal gland to keep her soul with them. How long would it have worked
before her diseased body would no longer have made a usable vessel? Long enough to exchange a few more words? Long enough to see her high school graduation? Long enough to meet her future husband?
That night, Julia had laid in her bed, unable to sleep. It was too late for her mother. But maybe they could save someone else. Had they actually found the path to immortality? When she had finally fallen asleep, she’d dreamed about Frankenstein’s monster chasing her all over the campus of UCI. In her dream, the monster, a bolt-necked, 1930s Boris Karloff type, started touching every student he passed, turning them into zombies in a horrifying game of cat and mouse.
Now, as she stared at her laptop inside her apartment, Julia couldn’t keep herself from reframing that dream—where she wandered around a hospital touching patients who had died before their time, watching them jump up to hug surprised and laughing families, and then following them as they walked out of the hospital on their own two feet.
What kind of scientist was she, hiding in her apartment when there was more research to be done? She took a deep breath, tried to push the image of the hooded man out of her mind, and stood up. She went to her dresser, opened a drawer, and began to grab an old T-shirt. Then again, maybe Austin will come back to the lab, she thought. She shut the drawer and went to her closet, where she picked out a lacy tank top and a short skirt—not quite a mini, but one that showed off more leg than usual. It was one of Nadia’s old skirts, of course.
Julia walked into the bathroom to get ready, taking her lukewarm coffee with her and setting it on the vanity. She sloughed off her nightshirt and jumped in the shower. When she stepped out, she reached for the coffee and was surprised to find the cup full. When had she brewed another cup? She raised it to her lips. It was hot and smelled fresh. As the taste washed over her tongue, she could swear that she tasted nonfat milk instead of her usual soy.
