Mad Skills

by Greatshell, Walter

  One such place was the Reading Room.

  In her dreams, she had spent a lot of time there, and was surprised to find it much as she remembered: a cozy library and study center, all wheelchair-accessible. She had overheard Dr. Plummer call it the Procrustean Science Reading Room—she wasn’t sure why. Unless maybe because it had the pleasant, crusty smell of old books.

  It was Hell.

  Even wide-awake, she was still a little scared of those books. They figured prominently in her most recent nightmare, a long, weird episode in which she craved books like a drug, cracking their covers and inhaling their contents. No matter how many books she devoured, nothing slaked her terrible thirst. The frustration caused her to rip many of the books apart, cutting her fingers to ribbons as she sought richer marrow to suck. She found a computer, and that helped for a while, but in the end its flow of sustaining manna became a trickle of thin gruel, another starvation diet. Out of desperation, Maddy mangled the computer, too, chasing the spring to its source, enlarging the well. But the dream ended before she finished.

  Perusing the shelves, she knew the books were just books. They did not beckon like insanely addictive fruit. She couldn’t crack them like coconuts and drink their words in one gulp. Proof of that was in the fact that she barely recognized most of the titles, much less remembered their contents. Maddy had never been a big reader; books were not high on her list of favorite entertainments, and these looked especially dull: mostly kids’ books and elementary study manuals. Plowing through the whole library sounded like the worst kind of drudgery. She couldn’t imagine doing it. And yet …

  There were her bloody fingerprints. Volume after volume imprinted with her own dried blood, irrefutable DNA evidence of her very recent lunacy. Pages torn and taped together—like her fingers. A great many books missing, replaced by new ones.

  Maddy picked up a pristine copy of The Compleat Shakespeare and flipped through it. She had always found Shakespeare unreadable, but this was clearly a moron-level abridged version, the watered-down Kid Lit edition. Skimming Titus Andronicus, she flinched, ripping out a handful of pages. Ow. Damn. There was a bead of blood on the exposed base of her thumb—a paper cut!

  Sucking her hand, Maddy thought, What kind of sadistic shit is this?

  Likewise, the “computer” was bogus. It resembled a real computer on the outside but was some sort of cheap imitation, agonizingly slow and clumsy, with limited Internet access and a keyboard that was basically a medieval torture device. She would think she was getting somewhere only to have the picture abruptly scramble. No wonder she had been so frustrated. Whether or not she had ever really taken the device apart, at the moment it was whole and showed no sign of having been fiddled with … except that its CPU was locked in a metal cabinet. That was new.

  Out of curiosity, Maddy took two paper clips from the desk and picked the lock. In minutes, the computer was laid bare. As she tinkered with its circuits, she suddenly realized there was someone watching her. A guy.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Flushing red, trying to cover the evidence of her shame, she said, “Nothing.”

  “Is that a computer?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Did you take it all apart like that?”

  “It’s supposed to come apart.”

  “Yeah, with tools. You use your teeth, or what?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to bug you. I don’t know if we’ve met before. Are you a patient here?”

  “No, I’m a brilliant junior neurosurgeon. Duh, I’m a patient. Which I assume you are, too, unless you shaved your head for kicks.”

  “No, I’m a patient.” He held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Dev.”

  “Maddy Grant.” She reached to shake, then hurriedly retracted her bandaged hand. “Sorry.”

  “What happened to your fingers?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Couple of paper cuts.”

  “Paper cuts?”

  “Sometimes I cut myself.”

  “How?”

  “It’s because the pages are too sharp.” Annoyed by his concerned look, she said, “It’s not on purpose.”

  “What do you mean, they’re too sharp?”

  “The paper is wicked sharp and brittle. I think it’s been heat-treated or something. It’s some kind of stupid dexterity exercise.”

  “Where is this paper?”

  “Up my butt. Where do you think? Inside the books!”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them!”

  “Wait—you really got all cut up like that just from reading?”

  “I told you, the books are weird. You’ll see. You don’t notice at first, but all of a sudden the pages start ripping out, and next thing you know, there’s blood all over the place. And those cuts sting, man. It’s obviously some kind of stupid test because the computer is just as bad—you ever get cramps in both hands at the same time? That’s why I’m simplifying the interface. The doctors deny it, but the purpose of their experiments is obviously to make every task here as hard as possible, so we have an easier time recovering back home.”

  “That sounds a little messed up. Death by a thousand paper cuts?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes logical sense. And it works—I swear, I am so psyched to be leaving tomorrow.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Over a year. But I’ve only been fully conscious for a couple of days now. Before that, it’s all a big acid trip, complete with flashbacks. What about you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean I don’t know. I can’t remember anything for more than a few hours at a time. That’s why I’m here, so they can hopefully cure me.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “How do you remember anything?”

  “I remember basic stuff like my name. Anything else important I write on my arm—see?”

  “Wow. Huh.”

  “Yeah. So you’re some kind of mad genius or something?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s me.” She scoffed. “I’m a real Young Einstein.”

  He looked at the intricate circuit board she was soldering with a glowing twist of live wire from a cannibalized light fixture. “No kidding.”

  She shook her head. “Anyway, it’s not like there’s anything else to do around here. I’d kill for a TV. Just make sure you tape up your hands before you try reading any of this kiddy lit. You should actually write that down.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll just browse for now.” He obviously thought she was a maniac.

  Maddy reassembled the computer while Dev scanned the shelves. She stole glances at him while she tinkered. With his hospital pallor, shaved head, and blue and black scribbles on his left arm, he looked very punk; but there was something endearingly childlike about him. Innocent. Physically, he might resemble a creepy skinhead … but so did she. Other than that, she would have never guessed he had such a serious problem. Actually, he was cute in a skinny way—he had the rangy build and slight twang of a Southern farm boy. Both of them were wearing the same baggy green scrubs, nothing underneath, and Maddy was struck by the intimacy of that, as though they were in their pajamas—or their underwear. For all she knew, he could be a dangerous psycho, but they wouldn’t let someone like that roam around the hospital, would they? It suddenly occurred to her that she was alone in a room with a mental patient. Of course, so was he.

  “Kiddy lit, huh?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t s’pose you got any recommendations?”

  Wary though she was of the library, his snide tone made her defensive. “There’s some good stuff, yeah. I like James and the Giant Peach. Or Matilda—did you ever read anything by Roald Dahl? Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”

  “I saw the movie.”

  “I also like Bartholom
ew and the Oobleck, Pagoo, The Clambake Mutiny, The Pushcart War, Harriet the Spy, The Egypt Game, The Magus, I Claudius, Ulysses, The Golden Bough, Sexual Personae, Gray’s Anatomy—” She unconsciously began talking faster, as if rolling downhill. “—Applied Kinematics, Interpretation of Nature and the Psyche, Strength of Materials, Fundamentals of Acceleration , Chemicals and Compounds, Molecular Engineering, Probability in Engineering, Principles of Mechanical Design, Automotive Engineering, Velocity Problems, The Coriolis Component, Algorithms and Computing Machines , Anatomy of LISP, Pattern Recognition, Cybernetics and Motor-Neuron Compatibility—” She was blazing, the syllables all running together. “—Neue Bahnen der physikalischen Erkenntnis, Computability and Logic, Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica, Engineering Thermodynamics, The Joy of Cooking, Behavior of Slaughter Plant and Auction Employees to the Animals—”

  “Whoa, stop, I get it. Damn.”

  Maddy’s mental gears spun down. “What, sorry?”

  “No, it’s cool—you’re a brainiac. That’s awesome.”

  Feeling tears spring to her eyes, she said, “You’re a jerk.”

  “What?”

  “I know everybody thinks I’m retarded. I’m not retarded. I may not be as smart as everyone else around here, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Wait, I don’t—”

  “At least I’m not an asshole!” Maddy ran from the room and along the corridor. The fluorescent ceiling lights were all strobing, making her feel like she was running in slow motion. Not wanting anyone to see her cry, she ducked down the fire stairs to her floor and walked casually past the nurses’ station. Once safely inside her room, she fell sobbing on the bed.

  Why, Ben? she thought. Why did you have to leave me here all alone? I wish you’d taken me with you. I wish we were together right now, and this was all just a bad dream.

  SEVEN

  REPORT

  POSTOPERATIVE ANALYSIS:

  Subject, Madeline Zoe Grant, exhibits rapid cognitive improvement in all areas, including neuromuscular/response. Cortical sensitivity to stress factors nominal within test parameters—dopamine inhibitors at saturation. CT, fMRI, and EEG scans show subthalamic efficiency at 410% above normal. Patient exhibits confusion, fear, and frustration from increased neuroactivity, but attributes this to physical debility and external situational factors. Is largely unaware of accelerated performance; complains that the test regimen is “for retards” or “boring.” When asked why she started tearing pages out of the practice material, replied that she didn’t want to read anymore because “it hurts my hands”—by which she meant that she could not turn the pages fast enough to keep up with level of reading comprehension. Similarly, when given a standard computer, Subject soon developed mild tendonitis from manipulating the mouse and keyboard—her joints and tendons cannot keep pace with her neural processes. Likewise, at full engagement, her visual scanning capacity surpassed the scan rate of the computer screen, rendering it useless. Despite such handicaps, Subject was able to complete doctoral-level examinations in applied calculus, celestial mechanics, nuclear physics, molecular biology, advanced chemistry, statistical analysis, semiotics, political theory, and a number of specialized fields of study. Based on test results, she has memorized significant portions of the reference library, both printed and on disk. When provided with only the first proof from Euclid’s Elements, she was able to logically extrapolate the entire field of geometry, moving into levels of fourth-dimensional theory so complex that no one on staff is qualified to interpret it. We have forwarded her notebook to specialists for evaluation. Likewise, her Intelligence Quotient exceeds our ability to quantify it. But she herself does not yet recognize the change, in fact is unable to comprehend it … perhaps the one thing she can’t comprehend. When her brain is challenged, it automatically shifts the burden to the computer unit, which elicits greater and greater degrees of processing power from her own dormant neurons until she can solve the problem, thus giving her the illusion that every problem is equally simple. Reading a textbook of theoretical physics is no different to her than flipping through The Cat in the Hat. For that matter, her critical intuition is so acute that some of the staff have reported feeling uncomfortable around her because she is so adept at “reading” people, i.e., deducing from their clothes or manner (or any number of other factors) exactly what they may be thinking. I experienced this myself in regard to the Program. Nevertheless, Subject doesn’t yet grasp the magnitude of her own abilities, still thinks she’s a mediocre student, weak at math and Spanish, and because of this may be able to transition more easily back into the life of an ordinary teenager. Whether or not she can succeed at this—or for how long—will determine the next phase of occupational therapy. For the present, Subject is fit to be released to the care of her family. Get her the hell out of here.

  EIGHT

  DRIVE-THRU

  THE car ride home was difficult. It didn’t start out badly—Maddy was just so glad to be out of the hospital that everything around her had a heightened reality, a saturated Technicolor brightness that made her feel like she was in some kind of Disney musical. Bright golden sunlight, blue sky, brilliant autumn leaves … even the stiff breeze was a joy.

  She felt strong enough to stand, but they didn’t let her: An orderly wheeled her to the curb and helped her parents load her in the car.

  God, the car, Maddy thought, looking at the old Suburban. This piston-engined monstrosity with its American flag and Support the Troops sticker—were they all insane? When she was belted in, her parents just sat there for a second. She realized that her mother was getting all worked up again.

  “Let’s just go.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s just such a miracle …”

  “I know, but can we go? Really—just go. Please!”

  They drove. After a while, her dad said, “Boy, I bet it feels good to be out of there.”

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  “So what’s the first thing you want to do, now that you’re back among the living?”

  “Go to Disneyland!”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Daddy, I just want to go home. I feel so out of touch, like a stranger … but I think I’ll be fine if I can go home and decompress for a while. Reconnect. Go someplace familiar, surrounded by my own things. I want to lie on a bed and know it’s my bed. I want to wear my own clothes, clothes that smell like me, and walk in my own shoes. I want to hug Mr. Fuzzbutt until he squirms to get away. I want to feel the way I used to feel, like everything just feels right—the way it’s supposed to.”

  “Of course you do, honey. That’s perfectly normal after being away for so long. Dr. Stevens said so.”

  “But that’s what’s so weird. I don’t feel like I’ve been away for any time at all. It’s like it all happened to another person … but that her memories have somehow gotten mixed up with my own. I can’t really explain it.”

  “Well, honey, Dr. Stevens said—”

  “I know what she said! I know. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Her mother said, “Honey, everything will be just the way it was, I promise. We’ve left your room exactly the way you left it. Because that’s the same thing we all want. It’s what we’ve been praying for all these months, and the reason you’re here talking to us now is because the Lord answered our prayers—and I’m sure He’s not finished yet. Just give it time, be patient. You’ll see.”

  “I am. I’m trying.”

  Maddy couldn’t bring herself to tell her folks that she also wanted them to be the same. To give up this stupid divorce baloney and get back to being the wonderful, omnipotent deities she had revisited in her dream, who used to laugh and dance and steal kisses in the garage. Who flirted in the kitchen and held hands across the dinner table. Most of all, who sheltered and protected her, making it possible for Maddy to trust, to hope, to live the worry-free life of a child. She needed that again.

  But that was all
years ago, before the fights started. Before her dad started staying away longer and longer, and finally moved out altogether. Before they sat her down one day after school and broke the terrible news to her, so that well before the accident, Maddy was already damaged, a shut-down shell of herself.

  She couldn’t tell them she wanted to love them again. Trust them again the way she had in the dream. Like when they were big, and she was little. She wanted to let go of the monkey bars and let them catch her. But she couldn’t just yet … and wasn’t sure she ever would.

  It was several hours getting back home, so Maddy had plenty of time to catch up on current events. Her parents talked nonstop, with the radio on, taking turns as though afraid to let loose the reins of their upbeat patter.

  Had it always been like this? This terror of silence, of space? She made a great effort to act interested in Aunt Trudy’s gallbladder surgery and Grandpa Simon’s new wife (she was Mexican!), but after a while she just had to tune it out, it was such a catalogue of trivia. Even the radio seemed unusually insipid—Maddy usually loved country music, but something was wrong with this stuff. Its mind-numbing banality depressed her. Much better to watch the country itself flow by. Nature was a relief.

  Engrossed in the fractal patterns of the trees, she realized that her mother was asking her something.

  “Hm? What, sorry?”

  “I just asked you what you might want to do about food. It’s about time we took a little snack break, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, yeah—whatever you guys want.”

  “Do you have any preferences?”

  “No, not really. Anything’s fine.”

  “Burgers?”

  “Okay.”

  They pulled up to a drive-thru and ordered. Faced with the familiar and yet oddly unappetizing choices, Maddy felt a brief twinge of anxiety, but then her subconscious kicked in and her vocal cords took over: “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and a large diet soda.” She realized as she automatically recited the words that this was not what she wanted at all but merely the same stuff she had always ordered in the past: “Maddy’s favorites.” But that was another Maddy—a stranger to her.