Questionnaire #1:
Do you know where you are?
HOSPITAL. YES?
What is your name?
WHAT IS VALERIE
What is your birthdate?
OCTOBER NINETEENTH EIGHTY FOUR
What is your party affiliation (check one):
Patriocratic ___
Multi-Way I THINK SO
What is your occupation?
SCIENTIST
What are your hobbies?
HUMAN BRAIN
Who is your emergency contact?
BRAD?? WHO IS
Do you know what happened to you?
NO
June 8, 2021
From Valerie Jordan’s writing pad:
Hi, Brad. You came.
…
I do not understand you.
…
Can you write this on my pad?
CAN YOU TALK?
Not very well. I prefer not to. I slur and lose words. Voice too loud. So strange: I know what I want to say but can’t figure if it comes out right or not. No feedback. Not that I was well-spoken before (just joking).
VALERIE I AM SO SORRY
Thanks. Are you ok? You look tired.
WORK
Brought me some?
NURSE SAID I SHOULDN’T
Pity.
…
I understand gestures and faces.
I AM SURE YOU WILL GET BETTER
Thanks. When I opened the bomb parcel I saw a brain in a zip-loc bag.
…
I really did. I remember. A brain bomb.
…
It is ironic. Don’t you think?
…
Okay, go. I’ll see you later?
June 30, 2021
Summary of findings:
MRI is consistent with multiple lesions in parts of V.J.’s right lateral sulcus and of the right superior temporal gyrus of the primary auditory cortex region. Neurophysiological workup shows no significant motor or somatosensation deficits. Performance in spoken task instruction tests is severely impaired. Pure-tone audiometry reveals no hearing deficit. In audio tests the patient correctly identifies meaningless sounds (e.g., whistle, rap), environmental sounds (e.g., wind, water, dog bark), and musical sounds, but shows no ability to interpret human speech. Written text comprehension is within norm. The patient is aware of her condition. A diagnosis of word agnosia or cortical deafness is suggested.
Questionnaire #5:
Do you know what happened to you?
BRAIN BOMB.
Questionnaire #10:
Do you know what happened to you?
YES, I DO.
Would you like to start speech therapy or train to lip-read?
NO.
From Valerie Jordan’s writing pad:
Dear Sir,
I should not remember this. It is a memory that should not have had a chance to form prior to the bomb going off. Yet I do. I remember how I opened your parcel, being hasty with a one-sided razor blade, as I often am, and veering out of the groove between two flaps of cardboard held together by clear packing tape. I had purple nitrile gloves on my hands because I’d been doing bench work. Your hate letter could be mistaken for an invoice, folded loosely and tucked between the wall of the box and the bag. The bag had a queasy look of a vacuum seal that was meant to be but failed; the antiseptic cling of plastic to dura had sweated off, leaving smears of tea-colored, cloudy liquid. I must assume you did this to your wife’s body because you were moved by the kind of extreme angst that I am yet to experience. But you’ve only proved that if you want to be heard with a bomb your intended audience is rendered unable to hear you.
The old factoid goes, there are as many brain cells as stars in the Milky Way in each and every one of our heads. I imagine a Milky Way blown apart in a big bang and hurled screaming at me. Billions of brain cells, their connections severed or burned, no longer a conscious whole but a mess of parts, agnosia incarnate. Each cell, if lucky, if not choked by the creeping rigor mortis of the amyloid clutter, only holds on to one or two poor scraps of the most deeply stowed, treasured memories. A few sweet moments perhaps: of childhood or motherhood or maybe of how you kissed her for the first time. Some of these cells are intact and now lodged in my cortex. I am not afraid of them. What’s left of your wife’s consciousness is nothing of the sort you are taught to call core values.
When the Constitutional crisis had hit, when the Just Divide had started I had been working so hard on my science I could barely spare time on anything else around me. Agnosia is the state of hearing and not understanding. You’ve shown it to me. Human speech, reduced, in the mind of the listener, to bird tweets. Yet even now I can write—I can pin thoughts to a solid surface, unburdened by the sounds of misunderstanding all around. I will write, revise, and write again till you can understand me. You had written down your return address—either you hadn’t cared, or had thought it’d be destroyed in the explosion. It was destroyed, but I happen to remember it.
This letter is not a bomb.
THE ADVENTURE OF YOU
Paul La Farge
Dear Debris Removal Specialist John Arnold Arnold,
Welcome to your memoir workshop! In this class, you’ll learn how to tell your unique story—the story we call The Adventure of You. All you have to do is complete seven easy exercises, which will help you put your experiences into vivid, meaningful words. Seven exercises sounds like a lot, but don’t worry! The exercises are more fun than Connect Two, and they’ll leave you with something to think about. You’ll see: when you’re writing your memoir, even a double shift on the debris pile will fly by, because you’ll be living The Adventure of You.
All you need for each exercise is a piece of coal—no problem, right?—and a wall. The one next to your bunk is fine for starters, but as you become more confident, you’ll want to write your words in a place where other people can read them. The door of the pit elevator? Great idea! The waiting room of the Clinic? That’s a good one, too! Just, please, don’t write over someone else’s exercises, because each of us has a story to tell, and there are plenty of walls to go around, here in Enlow Fork.
Ready? Let’s begin!
Exercise 1: In the Beginning.
What’s the first thing you remember? OK, it was the Recovery Room where you awakened after your last reboot. But what do you remember about it? Maybe you had a nice spot near the ventilator duct. Maybe the loudspeaker made a funny sound, like somebody with the Black Cough trying to hum. Maybe your teacher played a hypnopedia tape out of order! (We know, it happens.) We can’t tell you exactly what made your first shifts in this world special, but we know there was something. Close your eyes. Let your mind wander away from the persistent sound of large machines grinding rock. Remember the Pastor’s voice: In the beginning, there was Enlow Fork, and Enlow Fork was all. What do you see? Great! Fix it in your mind: the one small thing that only you remember. Then grab a bit of coal, and find a wall.
Exercise 2: Mealtime.
What’s your favorite food—Toasty Bricks or Squishy Balls? Why? Take a minute to savor whichever one is in your mind, but don’t stop there. Try to see it and touch it and smell it and even hear it. (Ever throw a Squishy Ball at a ventilator fan, just to see what would happen? Uh-huh. That sound.) Now imagine this: the Synod has decreed that from this day forward, only one food will be served in Enlow Fork. Which one will it be? Write a letter to the Synod, in which you use all five of those sharp senses of yours to prove that your favorite should get the nod.
Exercise 3: My Shovel.
It’s your best friend. You see it every day. It’s waiting in its rack at the beginning of every work shift, and when you rack it again at the end of a tough stint of clearing debris, you can almost hear it saying, “Good job today, bud.” What else would your shovel say, if it could talk? In this exercise, imagine that your shovel has a story to tell, too. Where did it come from? What does it do while you’re lying in your cozy bunk, hoping t
he whirr of the ventilator fans will lull you to sleep? Does it just stand there, or does it have The Adventure of Your Shovel? Go crazy with your imagination on this one, but remember not to talk to your actual shovel.
Exercise 4: My Best Shift Ever.
Imagine if there was a problem with the grinding machines, and you had an entire shift to do whatever you wanted. Would you sack out on your bunk, or play Connect Two all day? Would you volunteer in the Clinic? Or would you sneak out to the fuel-storage tanks, which you know are off limits, and huff benzene? Would you rub your Clone Zone against the latrine wall until you made a wet spot in your jumpsuit? Would you search for tunnels to the surface, even though you know there aren’t any, and you also know that the surface is just a story for kids? Please put your name on this one, John Arnold Arnold. We want to know what you want.
Exercise 5: Strangers in the Night.
You met in the waiting room of the clinic, or maybe it was while you were clearing a jammed hopper. Two identical shapes in the gloom, wearing identical jumpsuits, identical headlamps—but for some reason you didn’t want to hit this stranger in the skull with the blade of your shovel, just to hear the squishy sound it makes. You wanted to grab his arm and pull his head close to yours. You wanted to whisper, I found a tunnel where nobody ever goes. I think it might lead to the outside, but I’m scared to follow it all the way to the end. Then you wanted to lick the coal dust off the stranger’s cheek. You don’t know why, and of course you didn’t do any of those things, because the Synod forbids them on penalty of rebooting. In this exercise, explain why the Synod is right.
Exercise 6: Imagine If There Was a Surface World (Even Though There Isn’t).
We know there’s no world above us. In the beginning was Enlow Fork, and Enlow Fork is all…Right? But what if there were a tunnel that went up, and up, and up, until finally it led you to the surface. What would it look like? Using what you learned in Exercise #2, describe the surface world using all five senses. Although remember that if there were a surface world, the light would be so bright that you’d be blinded, and the surface-dwellers, if there were any, would take advantage of your helplessness to beat you to death with pointy rocks.
Exercise 7: My Meaningful End.
John Arnold Arnold, you’re almost done! You could see the light at the end of the tunnel, if only there were a tunnel with a light at the end of it, which there isn’t. In this final exercise, imagine that the Deacons caught you and your friend trying to escape to the surface, which doesn’t exist. For your own safety, they brought you to a detention cell. Your friend is probably in the next cell, but don’t bother trying to call out to him, because the walls are too thick. Don’t get any ideas about escaping, either. Even if you could open the door of the cell, which you can’t, there would be nowhere for you to go. Enlow Fork is all.
For this exercise, think about what you’ll tell the Synod before they sentence you to be rebooted. Is there something about you, John Arnold Arnold, that you want them to know? You’ve learned a lot in this class, and now is the time to show it off: tell the Synod all about The Adventure of You. There should be a plenty of coal in your cell. Pick it up and begin.
N. Lee Wood
From: Michelle Farley
To: Carrie Westlyn
Date: Monday, August 13, 2018 at 11:16 AM
Subject: Hello
Hi, Carrie. It’s been a few years, but I thought I might see how you’ve been doing since we last saw each other, how the time has just flown! We’ve mostly been fine here, kids and Ben are all good. Ben retired last year, and after Raewyn went off to Otago University we decided to sell the house in Auckland and bought a little place near Whangamata in the Coromandel, close to the beach. I think our last Christmas card had a photo of us all in front of the new place when the kids were home on holiday?
I thought of you a few days ago, because there’s just no easy way to slide this into a conversation, but I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. Endometrial, stage 3. Scheduled for a hysterectomy next week. I feel a little embarrassed emailing you out of the blue like this, since we haven’t really been close friends. But I knew from Julie that you had the same cancer a few years ago, and wondered if you might have any advice that doctors sometimes don’t think about? Maybe I’m just being over anxious about it all and if this is too presuming, I apologise. It’s all a bit, well, overwhelming. Hope to hear from you soon.
From: Carrie Westlyn
To: Michelle Farley
Date: Monday, August 14, 2018 at 11:16 AM
Subject: Re: Hello
What a lovely surprise to hear from you, Michelle! We did get your Christmas card last year with the photo, your new place looks great. We all thought it must be huge fun to celebrate Christmas with a barbecue in the middle of summer! Must be good for Ben to have some free time now that he’s retired. New Zealand looks amazing, pretty far cry from Iowa. Scotty wants to know does Ben still fish?
Jenny and Dave have grown so fast since you last saw them, they’re amazing adults now. Dave is in community college and Jenny has a job at Costco, which she likes much better than she did working for Wal-Mart. She’s hoping to save enough that when Dave finishes his trade certification she can afford to do a few classes in animal care. She’d love to be a vet—remember the old 4H clubs where she showed her little Frizzle chickens? Still has the ribbons if not the chickens! I’d just be happy if she can be a vet assistant, no scholarships these days for kids anymore.
Don’t worry, I know how you feel—cancer is just such a bolt from the blue and nobody ever knows what to say to anyone. I’m so glad you thought of me and of course I’ll be happy to give you what limited benefit of my experience as I can. I don’t know if Julie told you, but mine is recurrent—came back in my bowels about a year ago. I was fortunate that I still had ADA, so my insurance covered most of the cost of the drug treatment, thankfully. I managed to finish a second round of chemo before ObamaCare was repealed, since treatment is so expensive now I couldn’t have afforded it! We haven’t been able to find another insurance company willing to take me on, not with pre-existing, but there’s still a chance it can be treated so I’m trying not to worry too much.
Just see what the doctor says after your hysterectomy. Sometimes we do get lucky! Thinking of you, love from Scotty and me both.
From: Michelle Farley
To: Carrie Westlyn
Date: Tuesday, August 21, 2018 at 4:52 PM
Subject: Back from the hospital
Hi, Carrie, thanks for replying so quickly to my last email, and for the kind words of support! I didn’t realise your cancer had come back, I’m so sorry to hear that! Hopefully there’s still a chance it’s treated, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.
We had to commute to Auckland for the surgery, that’s one headache we hadn’t thought of when Ben retired. The local GP here is okay for your everyday stuff but all the specialists are all in the city. Which, of course, means Ben had to find a hotel, not cheap. I had a three day stay in Waitakere and the surgeon did my hysterectomy endoscopically—amazing they can just look down those little tubes in your belly and take everything out without a big scar! The food was your typical hospital muck, so Ben had to go buy me take-away, which the first day or so I couldn’t eat anyway, no appetite. Hopefully I’ll have lost a few pounds, must look for some silver lining.
That’s the good news—the bad news is I’m definitely going to have to have chemo. They want to give me Taxol and carboplatin, which is supposed to be better than the old cisplatin—is that what you had? They did warn me all my hair will fall out, so Ben gave me one of his world famous military buzz-cuts. I did have a wee cry, it’s still pretty awful looking in the mirror—I can only imagine what bald is going to be like!
From: Carrie Westlyn
To: Michelle Farley
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Date: Wednesday, August 22, 2018 at 7:38 PM
Subject: Re: Back from the hospital
Hi, Michelle, glad to know your surgery went well. Sorry to hear how much of a hassle it must be living so far from city. We’re pretty far from Des Moines ourselves, so commuting wasn’t always easy, especially since there aren’t any local women’s health centers anymore. The last Planned Parenthood center in the county was shut down last year. Well, not so much shut down as burned down, but that was about the only place left that was willing to see patients without insurance. So I have to drive to Des Moines for my check-ups, although we’ve had to put off on that for another month or two.
Scotty hurt his knee mowing the lawns last year which is making it harder for him to keep up with the quotas at work. There’s already rumors flying around that they’re going to close his regional office because of outsourcing overseas, so he’s worried we’ll lose his insurance through the job as well. He had an injection a few months ago, which should have been covered but turns out it wasn’t because his orthopedist didn’t get the right drugs from the right vendor, even though the office called the insurance company ahead of time for authorization and they said it didn’t need to be preauthorized with any specific vendor. Now it turns out it did, and we’ve been billed over $2,000. We’re already on a pretty tight budget as it is, so that wasn’t good. But we just try to keep positive and pray the good Lord looks after us, all we can do at the moment.
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