She

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

chapter twenty-eight

  FORTY DAYS AND FORTY NIGHTS

  EVER SINCE SHE had pushed back against Akaesman’s revival several weeks ago, she has been improving faster and faster. Dr. Luce has brought forward her final assessment date because she was so impressed with her spurt of progress. It’s the day after the full moon — she smiles to herself as she realizes that some parts of her have not changed, like keeping track of moon phases and solstices — and she’s nervous as she waits for the elevator in the empty atrium. Ding. The doors open; she walks in. As on that far-gone first day, she exits alone and turns left, except this time she’s wearing a coat and hat against the sudden influx of cold November air. She walks down the long corridor, the door at the end growing in her sight. She reaches out, turns the knob, and pushes the door open.

  “Hello,” chirps a new yellow-haired receptionist sitting at the desk directly across from her, a blood-red poppy pinned to her chest. The girl’s hair — for she looks still in her teens — goes with the butter-yellow walls, the muted grey carpet, the grey fabric-covered waiting room chairs.

  “Hi, I have an appointment for nine,” she says as she looks down at the receptionist looking back up at her. She notices the tear-off calendar on the desk with Thursday, November 10 staring at her.

  “Yes, I have you down here. We’re all eagerly expecting you. I’ve heard all about your wonderful progress.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, “I even hear Dr. Luce is thinking of making you a case study. No one has ever been able to resist Akaesman before like you did so many years after an invasion. You’re so inspiring.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks,” she replies awkwardly. She hangs her coat and hat on the rack to the right of the door and walks past it to one of the waiting room chairs. She’s long stopped reading while waiting and hasn’t tried it again, although Orit says her reading has improved enough to try. But it’s been too long since she last read outside of her home, too many disappointments along the way. She’d rather sit and wait than be disappointed again. Besides, there’s Dr. Luce looking at her from the door to the left of the reception desk. She stands up, puts her purse strap over her shoulder, and follows Dr. Luce through the door and immediately right into her office. Dr. Luce closes the door behind her.

  “So how are you doing?”

  “I’m doing well.”

  “That’s good. We’re so proud of you and what you’ve accomplished. We’re looking forward to seeing how you do on the tests. You know the drill by now.”

  “Yup!” She’s been through reassessment thrice since that day she first walked through Spenta’s doors. Illuminated therapy takes longer to work on those with Akaesman syndrome than on those with other conditions, but it works. She almost bounces on her toes as she takes the few steps over to the old computer to the left of the door. She sits in front of it, facing the wall, her back to the office windows.

  “You ready?” Dr. Luce asks her.

  “Yes I am,” she answers, placing the headphones over her head. She watches Dr. Luce leave, clicking the door closed behind her, and then she turns to face the computer, the computer with its visual and auditory 1s and 2s, daring her to focus for a full fifteen minutes during its excruciatingly boring test. She does. She knows as surely as she knew the first time that she’s aced it. But this time, there is no doubt she is right, no doubt about the veracity of her diagnosis, the truth of what had happened to her. She feels differently, thinks differently, she probably even sits differently.

  “You all done?” Dr. Luce asks.

  She jumps as she’s removing her headphones. She hadn’t heard her come in.

  “Yup.”

  “It’s a boring test I’m afraid, but it works.”

  “That it does. I’m anxious to see the results.”

  Dr. Luce smiles and asks her to follow her to the second computer waiting in the room next door, facing the same direction as the computer she was just at. She sits down in the comfortable ergonomic chair and follows Dr. Luce’s movements with her eyes and her senses. Dr. Luce picks up a tube, spreads some white gritty goop on her fingers, and proceeds to scrub her earlobes with the gritty goop until they burn with cleanliness. Dr. Luce takes out a flexible, thin measuring tape from the drawer to her right and pulls it taut over her head first from ear to ear and then from forehead to neck. She parts her hair in the precise centre of the top, squeezes out more goop on a cotton swab, and scrubs the area. Dr. Luce then opens the drawer on her left. She wonders how Dr. Luce knows which of the tangled plethora of wires and electrodes to extract and which ones are not needed.

  Dr. Luce removes and places on the desk in front of her the wire that branches into three wires with three electrodes on their ends. She opens a jar of clearish-white paste and, with a little palette knife, scoops some out. She scrapes some on both sides of the bifold electrode and clips it on her right ear; repeats for the left; and repeats with a single electrode for the top of her head. She hates that one because Dr. Luce has to press it down hard to ensure the EEG paste makes a good connection.

  She starts up the program that checks the strength of the connections. Green. Thank goodness. But Dr. Luce, unlike the trainers she had before Orit, never fails in acquiring good connections the first time, probably because she isn’t afraid to scrub her earlobes thoroughly and with her fingers.

  “Now then, we’re going to check the overall power of your brain. We’ll be able to see how much power your brain is producing, how much Akaesman has drained you versus how much you’ve taken back for yourself, and what your predominant brain wave activity is. Sit, and relax.”

  She sits and relaxes. She has no need for sleep like the times before.

  “Alright, we’re done this test. Adrian will come in and set you up for the next one. I’ll be back when he’s done,” Dr. Luce informs her as she removes the electrodes.

  She nods and swivels her chair to the right to look out at the overstuffed clouds blowing across the sky.

  “Hi. I’m here to hook you up.”

  She swivels back round at the sound of Adrian’s voice.

  “Hi. Have you done this before? The others usually have trouble getting good connections with that cap thingy.”

  “I have indeed. We had a visiting doctor in here a couple of months ago, showing us a new technique that sped up the process considerably. My record is eight minutes.”

  “Bet you can’t beat that today,” she teases him.

  He laughs and grabs a red cap filled with holes with grommets round them.

  “I’ll need you to hold onto the front of the cap while I pull it down in back.” She dutifully follows his instructions and holds on until he tells her to let go. He checks its tightness — very tight — and reaches for a jar of goop next to the other jars. He fills a large syringe with it. He places the syringe down on the desk, tip up, reaches past her right shoulder for the mouse, and double clicks on an icon. A program loads showing a representation of the top of the human head covered in points with symbols attached. He releases the mouse and picks up the syringe. He methodically and quickly pushes goop into each of the holes. It feels cold on her scalp and then a bit scratchy as he manipulates the gel with the syringe tip or something else until the point he’s working on changes from red to amber to green on the monitor. She takes a surreptitious look at her watch.

  “Am I running to my record?”

  “I believe so,” she answers surprised.

  “Told ya I could do it.”

  She laughs.

  Once the whole head on the screen is lit up green, he puts the syringe away, closes the jar, and closes the program. He double clicks on another icon. And while that program is loading, he pulls the drawer on her left open, fishes out all the wires, and wraps her in their sensors. One around her first and third fingers on her right hand, one clipped on the first finger of her left hand, one around her stomach. He connects them all, along with the wires writhing out of the cap, into a box attached to the computer.

  “I’ll go get
Dr. Luce for you. She won’t be a minute.”

  “Thanks.” She hopes it won’t be too long. It’s very uncomfortable with her head squeezed into this cap and her fingers clamped.

  “Alright, are we ready to begin?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. So the tests will be as before. First just relax, lean your head back against the chair. That’s it. Now relax your jaw. No, let it drop. Relax. That’s it. And keep your eyes open. We’ll take readings for two minutes.” She’s quiet for a bit. “Don’t move,” she says sternly.

  She quiets herself and watches the stacked lines of brain waves scroll across the screen — some lines have big waves, some have small, some almost none. She tries not to think about what that means, for thinking means worry, which means clamping her jaw. It doesn’t feel very relaxed hanging open though, enforced like this. She tries to ignore it as she settles into a deep breathing pattern, and soon she doesn’t notice her jaw.

  “That’s great. Now we’ll repeat that with eyes closed. Good, good. You’re doing very well.”

  The room becomes quiet; only the hum of the computer fan filling the air with sound.

  “Alright, we’re done with those. Now I want to do a math test. I’m going to give you a number and then another number. I want you to add those up in your head and tell me the total. I will then give you another number, and you will add the total to the answer you gave me, and so on. For example, I will say one plus two, and you will say three. I will then say four. You will add three plus four and answer me seven. I will say ten, and you will say?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Good. Let’s begin. One plus two?”

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Seven.”

  “Ten.”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Twenty-nine,” she answers, her eyes on Dr. Luce’s face so that she doesn’t mistake what she’s saying. They continue like that, her answers becoming slower and slower as the numbers start disappearing and reappearing in her head like the Cheshire cat. She knows this is easy for her; she loves numbers. But they don’t like to stay put until she can add them up.

  “That’s great. You know you do better than my accountant clients,” Dr. Luce smiles.

  “Really? But they work with numbers all the time.”

  “Yes, but they use calculators. They don’t have to do it in their head.”

  “Oh. Well, I like numbers. They’re like notes that sing to me. They left for a while, but when they came back, they really helped me with my memory and music and getting stuff done.”

  “Yes, I can see you like numbers. You see here,” she points to the screen. “This shows you relaxed a lot. Okay. Now we’re going to do the Stroop test. I’m afraid you won’t be so relaxed with this one. You’ll see five words appear on the screen. I want you to say the colour of the word, not the word itself. Try to read all the word colours before the computer flashes to the next set of words. Alright?”

  “Yes-s-s. I remember this one,” she says not eagerly.

  She struggles through it, unable to keep up with the computer as it flashes screen after screen of colour names in different colours. At last, it’s over.

  “Alright. You did pretty well. We’ll work on reading now. I want you to read this text,” she says as she places an open book clipped to a stand in front of her. “Relax your jaw, rest your head, can you see the text? Good. Alright, are you ready? Yes? Let’s begin. Two minutes.”

  She reads about squirrels and their forgetfulness when hiding nuts.

  “Good. You’re doing well. We’re finished this test. There’s just one more I want to do with you today. I haven’t done this one before, for there’s a practice effect, and I know you’ve probably had it done on the orders of the Shadow Court. It’s an IQ test. Akaesman, by slowing the brain, making your vocabulary inaccessible, affecting your reading and verbal skills, and that sort of thing, can drop your IQ by several points. Our software here will measure IQ, but it’s not that accurate. It’s mostly good for seeing whether you’re improving over time and with therapy. Unfortunately, we don’t have an initial reading. But your lawyer sent me your file, and I’ve seen what other psychologists have found. I’m not sure their tests are completely reliable though, especially given their conclusions and their inadequate credentials. I wrote your lawyer that their conclusions are totally contrary to test results and why their reasoning is faulty. Anyway, I’ll send Adrian in to get you cleaned up, and then come back into my office, and we’ll do the IQ test.”

  “Okay.” She really wants a drink. She’s feeling run down and dry. Adrian gets her a can of ginger ale, which she sucks on as he removes the wires and cap. When she’s done and he’s done, she goes into Dr. Luce’s office, sits at the table in the centre of the room across from her, and spends the next while answering language and math questions, solving puzzles, being timed, and being given what seem like awfully short time limits, unlike that vocational place. She’s kaput when done and cannot wait to get home. She’d planned on stopping at a favourite café, but that seems like too much work. Maybe she’ll pick up a sandwich from that place at the end of her street on the way by.

  “Alright,” Dr. Luce interrupts her thoughts. “We’re all done here. I’ll see you tomorrow for the test results at one o’clock.”

  She’s back at 1:00 p.m., right on time, the subway deciding not to hang out in Eglinton for once.

  Adrian, Orit, and a couple of her first trainers come out to say hello, to congratulate her on doing so well, on achieving such remarkable results. Her head is spinning by the time Dr. Luce calls her in.

  Sitting across the desk from this kind doctor, her stomach fluttering, she’s a bit nostalgic, thinking how this will be the last time she’ll be here.

  “We are so proud of you. I can’t tell you how proud we are of you. The test results have exceeded our expectations, and our expectations were high. You have done so much better on the boring test than last time.” She hands her the report, stretching a finger to point to the key numbers. “We’d expected some improvement of course, but not this much. You show stamina, persistence, and focus both visually and auditorally much higher than before. This is amazing. We’re all blown away by what you’ve done here. Now this one,” she picks up another report. “This one shows you’ve increased the power of your brain tremendously, and you’ve shifted your brain wave patterns from predominantly theta and delta to beta, and we’re seeing that your overall alpha wave has increased in frequency too. This is amazing and so important for your recovery and return to being a songwriter. I know how important that is to you and how much of a motivation it was for you to keep going. If we’d tried to force you into another job, you’d never have shown such improvement. Having a dream is what gets people going, even when, as in your case, Akaesman deletes the basic motivation that drives people to get up and do things. Your dream became your motivation.” She hands her that report and picks up another. “Now this one shows us many things,” and she explains how her brain wave patterns have changed on different points of her brain, representing different sections of her brain, how her coherence patterns have almost normalized, how problematic areas have been revived.

  “I have the final reports from your trainer and spiritual mentor. Your trainer is still concerned about your heart and lung function, but he feels that you are wise in how you manage it. And once Akaesman leaves you, things will return to normal. He feels that you need to stay on the medications you’ve been given until that time, keep to fifteen minutes of weights and two minutes of aerobic exercise three times a week, and not forget your nightly meditation sessions. He’s liking your weekly yoga session and reminds you not to overstretch and to stick to the fifteen minutes. If you need a refresher on the meditation part, he’ll be happy to see you again. Just call him.”

  Dr. Luce folds her hands on top of the desk and pauses.

  “Now your spiritual mentor believes you’ve ma
de great progress but is concerned you don’t fully understand what comes next. She’s asked me to explain it to you.” She looks down at her hands for a moment. Drawing in air, she explains, “The next step only you can do on your own. We’ve worked together with you to strengthen you, to help you distinguish between yourself and Akaesman, to push back the damage that he’s done, to return to you your self-confidence, to help you unpack those boxes your TARC person told you needed unpacking. Akaesman will leave you eventually, but it’s better that you create a situation where he has no choice but to leave and to do so before he’s sucked you dry and made permanent, irreversible damage. People who cannot eject him are always lesser versions of what they were, and the newest research is starting to show that, in fact, the worst kind of traits, whether or not they had them before, come to the fore, traits like anger, manipulation, easy facility to lie, avoidance of personal problems, assigning blame to others, ruthlessness, charm, and some unethical behaviour. After all the hard work you’ve done, we don’t want to see that happen to you.

  “So the next step is yours. You’ve already shown yourself able to resist him. Now you must wait until the time is right. We’re not sure what the right time is, but you will know. And when it happens you must be ready. Waiting does not mean doing nothing. Waiting is doing what we’ve taught you, practicing to keep on improving, meditating, pondering the passages your mentor has given you, resisting any of the thoughts Akaesman throws your way. You can resist now because you know which are his thoughts and which are yours. But if you do not resist his thoughts, that distinction will start to blur in your mind. You will have a harder and harder time knowing which are his, which are yours until the two become blurred and you accept his as yours. At that point, you’ll be back to where you started. Understand?”

  She nods vigorously, a bit afraid.

  “I know this is hard, especially as you will be alone for this final part. But like in birth and death, you can only go through it on your own. You can only achieve what we call “savakerti” on your own, that is, salvation and renewal. You know we will be with you in spirit and thought. Draw strength from all that you’ve learnt here and from yourself. You will succeed. We have faith in you,” Dr. Luce ends, looking directly into her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she says softly. She clears her throat and says louder, “Thank you. I understand.”

  Dr. Luce nods, “Good. I knew you would. Remember I am here always if you need to call. I’d love to hear how you get on, alright?”

  “Alright. I’ll call you as soon as I have news. Thank you so much. Thank you again for all you’ve done. I am so grateful,” she burbles as they stand up. They shake hands, and then she’s walking out the office door, out Spenta’s main door, back down the long corridor to the elevators for the last time.

  That night, she lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, her heart burning within her, and speaks: “The day is now nearly over. Please don’t leave me alone. Please don’t reject me. Why are you so far from helping me, from my words of groaning? I loathe my life. Yet you have helped one who has no power and given much good advice! Please help me eject him once and for all. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I want to write songs; I want to have a purpose; I want … I want … I need to have a reason. Please,” she ends on a whisper.

  Wait.

  How long must I wait?

  Wait.

  How long?

  Forty days and forty nights.

  ~~~*~~~