“It’s not our fault,” Dom said quickly.
“The hell it isn’t!” snapped Menno, pointing at the flat horizontal tracing. “We did that to the boy. We shut off his inner voice.”
13
“What horrible things?”
Kayla looked out the semicircular window. The sun had set; the rivers were dark and still, winding blacktop roads. I let the words hang there for a moment as she chewed on her lower lip. At last, she looked back at me, blue eyes slightly narrowed. “You really don’t remember? Not even that?”
“Honestly, no.”
“Look,” she said, “I kept track of you a bit over the years. Checking online now and then, or asking mutual acquaintances how you were doing. And people kept saying things like, ‘Oh, yeah, Jim. What a nice guy!’ And you were a good guy when we started dating. Thoughtful, kind, supportive. So when…”
She trailed off and looked at the blond brick wall.
“What?” I said.
“So when you got violent, it was a total surprise, you know? Knocked me for a loop.” She lowered her voice, and then, softly, sadly, she added, “Figuratively and literally.”
I was absolutely floored, and I’m sure my eyes went wide. “My… God. I—Kayla, honestly, I wouldn’t—I’d never…”
She lifted her head and finally met my gaze—and held it, looking really, really hard, her attention flicking from my left eye to my right and back again. “Did you take your own test?” she asked. “The microsaccades one?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“And I’m normal, absolutely. Not a psychopath.”
“You know, just on the numbers, there’s a thirty percent chance you are.”
“I’m not.”
She drew her eyebrows together and compressed her lips.
“Look,” I said, “whatever happened—whatever I did—I’m so, so sorry. It has to be related to the brain damage that caused me to lose those memories. But I’m all right now.”
“You can’t know that. Until a few days ago—until what happened on the witness stand—you didn’t even know you’d lost any memories. Who knows what else you don’t remember doing?”
“I’m not a psychopath,” I said again. “I can prove it with my goggles.”
She looked dubious again. “I mean, your technique is interesting, but…”
“Okay, all right. Prefer your own equipment? How ’bout this? I’d love to see that synchrotron of yours, and you can test me for yourself. What is it, ten hours by car to Saskatoon?”
“Eight, if you’ve got a heavy foot like me, but, seriously, Jim, that’s not necessary.”
“Hey, I’m only teaching a couple of summer courses. My last class ends at 1:00 on Thursday, and you said that’s about when you’re going home. I don’t have another class until 8:00 A.M. Wednesday morning.” I made my tone offhanded. “We could do it this weekend. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to share the driving?”
She was clearly startled. “Well, I mean, um, how would you get home?”
“Greyhound? VIA Rail?”
She looked out into the darkness again, then slowly turned back to me. “Okay, sure. Why not? But I have to warn you: Saturdays I go see Travis.”
I was surprised at the way my heart fell, but Kayla was brilliant and beautiful; was it any wonder she had a boyfriend?
“Oh. Um, okay.”
“You could come along, if you like. Just like old times.”
Good grief! Just how much had I forgotten? “I, ah, wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.”
She looked startled for a moment. “You really don’t remember, do you? Travis is my brother.”
“Oh!”
“We used to visit him here in Winnipeg, back when we were dating.” She saw my puzzled expression. “He’s in a coma; has been for ages.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows. They found him passed out. No head injury, though; he didn’t trip and smash his skull, or anything like that.”
“Huh.”
“He was so strong, and not just physically. He was a brick, you know? He was fourteen when our dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. Our mother was a mess, but Travis, he was her pillar of strength.” She paused. “Anyway, Trav and I grew up in Winnipeg, but when I got the job at the synchrotron, I moved him and my mom to Saskatoon.” She shrugged a little. “It didn’t make any difference to Travis, and Mom was delighted to be closer to her granddaughter; she looks after Ryan for me when I can’t.”
“Oh, that must be handy, having her live with you.”
“My mom? No, no. She’s just sixty-two. She’s got her own place. She’s a freelance graphic designer; works out of her house. But Travis is in a facility. I visit him every Saturday morning, sit with him for an hour.” She smiled ruefully. “It’s almost like therapy. I talk about my week, natter on, say whatever comes to mind. I long ago gave up any hope that he’s going to respond, but…”
“Sure,” I said. “And, yeah, I’d be happy to keep you company on Saturday, if you’d like me there.”
“Thanks. I know it doesn’t make any real difference if I go or not, but, well…” She shrugged. “It’s something I have to do.”
I nodded. “Some people in minimally conscious states or with locked-in syndrome are aware of, and do appreciate, visitors, even if they can’t respond.”
“And doubtless some of those at the facility are minimally conscious. But not Travis.”
“Oh?”
“I had an ambulance service bring him to the Light Source a while ago. Took him on a stretcher down to the SusyQ beamline; that’s short for ‘superpositioned systems—quantum.’ Vic ran our process on him.” Kayla let out a small sigh. “Might as well have put a hunk of granite in front of the emitter; they both would’ve shown the same thing.” She shrugged. “Scientist first, little sister second, I guess. Anyway, that’s how we confirmed our notion about the classical-physics state: no superposition means a complete lack of consciousness.”
I didn’t want to seem insensitive, but, well, the utilitarian position would be clear in a case like this. “So then, ah—”
“Why don’t I pull the plug?”
“Well, yeah.”
She shrugged a little. “He’s my brother.” I couldn’t think of a good response, so I remained silent. But after a time, she went on. “I know he’s not suffering; he can’t be in any pain. And, well, where there is life, there is hope.”
I peered out the semicircular window, radial slats making it look like a half-submerged captain’s wheel. The immaculately groomed waiter deposited the bill, then disappeared; I paid, since Kayla had gotten lunch. Kayla was staying at Inn at The Forks, which is why I’d chosen Sydney’s. I walked her the hundred meters or so to her hotel.
The Inn was five stories tall, and apparently pretty upscale. I’d been to the lobby a few times but never to the rooms—and it didn’t look like that was going to change this evening. The elevators were close to the front desk, affording little privacy, although an indoor waterfall provided some masking white noise.
“You really want to come to Saskatoon?” Kayla asked, facing me.
“Absolutely,” I said. “And—oh, shit.”
“What?”
“I forgot. Damn! I have to make an appearance at the CMHR Thursday at four.”
“At the what?”
“The Canadian Museum for Human Rights.” I pointed at the north wall, hoping she could visualize what was on the other side of it. “It’s that round, glass-and-steel building just over there. They’re having a reception to kick off a lecture series, and I’m on the board of directors, so…”