Then the drawl returned. “But that’s not your problem. Pete, we’ve got a situation with those people of yours. They’ve been promised a treatment and threatened with loss of their jobs, and you’re going to have to straighten that out. Legal is going to send someone to explain the situation, but I want you to prepare them.”
“What — what is the situation now, sir?” Aldrin asked.
“Obviously their jobs are safe, if they want to keep them,” Slazik said. “We don’t coerce volunteers; this isn’t the military, and I understand that even if… someone doesn’t. They have rights. They don’t have to agree to the treatment. On the other hand, if they want to volunteer, that’s fine; they’ve already been through the preliminary tests. Full pay, no loss of seniority — it’s a special case.”
Aldrin wanted to ask what would happen to Crenshaw and himself, but he was afraid that asking would make whatever it was worse.
“I’m going to be calling Mr. Crenshaw in for an interview,” Slazik said. “Don’t talk about this, except to reassure your people that they’re not in jeopardy. Can I trust you for that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No gossiping with Shirley in Accounting or Bart in Human Resources or any of your other contacts?”
Aldrin felt faint. How much did Slazik know? “No, sir, I won’t talk to anyone.”
“Crenshaw may call you — he should be fairly steamed with you — but don’t worry about it.”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll have to meet you personally, Pete, when this settles down a bit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you can learn to work a little better with the system, your dedication to both company goals and personnel — and your awareness of the public-relations aspects of such things — could be a real asset to us.” Slazik hung up before Aldrin could say anything. Aldrin took a long breath — it felt like the first in a long time — and sat staring at the clock until he realized the numbers on it were still changing.
Then he headed over to Section A, before Crenshaw — who must have heard by now — could blow up at him on the phone. He felt fragile, vulnerable. He hoped his team would make the announcement easy.
I have not seen Cameron since he left last week. I do not know when I will see Cameron again. I do not like not having his car to park my car facing into. I do not like not knowing where he is or whether he is all right or not.
The symbols on the screen I watch are shifting in and out of reality, patterns forming and dissolving, and this is not something that had happened before. I turn on my fan. The whirling of the spin spirals, the movements of reflected light, make my eyes hurt. I turn the fan off.
I read another book last night. I wish I had not read it.
What we were taught about ourselves, as autistic children, was only part of what the people who taught us believed to be true. Later I found out some of that, but some I never really wanted to know. I thought it was hard enough coping with the world without knowing everything other people thought was wrong with me. I thought making my outward behavior fit in was enough. That is what I was taught: act normal, and you will be normal enough.
If the chip they will implant in Don’s brain makes him act normal, does does this mean he is normal enough? Is it normal to have a chip in your brain? To have a brain that needs a chip to make it able to govern normal behavior?
If I can seem normal without a chip and Don needs a chip, does that mean I am normal, more normal than he is?
The book said that autistics tend to ruminate excessively on abstract philosophical questions like these, in much the same way that psychotics sometimes do. It referred to older books that speculated that autistic persons had no real sense of personal identity, of self. It said they do have self-definition, but of a limited and rule-dictated sort.
It makes me feel queasy to think about this, and about Don’s custodial rehabilitation, and about what is happening with Cameron.
If my self-definition is limited and rule-dictated, at least it is my self-definition, and not someone else’s. I like peppers on pizza and I do not like anchovies on pizza. If someone changes me, will I still like peppers and not anchovies on pizza? What if the someone who changes me wants me to want anchovies… can they change that?
The book on brain functionality said that expressed preferences were the result of the interaction of innate sensory processing and social conditioning. If the person who wants me to like anchovies has not been successful with social conditioning and has access to my sensory processing, then that person can make me like anchovies.
Will I even remember that I don’t like anchovies — that I didn’t like anchovies?
The Lou who does not like anchovies will be gone, and the new Lou who likes anchovies will exist without a past. But who I am is my past as well as whether I like anchovies now or not.
If my wants are supplied, does it matter what they are? Is there any difference between being a person who likes anchovies and being a person who does not like anchovies? If everyone liked anchovies or everyone didn’t like anchovies, what difference would it make?
To the anchovies a lot. If everyone liked anchovies, more anchovies would die. To the person selling anchovies a lot. If everyone liked anchovies, that person would make more money selling them. But to me, the me I am now or the me I will be later? Would I be healthier or less healthy, kinder or less kind, smarter or less smart, if I liked anchovies? Other people I have seen who eat or do not eat anchovies seem much the same. For many things I think it does not matter what people like: what colors, what flavors, what music.
Asking if I want to be healed is like asking if I want to like anchovies. I cannot imagine what liking anchovies would feel like, what taste they would have in my mouth. People who like anchovies tell me they taste good; people who are normal tell me being normal feels good. They cannot describe the taste or the feeling in a way that makes sense to me.
Do I need to be healed? Who does it hurt if I am not healed? Myself, but only if I feel bad the way I am, and I do not feel bad except when people say that I am not one of them, not normal. Supposedly autistic persons do not care what others think of them, but this is not true. I do care, and it hurts when people do not like me because I am autistic.
Even refugees who flee with nothing but their clothes are not forbidden their memories. Bewildered and frightened as they may be, they have themselves for a comparison. Maybe they can never taste their favorite food again, but they can remember that they liked it. They may not see the land they knew again, but they can remember that they lived there. They can judge if their life is better or worse by comparing it to their memories.
I want to know if Cameron remembers the Cameron he was, if he thinks the country he has come to is better than the country he left behind.
This afternoon we are to meet with the treatment advisers again. I will ask about this.
I look at the clock. It is 10:37:18, and I have accomplished nothing this morning. I do not want to accomplish anything in my project. It is the anchovy seller’s project and not my project.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mr. Aldrin comes into our building. He knocks on my door and says, “Please come out; I want to talk to you in the gym.” My stomach knots up. I hear him knocking on the others’ doors. They come out, Linda and Bailey and Chuy and Eric and all, and we file into the gym, all with tight faces. It is big enough to hold all of us. I try not to worry, but I can feel myself starting to sweat. Are they going to start the treatment right away? No matter what we decide?