I need that excitement. I need that explosive quality. I bounce higher and higher, feeling the wonderful openness of free fall before I feel the equally wonderful compression, joints squeezing, muscles working to push me to a higher bounce. Opposites are the same thing in different directions. Action and reaction. Gravity — I do not know an opposite for gravity, but the elasticity of the trampoline creates one. Numbers and patterns race through my mind, forming, breaking up, re-forming.
I remember being afraid of water, the unstable, unpredictable shifts and wobbles in it as it touched me. I remember the explosive joy of finally swimming, the realization that even though it was unstable, even though I could not predict the changing pressure in the pool, I could still stay afloat and move in the direction I chose to go. I remember being afraid of the bicycle, of its wobbly unpredictability, and the same joy when I figured out how to ride out that unpredictability, how to use my will to overcome its innate chaos. Again I am afraid, more afraid because I understand more — I could lose all the adaptations I have made and have nothing — but if I can ride this wave, this biological bicycle, then I will have incomparably more.
As my legs tire, I bounce lower, lower, lower, and finally stop.
They do not want us stupid and helpless. They do not want to destroy our minds; they want to use them.
I do not want to be used. I want to use my own mind, myself, for what I want to do.
I think I may want to try this treatment. I do not have to. I do not need to: I am all right as I am. But I think I am beginning to want to because maybe, if I change, and if it is my idea and not theirs, then maybe I can learn what I want to learn and do what I want to do. It is not any one thing; it is all the things at once, all the possibilities. “I will not be the same,” I say, letting go of the comfortable gravity, flying up out of that certainly into the uncertainty of free fall.
When I walk out, I feel light in both ways, still in less than normal gravity and still full of more light than darkness. But gravity returns when I think of telling my friends what I am doing. I think they will not like it any better than the Center’s lawyer.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mr. Aldrin comes by to tell us that the company will not agree to provide LifeTime treatments at this time, though they may — he emphasizes that it is only a possibility — assist those of us who want to have LifeTime treatments after the other treatment, if it is successful. “It is too dangerous to do them together,” he says. “It increases the risk, and then if something does go wrong it would last longer.”
I think he should say it plainly: if the treatment causes more damage, we would be worse off and the company would have to support us for longer. But I know that normal people do not say things plainly.
We do not talk among ourselves after he leaves. The others all look at me, but they do not say anything. I hope Linda takes the treatment anyway. I want to talk to her more about stars and gravity and the speed of light and dark.
In my own office, I call Ms. Beasley at Legal Aid and tell her that I have decided to agree to the treatment. She asks me if I am sure. I am not sure, but I am sure enough. Then I call Mr. Aldrin and tell him. He also asks if I am sure. “Yes,” I say, and then I ask, “Is your brother going to do it?” I have been wondering about his brother.
“Jeremy?” He sounds surprised that I asked. I think it is a reasonable question. “I don’t know, Lou. It depends on the size of the group. If they open it up to outsiders, I’ll consider asking him. If he could live on his own, if he could be happier…”
“He is not happy?” I ask.
Mr. Aldrin sighs. “I… don’t talk about him much,” he says. I wait. Not talking about something much does not mean someone doesn’t want to talk about it. Mr. Aldrin clears his throat and then goes on. “No, Lou, he’s not happy. He’s… very impaired. The doctors then… my parents… he’s on a lot of medication, and he never learned to talk very well.” I think I understand what he is not saying. His brother was born too early, before the treatments that helped me and the others. Maybe he didn’t get the best treatment, even of those available at the time. I think of the descriptions in the books; I imagine Jeremy being stuck where I was as a young child.
“I hope the new treatment works,” I say. “I hope it works for him, too.”
Mr. Aldrin makes a sound I do not understand; his voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “Thank you, Lou,” he says. “You’re — you’re a good man.”
I am not a good man. I am just a man, like he is, but I like it that he thinks I am good.
Tom and Lucia and Marjory are all in the living room when I arrive. They are talking about the next tournament. Tom looks up at me.
“Lou — have you decided?”
“Yes,” I say. “I will do it.”
“Good. You’ll need to fill out this entry form—”
“Not that,” I say. I realize that he would not know I meant something else. “I will not fight in this tournament—” Will I ever fight in another tournament? Will the future me want to fence? Can you fence in space? I think it would be very hard in free fall.
“But you said,” Lucia says; then her face changes, seems to flatten out with surprise. “Oh — you mean… you’re going through with the treatment?”
“Yes,” I say. I glance at Marjory. She is looking at Lucia, and then at me, and then back. I do not remember if I talked to Marjory about the treatment.
“When?” asks Lucia before I have time to think about how to explain to Marjory.
“It will start Monday,” I say. “I have a lot to do. I have to move into the clinic.”
“Are you sick?” Marjory says; her face is pale now. “Is something wrong?”
“I am not sick,” I say to Marjory. “There is an experimental treatment that may make me normal.”
“Normal! But, Lou, you’re fine the way you are. I like the way you are. You don’t have to be like everybody else. Who has been telling you that?” She sounds angry. I do not know if she is angry with me or with someone she thinks told me I needed to change. I do not know if I should tell her the whole story or part of it. I will tell her everything.
“It started because Mr. Crenshaw at work wanted to eliminate our unit,” I say. “He knew about this treatment. He said it will save money.”
“But that’s — that’s coercion. It’s wrong. It’s against the law. He can’t do that—”
She is really angry now, the color coming and going on her cheeks. It makes me want to grab her and hug her. That is not appropriate.
“That is how it started,” I say. “But you are right; he could not do what he said he would do. Mr. Aldrin, our supervisor, found a way to stop him.” I am still surprised by this. I was sure Mr. Aldrin had changed his mind and would not help us. I still do not understand what Mr. Aldrin did that stopped Mr. Crenshaw and caused him to lose his job and be escorted out by security guards with his things in a box. I tell them what Mr. Aldrin said and then what the lawyers said in the meeting. “But now I want to change,” I say, at the end.
She takes a deep breath. I like to watch her take deep breaths; the front of her clothes pulls tight. “Why?” she asks in a quieter voice. “It isn’t because of… because of… us, is it? Me?”
“No,” I say. “It is not about you. It is about me.”
Her shoulders sag. I do not know if it is relief or sadness. “Then was it Don? Did he make you do this, convince you that you weren’t all right as you were?”
“It was not Don… not only Don…” It is obvious, I think, and I do not know why she cannot see it. She was there when the security man at the airport stopped me and my words stuck and she had to help me. She was there when I needed to talk to the police officer and my words stuck and Tom had to help me. I do not like being the one who always needs help. “It is about me,” I say again. “I want not to have problems at the airport and sometimes with other people when it is hard to talk and have people looking at me. I want to go places and learn things I did not know I could learn…”