Music floods my mind suddenly, piano music. Gentle, flowing, organized sound… I squeeze my eyes shut, relaxing again. The name comes to me: Chopin. An etude. An etude is a study… no, let the music flow; don’t think.
I run my hands up and down my arms, feeling the texture of my skin, the springiness of the hairs. It is soothing, but I do not need to keep doing it.
“Lou! Are you in here? Are you all right?” It is Jim, the orderly who has taken care of me most days. The music fades, but I can feel it rippling under my skin, soothing.
“I’m fine,” I say. I can tell that my voice sounds relaxed. “I just needed a break, is all.”
“Better come out, buddy,” he says. “They’re startin’ to freak out here.”
Sighing, I stand up and unlatch the door. Object permanence retains its shape as I walk out; the walls and floor stay as flat as they should; the gleam of light off shiny surfaces doesn’t bother me. Jim grins at me. “You’re okay then, buddy?”
“Fine,” I say again. Lou-before liked music. Lou-before used music to steady him… I wonder how much of Lou-before’s music I could still remember.
Janis and Dr. Hendricks are waiting in the hall. I smile at them. “I’m fine,” I say. “I really did just need to go to the bathroom.”
“But Janis says you fell,” Dr. Hendricks says.
“Just a glitch,” I say. “Something about the confusion while reading sort of… made a confusion in the senses, but it’s gone now.” I look down the hall both ways to be sure. Everything seems fine. “I want to talk to you about what actually happened,” I say to Dr. Hendricks. “They said brain surgery, but I don’t have any scars that I can see. And I need to understand what’s going on in my brain.”
She purses her lips, then nods. “All right. One of the counselors will explain it to you. I can tell you that the kind of surgery we do now doesn’t involve cutting big holes in your head. Janis, set up an appointment for him.” Then she walks away.
I don’t think I like her very much. I sense that she is a person who keeps secrets.
When my counselor, a cheerful young man with a bright red beard, explains what they did, I am almost in shock. Why did Lou-before agree to this? How could he risk so much? I would like to grab him and shake him, but he is me now. I am his future, as he is my past. I am the light flung out into the universe, and he is the explosion from which I came. I do not say this to the counselor, who is very matter-of-fact and would probably think that is crazy. He keeps assuring me that I am safe and will be taken care of; he wants me to be calm and quiet. I am calm and quiet on the outside. Inside I am split between Lou-before, who is figuring out how that pattern on his tie was woven, and my current self, who wants to shake Lou-before and laugh in the counselor’s face and tell him that I do not want to be safe and taken care of. I am past that now. It is too late to be safe in the way he means safe, and I will take care of myself.
I am lying in bed with my eyes closed, thinking about the day. Suddenly I am suspended in space, in darkness. Far off tiny chips of light, many-colored. I know they are stars and the blurry ones are probably galaxies. Music starts, Chopin again. It is slow, thoughtful, almost sad. Something in E minor. Then some other music comes in, with a different feeclass="underline" more texture, more strength, rising up under me like a wave on the ocean, only this wave is light.
Colors shift: I know, without analyzing it, that I am racing toward those distant stars, faster and faster, until the wave of light tosses me off and I fly faster yet, a dark perception, toward the center of space and time.
When I wake up, I am happier than I have ever been, and I do not know why.
The next time Tom comes, I recognize him and remember that he has been here before. I have so much to tell him, so much to ask him. Lou-before thinks Tom knew him better than just about anybody. If I could I would let Lou-before greet him, but that doesn’t work anymore. “We’ll be out in a few days,” I say. “I’ve already talked to my apartment manager; she’ll turn the power back on and get things ready.”
“You’re feeling all right?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Thanks for coming all these times; I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first.”
He looks down; I can see tears in his eyes; he is embarrassed by them. “It’s not your fault, Lou.”
“No, but I know you worried,” I say. Lou-before might not have known that, but I do. I can see that Tom is a man who cares deeply about others; I can imagine how he felt when I didn’t know his face.
“Do you know what you’re going to do?” he asks.
“I wanted to ask you about signing up for night school,” I say. “I want to go back to college.”
“Good idea,” he says. “I can certainly help you with the admissions process. What are you going to study?”
“Astronomy,” I say. “Or astrophysics. I’m not sure which, but something like that. I’d like to go into space.”
Now he looks a little sad, and I can see he is forcing the smile that comes after. “I hope you get what you want,” he says. Then, as if he doesn’t want to be pushy, “Night school won’t give you much time for fencing,” he says.
“No,” I say. “I’ll just have to see how it works out. But I’ll come visit, if that’s okay.”
He looks relieved. “Of course, Lou. I don’t want to lose track of you.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
He cocks his head sideways, then shakes it once. “You know, I think you will. I really think you will.”
EPILOGUE
I can hardly believe it, even though everything I’ve done for the past seven years has been aimed at exactly this. I am sitting here at a desk entering my notes, and the desk is in a ship and the ship is in space, and space is full of light. Lou-before hugs the series to him, dancing inside me like a joyous child. I feign more sobriety, in my workaday coverall, though I can feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. We both hear the same music.
The identifier code on my ID gives my academic degree, my blood type, my security clearance… no mention there that I spent almost forty years of my life defined as a disabled person, an autist. Some people know, of course: the publicity surrounding the company’s unsuccessful attempt to market an attention-control treatment to employers brought us all more notoriety than we wanted. Bailey, in particular, made a juicy tidbit for the media. I didn’t know how badly it went for him until I saw the news archives; they never let us see him.
I miss Bailey. It wasn’t fair, what happened to him, and I used to feel guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault. I miss Linda and Chuy; I hoped they would take the treatment when they saw how it worked for me, but Linda didn’t until after I finished my doctorate last year. She is still in rehab. Chuy never did. The last time I saw him, he said he was still happy the way he was. I miss Tom and Lucia and Marjory and my other friends from fencing, who helped me so much in the early years of recovery. I know Lou-before loved Marjory, but nothing happened inside when I looked at her afterward. I had to choose, and — like Lou-before — I chose to go on, to risk success, to find new friends, to be who I am now.
Out there is the dark: the dark we don’t know about yet. It is always there waiting; it is, in that sense, always ahead of the light. It bothered Lou-before that the speed of dark was greater than the speed of light. Now I am glad of it, because it means I will never come to the end, chasing the light.
Now I get to ask the questions.