Silence. She nodded. “If only that were all of it,” she said. Tears overflowing.
“Talk to me, tell me the story,” he said.
She slipped out of his arms and stood up. She walked barefoot back and forth across the floor, oblivious apparently to its coldness. Again, it came so fast, so many long delicate phrases pouring out with such speed, he strained to listen. To separate the meaning from the beguiling beauty of her voice.
She’d been adopted when she was a day old, she’d been taken away from her home, and did he know that was New Orleans? She’d told him that in the letter he’d never received. And yes, he ought to know that because when he’d wakened, he grabbed her hand and held onto it, as if he didn’t want to let her go. And maybe then some mingled crazy idea had come through, some sudden intensity connected to that place. But the thing was, she’d never really been there! Never seen it. Didn’t even know her mother’s full name.
Did he know there was a paper in the safe, over there, behind the picture there, by the door, a letter she’d signed saying she’d never go back to New Orleans, never seek to find out anything about her family, her real parents? Cut off, ripped out of it, the past cut away like the umbilical cord and no way that she could recapture what had been thrown away. But she’d been thinking about that of late, that awful black gulf and the fact that they were gone, Ellie and Graham, and the paper in the safe, and Ellie had died making her repeat her promise, over and over.
They’d taken her out of New Orleans to Los Angeles on a six o’clock plane the very day she was born. Why, for years she’d been told she was born in Los Angeles. That’s what her birth certificate said, one of those phony jobs they concoct for adopted children. Ellie and Graham had told her a thousand times about the little apartment in West Hollywood, and how happy they had been when they brought her home.
But that wasn’t the point, the point was they were gone, dead, and with them their whole story, wiped out with a speed and totality that utterly terrified her. And Ellie in such pain. Nobody should have to suffer like that. And theirs had been the great modern life, just great, though it was a selfish, materialistic world, she had to admit. No tie to anyone-family or friend-ever interrupted their self-centered pursuit of pleasure. And at the bedside, no one but Rowan as Ellie lay screaming for the morphine.
He was nodding, how well he understood. Hadn’t his own life become the same thing? A sudden flash of New Orleans struck him, screen door closing, cousins around the kitchen table, red beans and rice, and talk, talk, talk …
“I tell you I almost killed her,” Rowan said, “I almost ended it. I couldn’t … I couldn’t … Nobody could lie to me about it. I know when people are lying. It’s not that I can read minds, it’s more subtle. It’s as if people are talking out loud in black-and-white words on a page, and I’m seeing what they say in colored pictures. I get their thoughts some times, little bits of information. And anyway, I’m a doctor, they didn’t try, and I had full access to the information. It was Ellie that was always lying, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. And I knew her feelings, always. I had since I was a little girl. And there was this other thing, this talent for knowing, I call it the diagnostic sense but it’s more than that, I laid my hands on her and even when she was in remission, I knew. It’s in there, it’s coming back. She’s got six months at most. And then to come home after it was all over-to this house, this house with every conceivable gadget and convenience and luxury that one could possibly … ”
“I know,” he said softly. “All the toys we have, all the money.”
“Yes, and what is this without them now, a shell? I don’t belong here! And if I don’t belong, nobody does, and I look around me … and I’m scared, I tell you. I’m scared. No, wait, don’t comfort me. You don’t know. I couldn’t prevent Ellie’s death, that I can accept, but I caused Graham’s death. I killed him.”
“No, but you didn’t do that,” he said. “You’re a doctor and you know … ”
“Michael, you are like an angel sent to me. But listen to what I’m telling you. You have a power in your hands, you know it’s real. I know it’s real. On the drive over you demonstrated that power. Well, I have a power in me that’s equally strong. I killed him. I killed two people before that-a stranger, and a little girl years ago, a little girl on a playground. I’ve read the autopsy reports. I can kill, I tell you! I’m a doctor today because I am trying to deny that power, I have built my life upon compensation for that evil!”
She took a deep breath. She ran her fingers back through her hair. She looked waifish and lost in the big loose robe, cinched tight at the waist, a Ganymede with the soft tumbled pageboy hair. He started to go to her. She gestured for him to stay where he was.
“There’s so much. You know I made this fantasy of telling you, you of all people … ”
“I’m here, I’m listening,” he said. “I want you to tell me … ” How could he put into words that she fascinated him and utterly absorbed him, and how remarkable that was after all these weeks of frenzy and craziness.
She talked in a low voice now of how it had gone with her, of how she had always been in love with science, science was poetry to her. She never thought she’d be a surgeon. It was research that fascinated her, the incredible, almost fantastical advances in neurological science. She wanted to spend her life in the laboratory where she thought the real opportunity for heroism existed; and she had a natural genius for it, take that on faith. She did.
But then had come that awful experience, that terrible Christmas Eve. She had been about to go to the Keplinger Institute to work full-time on methods of intervention in the brain that did not involve surgery-the use of lasers, the gamma knife, miracles she could scarcely describe to the layman. After all, she had never had any easy time with human beings. Didn’t she belong in a laboratory?
And take it from her the latest developments were full of the miraculous, but then her mentor, never mind his name-and he was dead now anyway, he’d died of a series of little strokes shortly after that, ironically enough, and all the surgeons in the world hadn’t been able to clip and suture those deadly ruptures … but she hadn’t even found out about that until later. To get back to the story, he had taken her up into the Institute in San Francisco on Christmas Eve because that was the one night of all nights when no one would be there, and he was breaking the rules to show her what they were working on, and it was live fetal research.
“I saw it in the incubator, this little fetus. Do you know what he called it? He called it the abortus. Oh, I hate to tell you this because I know how you feel about Little Chris, I know … ”
She didn’t notice his shock. He had never told her about Little Chris, never told anyone about that pet name, but she seemed quite completely unaware of this, and he sat there silent, just listening to her talk, thinking vaguely of all those films he’d seen with these recurrent and awful fetal images, but he wasn’t about to interrupt her. He wanted her to go on.
“And this thing had been sustained, alive,” she said, “from a four-month abortion, and you know he was developing means of live support for even younger fetuses. He was talking of breeding embryos in test tubes and never returning them to the womb at all, but all of this to harvest organs. You should have heard his arguments, that the fetus was playing a vital role in the human life chain, could you believe it, and I’ll tell you the horrible part, the really horrible part, it was that it was utterly fascinating, and I loved it. I saw the potential uses he was describing. I knew it would be possible someday to create new and undamaged brains for coma victims. Oh, God, you know all the things that could be done, the things that I, given my talent, could have done!”