And the bruise…
Not bruising from having the tattoo made, but—
My God!
But bruising from…from yesterday.
She saw where his gaze had gone, and she turned a little, as if to hide her upper arm from his sight, but then she must have realized that her nurse’s smock covered it completely, and yet, when she turned back to him, it was a long moment before she met his eyes again.
“Um,” he said, “you look well.” And as soon as the words were out, he realized it was an odd thing to say, but—
But his mind was filling now with thoughts that—God!—that must be hers.
He’d never believed in telepathy, or mind reading, or any of that garbage. Jesus!
But, no, wait. It wasn’t that; not quite. She was looking at him quizzically now, and he had no idea what she was currently thinking. But as soon as he thought about the day he’d run into her in the tank top, memories of that came to him—from her point of view.
And other things kept coming to him, too—information about patients in this wing; details about some online game called EVE; a bit from The Colbert Report, which he never watched; and—yes, yes—more thoughts, more memories, about him. About the first time they’d met. He didn’t remember the specific day, but she did; it was her first day on the new job here, nine months ago. It had been—ah, yes, now that he thought about it, he did remember…or she did. All the decorations: it had been Valentine’s Day.
And she’d thought, after meeting him, of this bald, thin man, “Slap a British accent on him, and he’s everything I’ve been fantasizing about since I was fifteen.” She liked older men. She liked Patrick Stewart and Sean Connery and—
And Eric Redekop.
He’d always liked Janis, but he’d had no idea—none!—that she felt that way about him, and…
And she was speaking, he realized, and he’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard what she’d said. “Sorry. Um, could you repeat that?”
She gave him another quizzical look, then: “I said, that was quite a surprise when the power went off, wasn’t it? I didn’t think that could happen here.”
“Oh, yeah. Yes, it was.” He was only about three feet away from her now, and he could see that her makeup was perfect—a little eyeliner, a little blue eye shadow—and her eyebrows had been recently and expertly plucked; in fact, he had a flash of seeing herself as she’d leaned toward a bathroom mirror, and he recalled a constellation of pain-points as she’d done the deed.
But thinking about her eyes brought forth other memories—memories of her crying—crying as someone screamed profanity at her. It was so shocking, so wrong, that Eric instinctively stepped backward.
“Janis,” he said, this time getting the full name out without hesitation—although he realized at once that it wasn’t the full name; her full name actually was Janis Louise Falconi, and Falconi was her married name; her maiden name was Amundsen, and—
And he had to finish the sentence he’d begun! “Janis, um, are you okay?”
“As well as can be expected,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” he replied, but he found himself backing further away.
Chapter 9
Susan Dawson had an odd feeling as she came into the room on the third floor, and it took her a moment to identify it; it was something she’d heard of but never experienced. The incongruity of having déjà vu for the first time made her head spin.
And it was indeed that: this room, this little office tucked away inside a hospital she hadn’t visited before, seemed familiar. It wasn’t just that many institutional offices looked alike—neutral colors, venetian blinds, tiled floors, fluorescent lights. No, there was more to it. The desk, the top of which seemed to be made of pine and was a distinctive kidney shape, looked…
She shook her head slightly, but…
But there was no denying it: it looked exactly as she remembered it.
And yet she’d never seen it before. She couldn’t have.
Oh. Maybe she’d seen one like it in the IKEA catalog; they sold lots of stuff with pine veneers. But the silver-gray roller chair also looked familiar—as did the blue tennis racquet leaning against the wall, and the trophy, there. She knew what it was for, even though she couldn’t read the engraving on it from this distance: it was the top prize from the recent LT tennis tournament.
And the wide bookcase, with its dark green shelves and rows of journals with identical spines, somehow were familiar, too. A memory came to her, and this one she did recognize as her own: her anger many years ago when National Geographic had done a special issue on oceans and had given the magazine a blue cover and spine instead of the traditional yellow one, breaking up the lovely set she’d been collecting ever since her grandfather had started sending her gift subscriptions when she was a little girl. And here, in this office, one of the journal volumes had a green spine instead of the wine-colored ones all the others had.
She looked at the wall. On it were three diplomas, including one from McGill University; she was pleased with herself for knowing that it was in Montreal. There was also a framed photograph of a brown-skinned woman and three similarly complexioned children, and—
And the woman’s name was Devi, and the children were Harpreet, Amneet, and Gursiman.
But she’d never met them before. She was sure of that. And yet—
And yet memories of them were pouring into her consciousness. Birthday parties, vacations, Harpreet getting in trouble at school for swearing, and—
“Are you Agent Dawson?” The voice was richly accented.
She spun on her heel and found herself facing a Sikh wearing a jade green turban and a pale blue lab coat. “Ranjip,” she said, the name blurting out of her.
His brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Have we met?” He looked to be perhaps fifty; his beard had wisps of gray in it.
“Um,” said Susan, and “ah,” and then, at last, “no—no, I don’t think so. But…but you are Ranjip Singh, right?”
The man smiled, and Susan belatedly realized that he was quite handsome. “As my son would say—”
“ ‘That’s my name; don’t wear it out.’ ” The words had come to Susan in a flash. She found her hand going to her mouth, startled. “I, um—he does say that, doesn’t he?”
Singh smiled again, his friendly eyes crinkling. “So do lots of kids his age. He also likes the one about the chicken going halfway across the road to—”
“To lay it on the line,” said Susan. Her heart was pounding. “What in hell is going on?” She found herself taking a half step backward. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your son. I’ve never been in this room before.”
Singh nodded and gestured at the office’s single chair—the familiar and yet unfamiliar silver-gray roller. “Won’t you have a seat?”
She normally would have stayed standing—it was a stronger position. But she was feeling unsteady, so she took him up on his offer. For his part, Singh leaned against the dark brown bookcase with the green shelves. “As you say,” he said “something is going on. And I do fear it may be my fault.”
Susan felt her eyebrows going up. “You were doing an experiment here,” she said. “Well, not here; down the corridor, in room, um, 324. It’s—damn, it’s too technical; I don’t know what you’re talking about.”