Separate, p.7
Separate, page 7
Her phone had been thoughtfully placed on a nearby tray, next to the TV remote and call button. Na had no desire to relive her failure by watching the video she had taken and only checked her phone’s call history. It was empty; no incoming or outgoing calls were listed. I didn’t dial 911? Crap. Who picked me up from the road? Many potential answers were unnerving. She pushed them from her mind. Better call Mom. As she listened to the line ring, Na’s determination returned. I’ll just touch base. I won’t tell her where I am. If I tell her, she’ll want to come get me, and I’m not leaving like this.
19
Friday
Na couldn’t tell how hard she had knocked on Dr. Elmir’s door. Thanks to the analgesic, she couldn’t feel her knuckles. Anal-gesic. She snickered. Is this normal? Is this how I think? She tested herself: I am Na. Na is me. Hello, Na. She felt normal enough internally, but the brass “215” on the door had a dim, unreal quality. She remembered waking up that morning after a long, drug-induced sleep. She remembered tossing the mystery flowers she couldn’t easily carry in the same hand as her backpack. She somewhat remembered being driven to the hotel by a hospital guy. How long ago did I knock?
“Na, come in. Sit here.” Dr. Elmir dragged a chair to her and propped the door open. “That’ll give you some air.” He spoke sympathetically. “How are you doing? How is your arm?”
“I’m fine.” She looked down at the navy-blue sling. It warmly and comfortably wrapped around her neck and shoulder, covering the gauze on her arm. “I’m still on drugs. They said I’ll start to feel stuff soon.” She sat down lightly. “How are you?”
“I’m glad you’re okay. Are you hungry?”
“Tired. I need a nap.” Saying “nap” triggered a yawn. She closed her eyes, turned her face to the side, and relished the sense of oxygen rushing from her lungs to her toes.
“Sounds like a good idea. We’ve had a busy couple days.” Dr. Elmir plunked onto the bed across the room from Na.
“Yeah.”
“So, can you talk about what happened?” he asked softly.
She replied sleepily. “I went to the cabin and found the blood. It was really dark. I tripped when I was looking around, fell, and . . .” She pointed her shoulder toward him. As she spoke, she realized her blood now spattered the cabin too. Maybe a chunk of her flesh was there as well, jammed inside the hollow metal bar that had punched a hole through her like a cookie cutter. She was too woozy to be bothered by the notion.
“I visited you at the clinic yesterday. You were knocked out, and I didn’t want to disturb you. Right now, I’m waiting for the mayor to call me back. I’m hoping to tour the plant on Monday and see what there is to see. Anyway, I have some news for you.”
“News.” Na repeated the word reflexively. Her transient mind had wandered to the crispy bed sheets directly above her.
“The ghost that Sompob saw was wearing a cross of Toulouse.”
“Across?” Her foggy attention hobbled back to the conversation.
“Here, see?” He opened a file on his laptop and walked it over to show her a picture. “He was probably from Southern France and may have been alive in the 1100s.”
“He’s a thousand years old?”
“He wouldn’t feel a thousand years old. When people die, their spirits leave our time. To them, time here can pass much more quickly. I’ll elaborate. One of the most common reports from near-death experiences is a tunnel of light, with deceased relatives often beckoning at the other end. Are those relatives trapped in the same timeline as ours, waiting decades and decades for their loved ones to die? I think not. To them, time is different because they’re outside our world. The flow of our time is linear, like a river. It constantly flows in one direction. When a person dies, that person steps out of the river, out of the flow of our time, into a different world. From that spot on the riverbank, the deceased can look around and immediately see others who have stepped out, whether they stepped out upstream—in our past—or downstream—in our future. This space outside the river has its own flow of time; just like next to an actual river, one can walk upstream or downstream more quickly or more slowly than the water flows.
“Ghosts are shadows cast by the dead as they pass near our river. We can sometimes see them, but we can’t touch their shadows any more than we can touch our own. Separated from us in another world with another time, spirits are out of our reach, and we are out of theirs.”
“If you say so.” Maybe that’ll make sense after a nap. Na lacked the energy to try to understand. “Why’s he in Thailand?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a myth that ghosts only appear in places they are strongly connected to. They frequently do, but frequently doesn’t mean only.”
“Oh.” Na’s focus began slipping away again. I wish I could control my dreams. Southern France would be nice.
“Anyway, I can tell you’re tired. Since you’re here, though, let’s go over a few things.”
“Okay.”
“You’re hurt, so you’re going to have to take it easy. You need a chance to recover. That said, I need your help. I can’t do this study alone. If you feel up to it, there are things I’d like you to do.”
“Sure.” Sitting on a beach, eating éclairs, and snoozing to the waves’ rhythm . . .
“You’ll have to stick to a schedule and check in regularly so I know where you are and how you’re doing. I’m going to be strict about that. You’ll be on a short leash. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll start tomorrow. There’s a small-town picnic, an annual thing. It’ll be a good chance to meet the locals and leaders. Well then, that’s all. You’d better get some rest. Meet me downstairs in the office when you wake up. If I haven’t seen you by dinner, I’ll come get you to make sure you eat.”
“Alright.” Na got up to leave. Do they have French toast here? Would they cook it for dinner?
“By the way,” added Dr. Elmir, “it’s the hotel that was new.”
“Hmm?”
“The New Mill Hotel.”
“Haaaaaa.”
Na shuffled out through the open door. She knew she should be upset about something but didn’t care what it was. Her arm had begun to ache, and she wanted sleep. The gold lines in the carpet faded with her focus as she trod upstairs to 315’s bed. Without taking off her shoes, she tenderly lay down on her back and closed her eyes. This sling is so cozy was her last waking thought.
20
Nerves are stupid. All they do is get in the way. They don’t help you think. They don’t make you stronger. They just sap your willpower until you crumple and fail. Damn them.
Doug had chickened out. Bravely, perhaps, he had sprung into action when he found her bleeding on the pavement. Genuinely concerned, he only thought of her safety as he wrapped her arm, lifted her into his car, and drove her to the clinic. He hadn’t even noticed what her hair smelled like. Her hair. And then, as he stood in the clinic’s gift shop with a pen in his hand, he had chickened out on the card.
He overthought it and paralyzed himself: Is it creepy that I found her? Will she think I was following her? Will she blame me because I told her that story? It was kind of my fault. Should I say, “I’m sorry, I hope you’re okay”? I can’t tell her how beautiful she is. Surrendering to his nerves in the end, he handed the cardless flowers to a receptionist and fled.
At least he had her picture. He had stealthily and shamefully taken it the day they met, as she passed his storefront window on the way back to her hotel. Doug closed his eyes, squeezed his phone in his palm, and willed her to be well. I hope you’re not in pain. I hope they’re treating you well. Please heal quickly. He didn’t really know her, but she deserved the best care. Everyone did.
He knew he was thinking about her too much; after all, they had only talked once. But he wasn’t captivated by every young woman who entered his store. He dismissed flirtatious high school girls without a second thought, including seniors in his age range. But she stood out. There was something engaging about her beyond her beauty, and he couldn’t help himself. He looked at her picture again.
Loser.
Is it too late to drop something off at the hotel? Doug wondered. I could leave a box of Kokomyntz and a note. A handwritten note might make up for the flowers. The hotel was right next to his store. Maybe he could find out her name, too. First, I’ve got to write the note. What sounds caring in an authentic, winningly dashing way?
21
The sedated subject sat tied to a chair. He looked like a partly unwrapped strawberry ice cream bar after a bite had splintered its white chocolate shell. He was ready for scientific consumption. Positioned near the subject’s chair was a surgical remnant of his amputated leg, a mangled chunk of muscle, bloody marrow, and a swatch of hairy skin. For scientific control, there was also a collection of random tissue from other people.
A person dressed in a surgical apron, gloves, and mask began narrating.
“The EEG indicates the subject’s electrophysiological properties are acceptable. Before- and after-treatment comparison scans and findings from previous subjects have narrowed but not eliminated epiphenomenal brain activity. Activity known to be irrelevant has been marked on chart 0722C. Injections are to be given in the regions marked on chart 0722D. The subject is ready. Here we go, Descartes, into the realm of thought. Beginning the procedure. It is 4 PM.”
The orbitofrontal and ventromedial prefrontal cortices were tricky to access. They were the brain’s lower frontal areas, right behind the face. Because they differed greatly from human to human, the investigator believed they held great promise and were worth the effort to examine. Modern medicine’s current technique for accessing them—endoscopic surgery through the nasal cavity—was much less destructive than the older, inelegant approach used by the investigator: sawing apart the subject’s head. Sawing was simpler and more direct but had its own challenges. Only so much skull bone could be removed before a subject’s eye sockets got in the way.
Thankfully, this subject’s appearance after the experiment didn’t matter. That had sped up the preparation a little and would make cleanup substantially faster. Post-op, the investigator planned to lift the subject’s scalp, drop the excised skull shards inside, and tightly stitch the skin closed. In other words, to do the minimum necessary to prevent the subject from literally pouring his brains out. After chemically disrupting the indicated neural pathways, implanting four electrodes, and watching for effects on the subject and/or surrounding tissue samples, the whole lot would be medical waste.
The investigator found running such experiments to be the ultimate test of self-discipline. Brains floated in fluid they produced to protect themselves from bruising and decrease their weight. Thus, just like semicongealed gravy in plastic wrap, brains begged to be squeezed. It would be so easy to do; during these tests, the subjects’ brains sat naked, exposed and alluring. Although surgical gloves dampened the tactile sensations somewhat, the investigator imagined squeezing one to be intensely satisfying, far beyond that of crushing a warm, overripe tomato until its seeds squirted between the fingers. Hence, the investigator needed self-discipline. The tiniest gratuitous pinch could set off an unthinkable chain of events, ranging from wasting a subject’s precious data to the forced cessation of further experimentation.
“Starting inhibitory injections, moving upward from the underside. Topside-down injections have previously yielded unsatisfactory results.” That had been a bad day. The subject had begun thrashing, then grabbed the investigator and shook, unwittingly stirring the syringe around like a piña colada straw. To hide that damage, the investigator had to stage a convincing accidental car jack collapse. Setting that up wasted hours from his finite pool of time.
Only small, thirty-gauge needles had been prepped; it was fine work, and with preliminary maps plotted, tiny needles were needed to pinpoint the injection locations. The targets were brain fingerprints—specific ganglia that were different in everyone. Small needles also lessened bleeding and collateral damage, making it easier to sift through the data and determine which responses came from the chemical’s neurological effects and which came from the injection process itself. A single errant stab could drastically change the outcomes.
The investigator pivoted the syringe on the rim of the subject’s brainpan, a practiced technique that kept the needle steady while permitting it to move freely from point to point. He leaned in close, inches away from the mass of tangled cells that comprised the subject’s essence. Because live brains were odorless, the only scent in the air came from the investigator’s own breath, sweetened by lunch’s soy-glazed veal chops. He could see the subject’s blood vessels pulsate after each heartbeat—or maybe that was an illusion, a visual effect arising from intense concentration. The mind often saw what it wanted to see, the investigator knew. From across the room, party trays at social functions might seem full of chocolate chip cookies. In fact, they almost always contained stale wheat crackers.
“The injections are completed. No events. Now positioning the probes and starting electrical stimulation. Let’s see if today’s our lucky day.”
The investigator gently set two probes on each cortex. Rudimentary yet invaluable for neural research, the probes were no more than pieces of metal with wires leading back to a control box on a wheeled cart. Giving the cortices controlled shocks would activate the pathways modified by the injections, fundamentally forcing the subject’s train of thought to jump its tracks and follow new rails. Using a bloody, latex-covered knuckle that left a smear, the investigator flipped the probes’ switches. Instantly, the subject’s body shuddered as if his skin had exhaled. It almost looked like extreme nervousness. In contrast, the many instruments monitoring the leg remnant and assorted flesh remained silent.
“Nothing. Disappointing and unsurprising. Confirmed: the neural network must be hard-lined to receive commands. Displacement has no consequences. One moment.” The investigator held out a hand. It cast a single shadow. The investigator peered at the subject’s healthy leg. It cast two shadows. The investigator moved urgently. “Halting the procedure. Turning off the probes and monitors. Shutting down.”
Having depowered the equipment, the investigator peered again at the subject’s leg and double-checked the other tissues. With a relieved tone, the investigator reported, “One shadow. All clear. Beginning cleanup and disposal. Additional subjects are being primed. Sidenote: Maintain vigilance. Alertness equals safety.”
22
Na drifted, conscious yet disconnected, underneath a warm blanket of painkillers on her hotel mattress. She felt at one with and apart from herself. In the way of deep sleep, she knew without thinking: Nothing is important. Just sleep. Soak in it. Absorb it. Be everything. Her dozing mind had closed off Milton and extended beyond itself, dreamily touching faraway corners that felt real. Parties. Swamps. Dressers. Glaciers. Indistinct, half-dreamt objects and locations meandered in and out of her peripheral vision.
Then an entirely new sensation, a prickling fizzle in her right triceps, yanked off the blanket and slung her back to the New Mill Hotel. It didn’t exactly hurt, but it felt wrong and disquieted her. The fizzle stuttered more on than off, like a laggy internet video. She rolled onto her left side to raise the wound and help her blood flow. Na had never been injured like this before. Her worst injuries had been bruises, twists, and sprains from softball. She had no idea of what to expect.
She tried not to worry. The doctor warned me the meds would wear off. It’s probably that. It doesn’t burn or itch, and it’s not twitching. It’s probably normal. Still sleepy, Na checked the clock. Dinner was more than an hour away. Okay, it’s just hunger. My arm wants food to heal, the same as a spasming muscle wants nuts or a banana. Take it easy, arm; relax and wait. Food is coming soon.
As she fell back asleep, the prickling fizzle gradually lessened and faded away.
PART 3
RECEPTION
23
Saturday
Lively volunteers offered tub after tub of mayonnaise-based cuisine, challenging Na to sample pasta mixtures, cubes of baked potatoes, salads, and gluten-free bean jumbles. Na felt stronger today, but not strong enough for that.
Haphazardly arranged tables occupied the center of the flat, grassy park. Few had benches or chairs. Most tables were serving stations, leaving people to eat standing up or on blankets spread around the perimeter. Hand-drawn signs and occasional donation boxes on the tables read, GIRL SCOUTS, ROTARY, MILTON PRESBYTERIAN, and so on. Na’s sling gave her an easy out when rejecting their heaping scoops; with only one free hand, she obviously couldn’t hold a paper plate and eat.
The sling aided her in other ways, too. She had brought only one shirt that could be easily donned in her state: an immodest spaghetti-strap top intended for sleeping on hot nights. With the sling draped over it, she did not feel too exposed for what was technically a workday.
Dr. Elmir had said that the Milton Town Picnic, conveniently located just down the street, would be a brilliant opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the town’s leadership. Na couldn’t disagree. Although Dr. Elmir had talked to most on the phone already, Na had yet to meet or speak with any of them. Her attendance, like Dr. Elmir’s, was not for pleasure. Nevertheless, Na could tell from Dr. Elmir’s affable nods and chitchat that he was attempting to innocuously blend in. His efforts were wasted. Dr. Elmir had a stereotypically academic air that marked him as an outsider, not unlike a professional basketball player in street clothes.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to hold a plate so you can try something?” Dr. Elmir asked.
“I’m okay,” Na answered without looking at him. “My appetite’s a little off, is all.”
