Brain Child (18 page)

Alex stood up and followed her out into the afternoon sunshine. They started walking toward the Cochrans’, and after a few minutes of silence, Lisa finally took Alex’s hand in her own. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad.”

“That’s okay.” Alex dropped her hand, and kept walking.

“You mad at me?” Lisa asked.

“No.”

“Is something else wrong?”

Alex shrugged, then shook his head.

“Then how come you don’t want to hold hands?” Lisa ventured.

Alex said nothing, but wondered silently why holding hands seemed so important to her.

Apparently it was yet something else he didn’t remember. Feeling nothing, he ignored her outstretched hand.

Carol Cochran climbed the stairs to Lisa’s room, and found her daughter stretched out on the bed staring at the ceiling as the thundering music of her favorite rock group seemed to make the walls shake. Carol went to the stereo and turned the volume down, then perched on the edge of the bed.

“Want to tell me what’s wrong, or is it too big a secret?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Lisa replied. “I was just listening to my records.”

“For three solid hours,” Carol told her. “And it’s been the same record, over and over, which is driving your father crazy.”

Lisa rolled over onto her side and propped her head up on one hand. “It’s Alex. He’s … well, he’s just so different. Sometimes he’s almost spooky. He takes everything
so seriously, you can’t even joke with him anymore.”

Carol nodded. “I know. I guess you just have to be patient. He might get over it.”

Lisa sat up. “But what if he doesn’t? Mom, what’s happening is terrible.”

“Terrible?” Carol repeated.

“It’s the other kids,” Lisa told her. “They’re starting to talk about him. They say all he ever does is ask questions like a little kid.”

“We know what that’s all about,” Carol replied.

Lisa nodded. “I know. But it still doesn’t make it any easier.”

“For whom?”

Lisa seemed startled by the question, then flopped onto her back again. “For me,” she whispered. Then: “I just get so tired of trying to explain him to everyone all the time. And it’s not just that, anyway,” she added, her voice suddenly defiant.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not sure he likes me anymore. He … he never seems to want to hold hands with me, or kiss me, or anything. He’s just … oh, Mom, he just seems so cold.”

“I know about that, too,” Carol sighed. “But it’s not just you, honey. He’s that way with everyone.”

“Well, that doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Carol shook her head, considering what to tell her daughter. Lisa sat against the headboard, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs, as her mother continued. “I’m going to go right on treating Alex the way I always have, and try not to let my feelings get hurt if he doesn’t respond the way he used to,” she said. “And he may never respond the way he used to. It’s a function of the accident. In a way, Alex is crippled now. But he’s still Alex, and he’s still my best friends’ son. If they can get through this, and Alex can get through this, so can I.”

“And so can I?” Lisa asked, but Carol shook her head.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if you should try. You’re only sixteen, and there’s no reason at all that you should have to spend your time explaining Alex to anyone or trying to deal with his new personality. There are lots of other boys in La Paloma, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t date them.”

“But I can’t just dump Alex,” Lisa protested.

“I’m not saying you should,” Carol replied. “All I’m saying is that you have to make certain decisions based on what’s best for you. If it’s too difficult for you to go on spending so much time with Alex, then you shouldn’t do it. And you shouldn’t feel badly about it, either.”

Lisa’s eyes filled with tears. “But I
do
feel bad,” she said. “And I don’t even know why. I don’t know if I don’t like him anymore, or if I’m just hurt because I’m not sure he still likes me. And I don’t know if I’m getting tired of having to defend him all the time, or if I’m mad at everybody else for not understanding him. Mom, I just don’t know what to do!”

“Then don’t do anything,” Carol told her. “Just take it all day by day, and see what happens. In time, it will all work out.”

Lisa nodded, then got up from the bed and went to the stereo, where she changed the record. Then, with her back to her mother, she said, “What if it doesn’t work out, Mom? What if Alex never changes? What’s going to happen to him?”

Carol rose to her feet and pulled her daughter close. “I don’t know,” she said. “But in the end, it really isn’t your problem, is it? It’s Alex’s problem, and his parents’ problem. It’s only yours if you make it yours, and you don’t have to. Do you understand that?”

Lisa nodded. “I guess so,” she said. She wiped her eyes, and forced a smile. “And I’ll be all right,” she said. “I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself.”

“And for Alex,” Carol added. “I know how much you want to help him and how bad it feels not to be able
to.” She started toward the door. “But there is one thing you can do,” she added before she left the room. “Turn that awful music down, so at least your sister can get some sleep. Good night.”

“ ’Night, Mom.” As the door closed, Lisa plugged in her headset, and the room fell silent as the music from the stereo poured directly into her ears.

Alex lay awake late into the night, pondering what had happened at Jake’s Place and on the way home afterward. He knew he’d made a mistake, but he still couldn’t quite figure it out.

Lisa had wanted to hold hands with him, and even though he didn’t understand why, he should have gone ahead and done it anyway. And she had been mad at him, which was another thing he didn’t understand.

There was so much that just didn’t make any sense.

At the beginning of the week, there had been the strange memories, and the odd pain that had gone through his head when he’d first seen María Torres.

And beyond those things, which he was sure he would eventually figure out, there were the other things, the concepts he was beginning to feel certain he would never understand.

Love.

That was something he couldn’t get any kind of grasp on. His mother was always telling him that she loved him, and he didn’t really doubt that she did.

The trouble was, he didn’t understand what love was. He’d looked it up, and read that it was a feeling of affection.

But, as he had slowly come to understand as he read more, apparently he didn’t have feelings.

It was something he was only beginning to be aware of, and he didn’t know whether he should talk to Dr. Torres about it or not. All he knew so far was that things seemed to happen to other people that didn’t happen to him.

Things like anger.

He knew Lisa had been angry at him this afternoon, and he knew it was a feeling that she got when he did something she didn’t approve of.

But what did it
feel
like?

He thought, from what he’d read, that it must be like pain, only it affected the mind instead of the body. But what was it like?

He was beginning to suspect he’d never know, for every day he was becoming more and more aware that something had, indeed, gone wrong, and that he was no longer like other people.

But he was supposed to be like other people. That was the whole idea of Dr. Torres’s operation—to make him the way he’d been before.

The problem was that he couldn’t remember how he’d been before. If he could remember, it would be easy. He could
act
as though he was the same, and then people wouldn’t know he was different.

He was already doing some of it.

He’d learned to hug his mother, and kiss her, and whenever he did that, she seemed to like it.

He’d decided not to act on any of the things he seemed to remember until he’d determined if his memory of them was correct.

And after this afternoon, he’d remember to hold Lisa’s hand when they were walking together, and to pay a check if Bob Carey asked him to.

But what about other people? Were there other people he used to borrow money from and loan money to?

Tomorrow, when he saw Lisa, he’d ask her.

No, he decided, he wouldn’t ask her. He couldn’t keep asking everybody questions all the time.

He’d seen the look on Bob Carey’s face when he’d asked Lisa what city she was talking about, and he knew what it meant, even though it hadn’t bothered him.

Still, Bob Carey thought he was stupid, even though he wasn’t. In fact, after the tests on Monday, he knew
he was just the opposite. If anything, he was a lot smarter than everybody else.

He got out of bed and went to the family room. In the bookcase next to the fireplace, there was an
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. He switched on a lamp, then pulled Volume VIII of the Micropaedia off the shelf. A few minutes later, he began reading every article in the encyclopedia that referred to San Francisco.

By the time they got there, he would be able to tell them more about the city than they knew themselves. And, he decided, he would know his way around.

Tomorrow—Friday—he would find a map of San Francisco, and memorize it by the next morning.

Memorizing things was easy.

Figuring out what was expected of him, and then doing it, was not so easy.

But he would do it.

He didn’t know how long it would take, but he knew that if he watched carefully, and remembered everything he saw, sooner or later he would be able to act just like everybody else.

But he still wouldn’t feel anything.

And that, he decided, was all right. If he could learn to act as though he felt things, it would be good enough.

Already he’d learned that it didn’t matter what he was or wasn’t.

The only thing that really mattered was what people
thought
you were.

He closed the book and put it back on the shelf, then turned around to see his father standing in the doorway.

“Alex? Are you all right?”

“I was just looking something up,” Alex replied.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Alex glanced at the big clock in the corner. “Three-thirty.”

“How come you’re not asleep?”

“I just got to thinking about something, so I decided to look it up. I’ll go back to bed now.” He started out of
the room, but his father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Is something bothering you, son?”

Alex hesitated, wondering if maybe he should try to explain to his father how different he was from other people, and that he thought something might be wrong with his brain, then decided against it. If anyone would understand, it would be Dr. Torres. “I’m fine, Dad. Really.”

Marsh dropped into his favorite chair, and looked at Alex critically. Certainly the boy
looked
fine, except for his too-bland expression. “Then I think maybe you and I ought to talk about your future, before Torres decides it for us,” he suggested.

Alex listened in silence while Marsh repeated his idea of sending Alex into an advanced program at Stanford. As he talked, Marsh kept his eyes on his son, trying to see what effect his words might be having on the boy.

Apparently there was none.

Alex’s expression never changed, and Marsh suddenly had the uneasy feeling that Alex wasn’t even hearing him. “Well?” he asked at last. “What do you think?”

Alex was silent for a moment, then stood up. “I’ll have to talk to Dr. Torres about it,” he said. He started out of the room. “Good night, Dad.”

For a moment, all Marsh could do was stare at his son’s retreating back. And then, like a breaking storm, fury swept over him.
“Alex!”
The single word echoed through the house. Instantly Alex stopped and turned around.

“Dad?”

“What the hell is going on with you?” Marsh demanded. He could feel blood pounding in his veins, and his fists clutched into tight knots at his side. “Did you even hear me? Do you have any idea of what I was saying to you?”

Alex nodded silently, then, as his fathers furious eyes remained fixed on him, began repeating Marsh’s words back to him.

“Stop that!” Marsh roared. “Goddammit, just stop it!”

Obediently Alex fell back into silence.

Marsh stood still, forcing his mind to concentrate on the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, willing his rage to ease. A moment later he became vaguely aware that Ellen, too, was in the room now, her face pale, her frightened eyes darting from him to Alex, then back again.

“Marsh?” she asked uncertainly. “Marsh, what’s going on?” When Marsh, still trembling with anger, made no reply, she turned to her son. “Alex?”

“I don’t know,” Alex replied. “He was talking about me going to college, and I said I’d talk to Dr. Torres about it. Then he started yelling at me.”

“Go to bed,” Ellen told him. She gave him a quick hug, then gently eased him toward the hall. “Go on. I’ll take care of your father.” When Alex was gone, she turned to Marsh, her eyes damp. When she spoke, her voice was a bleak reflection of the pain she was feeling, not just for her son, but for her husband too. “You can’t do this,” she whispered. “You know he’s not well yet. What do you expect from him?”

Marsh, his anger spent, sagged onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he said softly. “It’s only that talking to him just now was like talking to a brick wall. And then all he said was that he’d talk to Torres about it. Torres!” he repeated bitterly, then gazed up at her, his face suddenly haggard. “I’m his father, Ellen,” he said in a voice breaking with pain. “But for all the reaction I get from him, I might as well not even exist.”

Ellen took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I know,” she said at last. “A lot of the time I feel exactly the same way. But we have to get him through it, Marsh. We can’t just send him off somewhere. He can
barely deal with the people he’s known all his life—how would he ever be able to deal with total strangers?”

“But he’s so bright …” Marsh whispered.

Ellen nodded. “I know. But he’s not well yet. Raymond—” She broke off suddenly, sensing her husband’s animosity toward the man who had saved Alex’s life. “Dr. Torres,” she began again, “is helping him, and we have to help him too. And we have to be patient with him, no matter how hard it is.” She hesitated, then went on. “Sometimes … well, sometimes the only way I can deal with it is to remember that whatever I’m going through, what Alex is going through must be ten times worse.”