Authors: Gary Braver

GRAY MATTER (26 page)

BOOK: GRAY MATTER

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“Do you have any idea what your mother’s open-heart surgery will cost? About two hundred thousand when all is said and done. Maybe more.”

“But insurance will pay for most of that.”

“And thank God,” Martin said. “The point is the operation will probably keep her going for another ten years. Enhancement will benefit Dylan for a lifetime. And it’s not like we don’t have the resources. We could sell some stocks and cash in mutual funds.”

Rachel looked at him while he drove. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” And he went on about what an investment it would be—how smart people accomplished more in a lifetime than less brainy ones, which is why so many prodigies become millionaire CEOs by the time they turn thirty.

“There are still too many things I’m uncomfortable with.”

“Like what?”

“Like sending my son off to have a brain operation and not knowing where the hell he is. I want to be outside the operating room. I want to be there when they wheel him to recovery. What if something happens?”

“But they’ve been doing this for a dozen years. Look at their success stories.”

“But something can still go wrong. He could end up brain-dead.” The very thought sent a bolt of electricity through her.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“We don’t know that. Another thing, why all the secrecy if it’s so successful? Why an undisclosed location?”

“He explained that. It’s a revolutionary thing, and he can’t get FDA approval because of all the social stuff. Like he said, think of it as abortion before
Roe
versus
Wade
.”

“Yeah, butchers in back alleys.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

“Because I don’t like it. We also don’t know anything about Malenko. He could be some kind of a quack.”

Martin laughed. “Quacks don’t have a wall full of degrees and plaques. The guy’s a leading neurosurgeon and child development expert. Besides, look at Lucinda. She was turned into a prodigy. So was Julian Watts. So were dozens of other kids.”

“Yeah, and Lucinda’s a bossy little bitch and Julian’s a human sewing machine who’s ground his teeth to nothing.”

“That’s got nothing to do with enhancement. Lucinda will grow out of that, and Julian might be a little compulsive, nothing that a little Ritalin won’t solve. The point is, two slow kids got turned into geniuses, and that’s what I want for my son.”

He had an answer for everything. And maybe he was right. Maybe deep down she wanted to be convinced. In her mind, she saw the planar cuts of the distorted ventricles of her son’s brain.

Acid kickback
.

“What if there’s something about the procedure that’s just not right? Something not medically right. I don’t know … We don’t even know how he does it.”

“Why should he give away trade secrets?”

Rachel stared out the window as they drove down their street. “Maybe I’m just paranoid,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t blithely send him off to have his brain cut open. Besides, he could have a perfectly happy life the way he is.”

“He’s operating on less than three-quarters of normal capacity.”

“Rachel, we live in a meritocracy where an eighty IQ is a formula for losing.”

That was just like Martin: He thought in numbers. They were the fundamental condition of his existence—how he gauged business and people. An IQ was just another way to keep score—like rank in class, sales quotas, revenue figures, stock options, salary.

“That’s not true,” Rachel said, her eyes filling up.

“You know what I mean. Of course, there are happy people with belowaverage intelligence. But they spend their days stocking shelves at Kmart, making eighteen thousand dollars a year and living in tiny apartments watching
reruns of
Forrest Gump.
Frankly, I don’t want that for my son—and we have an opportunity to do something about that—and the money.”

“But a fancy job isn’t the end-all of life.”

“No, but it’s one hell of an advantage.”

And in her mind Rachel heard Martin’s familiar refrain: “
Life is hard, but it’s harder when you’re stupid.
”

“Think of his self-esteem,” he continued. “You know what it’s like when you meet someone with a mental handicap. You instantly dismiss him: He’s not good enough to take seriously, to do business with, to be my friend. You smile in his face and thank God he’s not you—or yours. It’s sad and cruel, but it’s reality. And I don’t want that for my son—even if it costs me a million dollars.”

As they pulled into their driveway, Rachel suddenly realized that she was trembling. Her eyes fixed on Dylan’s soccer ball that lay on the grass beside his sandbox. While her pursuit of Sheila’s lead had never been whimsical, Rachel had deep down not considered enhancement a real possibility. It was just something in the speculation mode—an option to consider. But nothing was definite, and no irrevocable action was in place. Even their visit to Malenko Rachel had thought of as reconnaissance—a fact-finding mission. Now, in the matter of an hour, Martin was talking about cashing in investments to buy their son a new brain.

She looked at Martin. “You’ve got this all figured out.”

“Rachel,” Martin said, softening his voice, “before we ever heard about Lucius Malenko, we had resigned ourselves to raising a mentally challenged child. Whatever went wrong with the genetic dice, he came out impaired. Now we have a second chance—a privilege open to only a handful of kids. The implications are mind-boggling. So are the possibilities for him. A second chance to begin his life near the top.” His eyes were wet from tears. “Don’t you want to do this for him? Don’t you?”

In a voice barely audible, she said, “I don’t know.”

S
heila stood by the kitchen window making hot chocolate for Lucinda’s party.

Two days had passed, and the kitten was still missing. She had searched the backyard woods several times since that first day, without luck.

After the initial shock, Lucinda did not seem to suffer the loss—which Sheila attributed to budding maturity. She had just resigned herself to such mishaps and went on with her little life. Oddly enough, she didn’t bring up a replacement kitten again. And neither did Sheila.

Outside the huge magnolia tree had lost its blossoms, giving way to a profusion of waxy green leaves. Across the branches, Sheila had draped colored streamers, big shiny cardboard Japanese lanterns, and bright animal piñatas—which complemented her marigolds and roses—all in full bloom. Because of mature growth, their backyard was cut off from views of the neighbors, making the yard a magical sylvan grotto—so safe and secret. Lucinda’s own little green world.
Storybook perfect.

There used to be a secret passageway connecting their yard to the Sarris family next door, but some unpleasantness had estranged their children. There were two of them, snippy little brats who snitched on Lucinda.

“Lucinda said I’m a dummy.
”

“Lucinda made me eat a bug.”

“Lucinda put a frog in the micro.”

Eventually the Sarrises—or Soarasses, as Lucinda called them—

(such a devilish wit, too)

—closed off the passage, erecting a fence and some high bushes, essentially shielding them off as if Lucinda were some kind of poisoned child.

The bastards.

Thankfully, they moved away. They were just a bunch of dumb secondgeneration Greeks anyway.

The backyard scene made Sheila’s heart gulp for the beauty. It was like one of those Hallmark cards: Lucinda in her new pink dress under the magnolia and holding her own party and chattering away at her guests. Today wasn’t officially her birthday. That was last week, but only three kids of the ten invited could come. A few had colds—

some kind of bug going around

—another was visiting her sick grandmother in New York. Somebody had forgotten that it was ballet recital rehearsal. Another couldn’t get over because her asthma was kicking up again. One had an unscheduled riding lesson. Blah blah blah.

Their excuses annoyed Sheila nearly to the point of complaining to the mothers. But if the kids were sick, they were sick. And to call them liars would only make things worse the next time. The only ones who showed were Franny Alemany, Annette Bonaiuto, and MaryLou Sundilson—three cute little girls from school, but not girls she was particularly friendly with. Then again, what children make close friends at seven?

Because it had rained, they moved inside—which was a shame, since Sheila had decked out the backyard. The magician she had hired ended up doing tricks for Lucinda and the three others who sat there like waxed fruit. Half an hour of cake and ice cream, half an hour of magic, and it was all over. The girls had to go—other commitments. Sheila could have screamed.

But deep down she knew the reasons behind the bullshit excuses. The other kids were threatened by Lucinda: She was “bossy” and their mothers thought her “managerial.” The long and short was that Lucinda was head and shoulders above them—smarter, quicker, and more confident. So the mothers kept their boring little dolts away.

But Lucinda didn’t mind. She had her other friends. And Rachel Whitman had sent over a gorgeous doll. It came with a little card, saying her name was Tabitha from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and she loved animals. She was made of a durable plastic compound and was fully poseable with jointed elbows and knees and two outfits, one a red pullover under a jean
jacket and beige chinos, and the other which Rachel had ordered specially—the same pink dress Lucinda was wearing today. It must have cost Rachel a small fortune.

More amazing was the doll’s resemblance to Lucinda. Besides the pink dress and thick blond hair, the face looked like hers as a baby—the little pug nose, the huge crystalline blue eyes, the chipmunk cheeks, the cleft in the chin, and the roundness of the forehead. It was uncanny. As if Rachel had it made special from a baby photo.

(She would have to send her a special thank-you note. To Dylan too, since it was technically from him, even though he didn’t have a clue, the poor kid.)

Luckily, today was warm and sunny. Garden-party perfect. And that’s exactly what Miss Lucinda was doing: having a private little rain-check celebration of her own—and perfectly content, thank you. That was the thing about being so advanced: You gained strength from your disappointments and went on with your life—a surprise benefit of enhancement. Lucinda was totally resourceful. Totally comfortable in her own head.

The whistle of the teapot snapped Sheila back into the moment.

She poured the hot water into the porcelain pot from Lucinda’s own tea set and then added the cocoa and stirred. She then dumped the extra hot water down the drain.

A faint foul odor rose up.

Sheila let the cold water run for several seconds. But it was still there—a sharp little curlicue of rot rising out of the hole. She ran the hot water for maybe a full minute. That only made it worse. She reached under the sink and turned on the disposal with the water running. There was that rattle sound as if something were stuck inside, something that wouldn’t break up. Then the disposal shut itself off. It would be several minutes before it could be reset. Sometimes Lucinda accidentally let the plastic cap of an orange-juice carton slip down or a spoon.

For a protracted moment, Sheila looked down at the opening with the black rubber splashguard. Although she had warned Lucinda never ever to do this, Sheila pushed her hand through. Her fingers touched the smooth rounded blades. Blades that under power could grind meat and bones to pulp.

She felt something that had not been completely ground to pulp—some—
thing hard and rounded by the blades and snagged in a mat of wet fibers. What felt like the stringy cellulose stuff that made up celery stalks and banana skins—or maybe lemon peels that just hadn’t gone through. And the hard thing was probably a piece of plastic spoon—like what Lucinda was using outside for the ice cream. Of course, Lucinda knew hard objects didn’t go down the drain. But as brilliant as she was, she was still only seven—just barely. Still played with dolls. In fact, she was out there talking up a blue streak with Tabitha and the others.

Sheila slowly pulled her hand out of the garbage disposal drain.

In her fingers was a piece of curved white bone in a wet tangle of fibrous brownish muck and long thick strings of orange hairs. The thing stank of decay.

Sheila stared at it without shock. She did not scream, she only gagged reflexively. Then she dumped the awful finds into paper towels and flushed them down the toilet. She washed her hands and looked in the mirror. She barely recognized her own face.

Dr. Malenko said it had nothing to do with it. That it only affected her intelligence. That her makeup otherwise was as it would have been.

He promised. No change. Just smarter.

She shook away the thoughts and headed back into the kitchen. In a vague trancelike state, she stirred a little more milk into the porcelain server. The set was Sheila’s birthday gift—an eight-piece collection in porcelain and hand-painted with birds and flowers. It had cost her over four hundred dollars—expensive, but exquisite. Besides, Malenko would be paying her the finder’s fee soon. Fifty thousand dollars.

She placed the pot of chocolate on the tray along with the chocolate-chip cookies she had baked earlier. For a brief spell, Sheila paused at the rear door to take in the scene of her daughter sitting outside.

Harry would have said you’re in a state of denial, she thought. That our daughter is a little monster.

Lucinda was sitting at her table with her back to the house under the magnolia.

Not so! And Harry was dead.

Her guests looked on as Lucinda regaled them nonstop. Sheila couldn’t hear Lucinda’s words because her portable CD player was blaring music. Her Disney album—“A Very Merry Unbirthday to You” from
Alice in Wonderland.

She’s brilliant. IQ 150. Superior intelligence range.

Incandescent mind.

Sheila took a deep breath and stepped outside with the tray of cookies and hot chocolate.

The air was clear and keen. She crossed the brick walk onto the spread of lawn that connected their splendid little greenworld to the vast, manicured carpet of yardgrass that rolled from neighborhood to neighborhood all the way across the vast green continent.

The closer she got, the clearer Lucinda’s voice. She was fully animated, demonstrating something with her hands. Meanwhile, the music was bubbling out of the player like champagne.

An absolutely magical scene
, Sheila thought.

The table had been set for eight, seven places occupied by stuffed animals. Lucinda’s favorite sat to her right: a big old Dumbo they had bought last year at Disney World—a doll that had jumped out at her the moment she laid eyes on it. Sheila still recalled how Lucinda had frozen in place—unmoved by all the Mickeys, Minnies, and other stuffed cartoon characters—as if seeing an apparition.

Sheila moved within a few feet of her daughter’s back. She looked like a peony in her pink dress. The music continued playing, and Lucinda was chattering away to her guests, giving instructions.

For a moment Sheila thought she would drop the tray. But some instant reflex caught her, stunning her in place.

Sitting on the table in front of her was Rachel’s Miss Tabitha doll in pink. Sheila’s first thought was that her daughter had fashioned a punk hairdo for Tabitha. But then it came horridly clear.

With a pair of scissors, Lucinda had cut all the hair off the doll down to its rubbery skull, and with Sheila’s new chrome wine-bottle opener, she had methodically corkscrewed holes into its skull through which she had stuck colored cocktail toothpicks.

“Lucinda … Wha-wha … ?”

Lucinda turned. Her face was an implacable blank. “Oh, how splendid. Mommy brought the chocolate and the cookies. Miss Tabitha is going to be delighted. Aren’t you, Tabitha?”

Then, before Sheila could say something, Lucinda’s voice became some squeaky alien thing:
“Yes, I am because it’s my birthday, too.”

“Lucinda … why did you … ?” Then something around the doll’s neck stopped her cold. “What’s that black thing?”

“Oh, it’s Tabitha’s boa,” Lucinda proclaimed. “It’s just like yours, Mommy.”

Sheila reached for it, but her hand froze. It was the kitten’s tail. She could see the white bone cut at the end. Lucinda had colored the fur black with her markers, though the orange still showed at the roots.

“I made it, but it doesn’t fit right,” Lucinda said, and she took the thing in her hand and bent it into a circle—the cracking sounds sending barbs of horror through Sheila. “That’s better,” Lucinda said, fitting it in place.

Sheila tried to catch her breath, but before she did, Lucinda shot her a look of wide-eyed pride. “I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up. So is Miss Tabitha. Aren’t you, Tabitha?”

“Yes, I am,”
Tabitha replied.
“I’m going to be an anesthesiologist. What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

“Lucinda, what—” Sheila began.

But Lucinda cut her off. “Mother,
please
don’t interrupt.” Then she turned to Tabitha again. “I want to be a surgeon, because I would like to see the insides of people’s bodies, especially their heads.” Lucinda pushed another pick into Tabitha’s crown. “Did you know that the average adult brain weighs approximately three pounds and an elephant’s brain weighs thirteen pounds?”

“I didn’t know that. How much does my brain weigh?”

“You’re just a newborn, so yours weighs less than a pound, but it’s going to grow very, very fast.” And she stuck in another pick just above the eyebrow.

“That tickles,”
Tabitha squealed.
“But it’s okay because I’m going to be a smart little girl just like you.
”

“And make tons of money, right, Mommy?
RIGHT?”

BOOK: GRAY MATTER

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