Relativity (21 page)

“Really? Ethan draws pictures like that all the time.”

“Has he displayed any other special skills?”

“Ethan just knows things, I suppose. He could count before he knew numbers. I think he was calculating inside his head before he could talk. When he was a baby, he liked mirrors and shadows. He studied his toys instead of played with them. He used to make sundials in the backyard from Popsicle sticks. He's always loved looking at stars.”

Dr. Saunders removed his glasses. “This might sound a little crazy, but I think Ethan can see physics. Complex things the rest of us hardly understand.”

Claire frowned. “But how? Ethan hasn't studied the theories, he doesn't have any formal training in physics. Besides reading some textbooks and watching documentaries. He's just a little boy.”

“Some neurologists believe that when we're born, the brain isn't a blank slate. It comes loaded with factory-installed software. What's called ‘genetic memory.' Like when an elderly woman with dementia, who's never painted before, suddenly becomes a prodigious artist. With acquired savant syndrome, these dormant skills emerge after illness or injury. Genetic memory might explain why Ethan knows things he's never learned, why he has an innate, perhaps inherited, knowledge of the complex rules of theoretical physics. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I recall his father was . . .”

“A theoretical physicist.” She looked down at her lap.

“Prodigious savants are extremely rare, Claire. Less than one hundred known savants exist in the world. You should be proud of yourself too. Ethan's talents are more than just genes and circuits. I'm sure they've also been propelled along by your love and support.”

She nodded, unsure what to say.

The doctor continued. “With your consent, I'd like Ethan to meet with some professors from the physics department at the university. They're very interested to see Ethan. Despite the odds against him, Ethan is a remarkably gifted child.”

As she listened to Dr. Saunders, Claire felt like she was walking underwater. She knew what it was like to be called gifted, understood the danger of that word. Talent didn't mean anything; natural ability only got you so far. Hard work, perseverance, sweat, tears, blood—that was what real dreams were made from. She'd surrendered to ballet, completely sacrificed herself to it, before being given the gift of performing onstage. But for Claire, that gift had come wrapped in a tainted double bind.

Ω

HER MOTHER, ROSE,
enrolled her in ballet classes at the local dance school when Claire was six years old. Rose had always wanted to be a performer; all her life she'd been told she belonged onstage. But Claire wasn't the sort of child who enjoyed being noticed. Attention was terrifying: she'd hide behind her mother's skirts to avoid it and squeeze her eyes shut, pretending she was invisible.

Before classes began, they caught the train into the city to shop at the Strand Arcade. Strong coffee smells filled the tiled promenade, white light spilled from the glass ceiling. Claire gripped her mother's hand as they climbed the winding cedar staircase. Upstairs in the dance store, Rose grabbed handfuls of black leotards and pink tights, ribbons and ballet slippers, and pushed the little girl into a dressing room.

Claire stood in front of the mirror and looked at her reflection. Wearing the clinging leotard made her feel naked; the stockings were itchy and skintight. She pulled at her underpants, bunched uncomfortably between her legs.

“Stop that, Claire,” Rose said. “It's not very elegant.”

A shop assistant approached them. “What a beautiful little girl you have! Look at that pretty blond hair. That size looks good. Do a little spin for us, love.”

Claire twirled across the store in the new pink slippers and took a small bow. Other customers and the shop assistants clapped. Her mother blinked, surprised.

“Good sense of rhythm. Natural. She's got the body for it too,” one saleswoman said. “Right proportions.”

“Thank you,” Rose said, her eyes lighting up.

In the beginning, Claire found ballet akin to torture: blistered feet, her hair pulled into buns so tight they made her eyes water, bobby pins stabbing her scalp, hairspray stinging her eyeballs. But she did it for her mum; it made her happy. Every afternoon she drove Claire to lessons and rehearsals; every evening was a drill of stretches to improve her flexibility. Rose held her daughter's legs over her head, pulled her heels off the floor, pushed Claire's body down—degree by excruciating degree—until she could do the splits.

After being cast in her first lead role, there was praise: “You're my shining star,” her mother said. “I love you so much.” But when the girl fell or tripped, she was punished. So Claire learned how to be perfect—perfect posture, perfect balance, perfect technique—to earn her mother's love.

Eventually, Claire found her own joy in dancing. With every lesson, her passion bloomed. But there was something sour about it, that each jump and pirouette had to feed her mother's ego. Rose's dream of her daughter as a prima ballerina was so vivid that she lost sight of her child. No matter how hard she practiced, Claire still felt invisible, like the little girl hiding behind her mother's legs.

Rose recorded each recital then forced Claire to watch the videos, making note of every wrong step, often pushing her daughter to tears. But Claire found refuge from the pressure in ballet itself. By the time she was twelve, she was taking fifteen lessons a week. At the barre, she decompressed; in the studio, she felt lighter than air. She enjoyed the hard work, the sense of accomplishment, the firmness of purpose.

As Claire's stamina and strength grew, her mother's currencies—beauty, elegance, grace—stopped having value. Claire discovered that her achievements were her own. Her ballet teacher recognized her talent, telling Rose that girls like her daughter made her job worthwhile. That if she got to teach one student like Claire in her entire career, she was extremely lucky.

When she was fifteen, Claire auditioned for full-time training at the Sydney Ballet School. On the day that the letter of offer arrived, Rose wept uncontrollably. Claire assumed they were happy tears but a few weeks later, her mother left. Moved interstate to live with another man. Claire watched Rose push her face creams and makeup off the dressing table and into a suitcase, before walking out the door. This didn't make sense, hadn't Claire done everything right, everything her mother ever wanted? She was meticulous, constantly evaluating and reevaluating her turnout, making sure her alignment was always correct. She'd been dedicated, focused, flawless, every step of the way.

So Claire channeled that confusion into ballet, practiced six days a week. She'd always had good technique and the right body—small head, long neck, long legs—so physically, she was a machine. But after her mother moved away, something inside Claire transformed. Emotions spilled from her fingertips and pointed toes, her eyes projected every feeling, there was a new intensity behind every
frappe
and
développé
. She wasn't just dancing anymore; Claire was performing. Sweating and panting, the weight inside her chest would lift. Now when Claire stepped onstage, she no longer wanted to hide. It felt powerful—moving the audience, telling a story, turning her body into art. Suddenly she had presence and commanded attention. Claire wasn't invisible. Performing felt like being loved.

Sometimes she'd speak to her mother on the phone—exchange clicks, switchboard songs, that dilated silence before the call connected over border-crossing wires. Rose never asked questions about ballet, and never came to see her daughter dance again. Long after her mother hung up, Claire would keep the receiver against her ear and listen to the binary music of the signals and tones.

It took becoming a parent for Claire to understand why Rose left. How motherhood could easily annihilate whatever came before it. Basking in reflected applause wasn't enough; Claire's success threw Rose's lost dreams into sharp relief. They'd danced a dangerous
pas de deux
: she needed her mother's love, but fighting to win it drove Rose further away. Parenting a shining star meant being overshadowed. Without realizing, Claire had eclipsed her mother but her mother couldn't live without the light.

Ω

FOR A MOMENT,
Claire was lost staring into Ethan's drawing of a black hole. She blinked and looked up at the doctor. “Dr. Saunders,” she began. “This might be a stupid question. Are there any other ways people can become savants?”

“Besides autism, there's always some underlying brain disorder. Developmental disabilities, meningitis, brain damage following premature births, stroke, seizure disorders. And of course, brain injury.”

“But is it possible that Ethan wasn't actually a victim of shaken baby syndrome? That he had another underlying brain disorder?”

“Over the last few years, I've read reports that claim SBS was a fad diagnosis. I'll be honest; we understand it better now than we did twelve years ago. Back when Ethan was a baby, we knew much less.”

“So you're not 100 percent sure Ethan was shaken?”

Dr. Saunders stared at the wall. “There are lots of skeptics who say it's impossible to shake a baby without breaking their neck. That SBS doesn't exist, that the triad of symptoms is caused by something else. But I've worked at this hospital for thirty years. I've seen babies die from nonaccidental head injuries. There's no question it's real. Even with Ethan, though, I can never be completely certain of a diagnosis like that. I wasn't in the room. I'm never 100 percent sure.”

Claire cleared her throat. “But mostly.”

“Oh yes, mostly. Brain injury almost always impairs rather than enhances. Even with Ethan's abilities, he's still been a very sick child.”

All Claire wanted was a normal childhood for her son, but it was already too late for that. It was true: Ethan had been a very sick child. And genius? Savant syndrome? That was loaded with more potential stress. Claire hated the idea of Ethan being under the enormous pressure she'd felt—to be gifted, to perform. But what if she held him back? What if Ethan really could see physics? Maybe his gift could make some difference to the world.

“So, what do you think about Ethan meeting these professors?” Dr. Saunders asked.

“Sure, he can speak to the physicists,” Claire said. “Let's find out what's going on.”

A
FTER SCHOOL,
Mum took Ethan to a meeting at Sydney Uni. They walked along Carillon Avenue, under the Moreton Bay fig trees, and through the sandstone gate. Across the campus, some students were playing rugby on the oval. As they threw the ball at one another, Ethan noticed how their hands sparked with kinetic energy.

“Mum, look!” He pointed at a street sign. “Physics Road. Can we please live here?”

“We need to find the Slade Lecture Theater.”

They stood under the sandstone archway of a long white building. Above the wooden door was a sign that said “School of Physics.” His mum led the way; she seemed stressed, fiddling with the strap of her handbag.

In the lecture theater, Dr. Saunders was waiting for them. He stood beside a woman and a man. The room had a high ceiling, rows of wooden benches and desks, and chalk-covered blackboards that reached all the way up to the roof.

“Awesome,” Ethan said, admiring the equations written in chalk.

“This is Professor Skinner,” Dr. Saunders said, gesturing to the woman beside him. “She's a lecturer here; her speciality is astrophysics. And this is Dr. Thorp, he's a cosmologist.”

The boy shook both their hands. “Cosmologist, cool. Like Stephen Hawking.”

“And this is Ethan, who I've been telling you about. He's twelve years old. And his mother, Claire.”

“Hello.” Mum's voice was small. She pointed at the benches. “Should I just take a seat back here?”

“I'll join you,” the doctor said. “Let's watch.”

Professor Skinner switched off the lights and turned on a projector. Pictures of planets were cast onto a huge screen. “Ethan, I thought we'd talk about the solar system today. Do you know much about it?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“Great. Let's start with Mercury.” The professor changed the slide. “What can you tell me about this planet?”

Ethan straightened his back. “Um, Mercury is only a little bit bigger than the moon. It doesn't have an atmosphere; it has an exosphere instead. That's why it's hotter on Venus, even though Mercury is closer to the sun, because Venus has an atmosphere even thicker than Earth does. And a year on Mercury is 88 days, but a Mercury day is 58 days and 15 hours on Earth.”

The professor smiled. “Why do you think days on Mercury are so long?”

“It rotates on its axis slowly because it orbits the sun quickly. So from sunrise to sunset it's already orbited the sun twice.”