F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (7 page)

 
          
Paris,
she thought. She hadn't been there since the year she'd spent at the Institut
de Science, in the Physics Department. Paris was beautiful in the fall. Maybe
she should go. She hadn't seen Uncle Eathan for a while. He sounded lost,
scared, so unlike Eathan. And Sam... well, they'd never had much to say to each
other even when they both were conscious.

 
          
What
was wrong with Sam anyway? If it wasn't drugs, what could it be?

 
          
The
more she thought about it, the more the question intrigued her.

 
          
But
Dr. SiegaFs suggestion struck a sour note deep inside: ...
unwind and try to
be someone who's not working on a research project, try to find that other part
of you.

 
          
What
if there
is
no other part of me? she thought. What if, when I stop being
Dr. Julia Gordon, stop being Ms. High-Powered Researcher, there's no one
there?

 
          
What
if I simply vanish into thin air?

 
          
People
have started picturing the brain as a computer, and memory as its hard drive.
Bad analogy. A hard drive merely copies the lumps of data sent to it. The
memory mechanism of the brain divides input into its component parts and stores
the components separately.

 
          
—
Random notes: Julia Gordon

₁

 
          
Julie
watched the taxis swarming in the early morning rain outside the international
terminal at
Orly
Airport
. She stood just outside the
doors, protected by an overhang. She could have taken a cab to the nursing
home, but Uncle Eathan had insisted on picking her up.

 
          
Her
eyes felt like hot coals and her limbs like lead. It was early morning here,
and everyone around her seemed wide awake and ready to start a new day. Not
her. Thinking it would help her doze off, she'd drunk some extra wine on the
plane. But sleep hadn't come, and now it was somewhere around 3:00 A.M.
according to her internal clock. She was still fuzzy from the wine, and she
wished all these perky people jabbering in French would go away.

 
          
All
this preceded by two solid days of nonstop hustle on the Bruchmeyer protocol
and still things hadn't been settled enough for her to feel comfortable
leaving it. Dr. Siegal had wanted her to leave directly from their park bench
in Washington Square, but she simply had not been able to do that.

 
          
Not
as if this was an emergency; Sam had been out of it for two weeks already. What
was the rush?

 
          
She
saw a big black Saab pull up and a tall, trim, dark-haired man in his
midfifties step out onto the pavement. Two passing women looked back over their
shoulders and whispered to each other.

 
          
No,
ladies, Julie wanted to say. That's not Gregory Peck hiding behind that beard.
It's only Uncle Eathan.

 
          
A
little grayer since she'd last seen him, especially in the beard, but still
trim. At six two, with an almost military bearing, he cut an imposing figure.
Eathan was more than a handsome man; he radiated a strength, a solidity that
Julie found instantly comforting. It was hard not to lean against such a tall
tree in times of crisis, even if that tree now might need support.

 
          
Wheeling
her suitcase behind her, she stepped toward him and waved. Eathan smiled and
hurried forward to give her a brief hug and a quick peck on the cheek. He'd
always had trouble showing affection.

 
          
Like
me . . .

 
          
"Julie."
His voice was rich and dark, like coffee. He held her at arms' length and
grinned through his beard. Close up he looked tired and strained. "God,
it's so good to see you again."

 
          
"Good
to see you too, Eathan. Been a long time."

 
          
Another
smile. "Too long." Eathan took her arm. "I'm just sorry that it
takes something like this to bring us together."

 
          
Minutes
later her suitcase and carry-on were in the trunk and they were on their way
toward the airport exit.

 
          
"Any
change in Sam?" Julie asked.

 
          
Eathan
shook his head. "Not a bit. Dr. Elliot gave her a thorough examination,
reviewed all the lab work and test results, and said he can't find any evidence
of an organic etiology. There's nothing there
—
no
structural damage, no evidence of a metabolic cause, no signs of a toxin. He
thinks it's psychological."

 
          
"Psychological?
What's that supposed to mean? Post-traumatic shock? Schizophrenic catatonia?
What?"

 
          
Eathan
shrugged. "He couldn't say. Or wouldn't say. He's a neurologist, not a
psychiatrist. There's no physical evidence of trauma. No sign that she was
attacked, brutalized." Eathan took a breath. "Or raped. It's so
strange, Julie. She was found on the floor of her studio, unconscious."

 
          
Psychological.
Julie leaned back and mulled that. Maybe that was the problem all along. Maybe
there was a reason behind Sam's erratic behavior all these years. Perhaps Sam
had spent most of her life on the verge of schizophrenia. And finally the dam
broke.

 
          
That
would explain so much.

 
          
"Poor
Sam." She noticed Eathan looking at her strangely. "What?"

 
          
"You
don't know what it means to hear you say that. For years I've been hoping for
some sort of rapprochement between you two."

 
          
"Well,
I've been angry at her for all these years for acting like a jerk ... but if
it's all been due to some form of incipient schizophrenia, well, how can you
be angry at someone whose neurochemicals are screwed up?"

 
          
"Dr.
Elliot had that idea too. But she's not responding to the antipsychotics
—
they've tried Thorazine, thiothixene, loxapine, even
clozapine, all to no avail."

 
          
"But
a psychogenic catatonia ..."

 
          
"Not
a catatonia," Eathan said. "She's not conscious. She doesn't respond
to anything but painful stimuli, and even then the avoidance response is
sluggish." He looked out the window, into the wet, gray morning. Julie
could see how much this upset him. Maybe he did have a favorite. Sam might as
well be his own daughter. "Sometimes . . . I'm afraid than
said."She's not conscious.

 
          
"This
doesn't add up," Julie said.

 
          
Eathan
turned back to her. "Exactly what Dr. Elliot said."

           
She touched his arm. "And what
about you? How are you holding up?"

 
          
"Pretty
well, I guess. They moved me up to assistant professor at Edinburgh."

 
          
"Congratulations.
You're becoming quite the academician."

 
          
"But
I've taken a leave until Sam is better."

 
          
She'd
been glad to see that he'd found something to fill his days after she and Sam
had moved out. She hadn't liked the thought of him wandering like a ghost
through the empty halls of his
Yorkshire
manor. After so many years away from practice, he'd
claimed his medical skills and knowledge were too rusty to pass a licensing
procedure in
Britain
. And besides, he didn't
want to be another cog in the wheels of Britain's National Health Service.
Fortunately a position had opened in the Science Department at Edinburgh
University and they'd been delighted to have an M.D. teaching basic science to
their pre-med classes.

 
          
"I
like working with young minds, shaping them. It keeps me young."

 
          
Julie
watched the brown fields and golden trees and swirling green cypresses of the
French countryside slide past outside the window. The sky had lightened, the
rain stopped. Then as they turned east the morning sun broke through and filled
her with a strange urgency.

 
          
"I
want to see her."

 
          
"Of
course. That's why you came."

 
          
"I
mean now."

 
          
Julie
was puzzled by this sudden, almost overwhelming desire to see her sister.
She'd waited days before flying over. Why couldn't she wait a few more hours?

 
          
"I
have a room for you at an inn where I'm staying. I thought you'd
—
"

 
          
"I
need to see her now. Is it far?"

 
          
"No.
That's why I advised you to fly into Orly. De Gaulle is on the wrong side of
Paris. The nursing home is just outside the town of Palaiseau."

 
          
"Good.
Let's go."

2

           
Julie found the
Sainte
Gabrielle
Home
a pleasant surprise: a
modern, compact, single-story, skilled nursing facility only a half hour
outside of
Paris
but surrounded by
century-old oaks. With the sun pouring in, it looked to be the Les
Irwalides
of extended care.

 
          
The
interior was brightly lit, clean, and fresh smelling. The receptionist waved
them through with a warm smile for Eathan. He obviously had worked his spell on
the staff.

 
          
They
were halfway down the hall of the east wing when
—

 
          
"MonDieu!"

 
          
Breakfast
plates, cups, and saucers slid off the aide's tray as she stopped short and
stared bug-eyed at Julie.

 
          
"No-no,"
Eathan said, stepping forward and steadying the woman's tray. "This is not
Mam'selle Samantha. This is her sister.
Sa soeur, vous comfrrenez?"

 
          
The
girl's eyes danced between Eathan and Julie. Finally she smiled and nodded.
"Ah.
Sa soeur. CM."

 
          
"What's
her problem?" Julie said as they walked on.

 
          
"Think
about it. She probably left Sam flat on her back and unresponsive a few minutes
ago. Now she comes out of a room and who does she see walking down the
hall?"

 
          
"Me?"

 
          
"No!"
He laughed. "Samantha!"

 
          
"Oh,
come on. We don't look
that
much alike."

 
          
"Not
to each other. Not even to me. But to people who haven't spent years with you,
you're mirror images
—
even with your shorter
hair."

 
          
Julie
had trouble buying that She wasn't anything like Sam; she found the idea
irksome, but let it go.

 
          
Eathan
led her to the last door on the left at the end of the hallway.

 
          
"This
is it," he said, and stepped aside to let her precede him.

 
          
Julie
stopped on the threshold, momentarily afraid to step across. For as little as
they'd had in common, for all the cold silences and screaming fits they'd
suffered, for all the resentment she'd built up against the sister who'd put
their well-meaning uncle through hell, Julie didn't want to see Samantha like
this. It was close to seeing Sam dead.

 
          
"Julia?"
Eathan's voice behind her.

 
          
She
nodded and stepped into the room. As she approached the bed she kept her eyes
averted, looked everywhere except at the form between the sheets. She saw die
IV drip, the dull, dead screen of a TV hanging on die wall, the curtains open
to show the great woods outside.

 
          
A
nice room, private, carpeted, morning sun pouring through sheers behind
floor-length drapes, upholstered chairs, a recliner ...