Authors: Gary Braver
GRAY MATTER (13 page)
F
rom the inside of her closet, Brendan watched Nicole DaFoe undress.
rom the inside of her closet, Brendan watched Nicole DaFoe undress.
It was Friday night, and she was home for the weekend again. As usual, her father had picked her up at school. Brendan knew the patterns of her movements. He had watched her ever since that day at the club swimming pool. She had been wearing a rather revealing white bikini of which her mother did not approve because when she arrived and found Nicole sunning herself in a lounge chair, she spoke sharply to Nicole who snapped back then grabbed her towel and huffed away. Nicole was something of an exhibitionist. And her mother was very proper.
But to Brendan’s mind Mother DaFoe had no need to worry that her daughter was wanton, since she lacked the arousing fantasies and sexual urges of a true flasher. She had been genetically blessed with physical beauty and the instinct on how best to employ her baby-doll appeal for maximum gain. But she was like a polar cap—all light and no heat. Yet when she needed something, she could affect the turn-on, and the boys swarmed around her like heat-seeking missiles. And as long as the flesh was warm, they’d put up with anything, even a frozen core.
Ironically, it was the ice that drew Brendan.
When her parents drove off and Nicole went to the basement to do laundry, he slipped in through the back door and headed up to her bedroom, where he had waited for two hours until she had finished watching some medical video downstairs and came up.
But while crouched in her closet, he discovered a lockbox stashed behind some storage bins of clothes. The box was not an expensive thing, so it was easy to jimmy open with a penknife. With a pocket flash he inspected the contents.
At first glance it looked like a hodgepodge of things. But he went through them closely: two inexpensive men’s watches; a curled-up leather belt; a Swiss Army knife; two smaller pocketknives; a leather Pierre Cardin wallet which still had some cash, two ID bracelets with different male names on them; a fancy pen; a Bloomfield football high school ring; and a man’s gold wedding ring. They were all male effects. But, oddly, no photos or love notes or things that looked like gifts. On the contrary, they looked like collectibles. Probably from all the boys she had bedded. Things she had probably taken to commemorate her little conquests. Trophies.
When Nicole returned, she didn’t go straight to bed. Instead, she stripped down to her panties and bra, then got down on the floor to do stretching exercises—probably one of her ballet routines. For nearly twenty minutes he watched her do sit-ups, push-ups, then an elaborate set of revealing stretches, at one point lying on her back and moving her hips up and down as if having sex with an invisible lover. Watching her like this, any other normal boy would have exploded on the spot. But Brendan just watched—feeling nothing. No, he was not gay. He was not anything.
Just dead.
When she finished, she pulled off her top and headed into the adjoining bathroom. He could not see her from his angle, but he heard the rush of water as she took a shower. He thought about taking a peek, but the glass door steamed up. Besides, she might catch him, which would be disastrous. So he remained in the closet peering through the black crack.
When she came out, she had one towel wrapped around her head, another around her body, so he could see nothing. She sat on her bed and removed the towel. Her breasts were like pink-tipped pears. He had never touched a girl and wondered what it would be like. Until Nicole, he had never seen one naked in the flesh.
She stood up and toweled her behind, then turned toward him and for a moment he saw her point-blank naked. But then she slipped into panties
and a camisole top. A moment later she flicked off the light and got into bed.
and a camisole top. A moment later she flicked off the light and got into bed.
He waited until he was certain she was asleep, then crept across the floor, guided by the glow light of her aquarium. The creak of the floorboards caused her to stir, but she did not wake up.
When he reached her bed he froze. Fortunately, she was sleeping on her right side. Fortunately, also, it was a warm night, so only a single blanket covered her.
He had to be swift. He reached into his pocket, and in a clean move he pulled back the covers and clicked on a penlight.
Nicole’s eyes snapped open.
The next moment she yelped and jerked away. Before he knew it, she leapt off the bed and pulled a field hockey stick from wall mounts. Without a sound, she took a huge swipe at him.
He jumped back just in time. “
No
, please, d-d-don’t,” he cried. “I’m not going to h-h-hurt you. Really.”
No
, please, d-d-don’t,” he cried. “I’m not going to h-h-hurt you. Really.”
But she came at him and swung again. He reflexed again, but this time he stumbled backward over a stuffed animal and came down on his backside, his head slamming on the edge of the closet door. As he lay there, she came at him with the stick raised high.
“P-p-please, don’t. My head.”
“I know you. You’re Brendan LaMotte,” she gasped.
“Please don’t h-h-hit me, okay? Just don’t h-hit me.”
Nicole backed up to her portable phone and picked it up. “You’ve been following me, you creep. At the club and the diner. You’re stalking me.”
“
No
. Please don’t call the police. I b-beg you.” He dabbed his sleeve on his forehead.
No
. Please don’t call the police. I b-beg you.” He dabbed his sleeve on his forehead.
“Then tell me what the hell you are doing here or I’ll call them.”
“I will, I will, but please don’t.” He checked his hand. He was bleeding from the scalp. “Can I have a t-tissue?”
“No.” She tossed the phone down and raised the stick like an executioner’s sword. “Talk or I’ll bash your brains in.”
“You have a t-t-tattoo on your hip.”
Instantly her face shifted, and her hands flinched. But she said nothing.
“I saw it once real fast when you were at the pool. You were wearing a t-two-piece white bikini, and you were on the lounge chair reading a copy of
vogue
, with a picture of M-Meg Ryan on the cover—she was wearing red—so
it must have been the May issue because June had Charlize Theron in white chiffon.” He caught himself because his mind was beginning to flood with useless details that he could recite endlessly. He knew all the magazine covers because people left them at the pool all the time.
vogue
, with a picture of M-Meg Ryan on the cover—she was wearing red—so
it must have been the May issue because June had Charlize Theron in white chiffon.” He caught himself because his mind was beginning to flood with useless details that he could recite endlessly. He knew all the magazine covers because people left them at the pool all the time.
“How did you see it?”
“I c-c-can’t swim, so I don’t go up to the p-p-pool. Binoculars. I s-saw you through binoculars.”
“You mean you broke into my bedroom to see my tattoo?”
He nodded. “Ummm.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“It’s important. Very important. Can I p-please get up? My head’s bleeding.” The second time in a week, he thought.
He started to pull himself up, when she whacked him in the leg. “What do you mean, it’s important?”
Blood now trickled down the side of his head. He blotted it with his sleeve then reached into his pants pocket.
“Don’t you dare,” she said and raised the stick.
“No, don’t.” When she didn’t strike, he said, “I just want to show you something. Please.”
“How do I know you haven’t got a weapon?”
“Because I d-don’t.” He slipped his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it, revealing the blue cartoon. “It’s Mr. Nisha,” he said.
Nicole glanced at it, and for a second her face seemed to have turned into a plaster mask. As the image began to sink in, little expressions flickered across it like eddies of electricity. “Where did you get that?”
“You remember,” he whispered.
She lowered the stick.
“Please, can I get up?”
She did not respond but took the drawing to the table beside her bed and turned on the lamp. While she studied the image, Brendan’s eye fell on a photograph tacked to the wall—Nicole and a bunch of other kids on a field trip. The eyes of the Asian girl at the end had been poked out.
While Nicole continued to study the drawing, Brendan noticed a video camera sitting on the desk. Beside it was a cassette. Without thought, he picked it up, but she snatched it out of his hands and threw it into the desk drawer.
Then Nicole turned the light toward herself and pulled down one corner of her panties. On her left flank was the same serene blue elephant with the big floppy ears, fat snaky trunk, and fingered human hands. And on its head some kind of crown. It was nearly identical.
“W-w-where … ?”
“Hampton Beach,” she said.
“B-but how did … ?”
“I wanted a tattoo, and when I saw an elephant sample, I knew that’s what I wanted. But all he had was stupid pink elephants or that freaky demon-beast shit for bikers. I made him draw it on paper until he had it right.”
“But why did you have it done?”
“Because I wanted a tattoo is why.”
“But where did you get the image from?”
“Why’s it so important to you?”
“Because I’ve been seeing this image for years in my brain. It’s like a ghost of something, but I couldn’t put it together. Until now. I th-think we’re connected somehow through that image.”
She did not respond.
“Does’M-M-Mr. Nisha’ mean anything to you?”
“Mr. who?”
“Nisha. M-Mr. Nisha. Or ‘dance with Mr. Nisha’?”
Before she could respond, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway cut the air. “Shit! My parents! You gotta get out of here.” He started for her closet, but she stopped him. “They saw my light on, so they’ll be in. The window.”
“We have to t-talk more.”
“What for? I’m going back to school, then camp.”
“But we have to.”
“Go!”
Brendan was overweight and unathletic, so the prospect of climbing down was not appealing.
She pushed him toward the window and opened the screen just enough for him to climb out onto the porch roof. She pointed to the corner. “The drainpipe,” she said, and shoved him through. “GO!”
He climbed out and steadied himself on the roof. He could hear the garage door close in the front of the house, leaving the night dark and still for
his escape. From the roof, it was maybe a ten-foot drop to the ground, and little footholds attached to the corner column along the drainpipe made the descent easy. It was the path most taken.
his escape. From the roof, it was maybe a ten-foot drop to the ground, and little footholds attached to the corner column along the drainpipe made the descent easy. It was the path most taken.
As he eased his way down, he wondered about Nicole’s other midnight visitors and wished that for one moment he could feel what they had come for. Just one little burst of spring fires. He would die for that.
T
he ride to Connecticut took about three and a half hours. After breakfast, Rachel bundled Dylan in the car and drove him to day care, leaving Miss Jean her cell-phone number. Then she headed south on Route 95 to New Haven and the Yale University School of Medicine where she had a one o’clock appointment with Stanley Chu.
he ride to Connecticut took about three and a half hours. After breakfast, Rachel bundled Dylan in the car and drove him to day care, leaving Miss Jean her cell-phone number. Then she headed south on Route 95 to New Haven and the Yale University School of Medicine where she had a one o’clock appointment with Stanley Chu.
She listened to the radio to distract her mind. But she snapped it off after the news story about a controversial case of a mentally deficient man on death row in Texas. He could barely read and write and had flunked the seventh grade twice. He did menial work such as cutting grass. And last night, at thirty-three, after spending twelve years on death row for the rape and murder of a twenty-four-year-old woman, he had been executed.
She arrived at the medical school on time. A directory inside the main entrance led her to the Department of Neurology.
Dr. Stanley Chu, a slight man of about sixty with thinning hair and glasses, spoke with a faint accent. Rachel took a seat across from his desk. A folder containing Dylan’s medical records sat open before him. She had overnighted the package last week.
Dr. Chu seemed a little put off by her visit and got right to business. “I looked at your son’s medical history, the test results, and the scans. As you know, there’s some dysfunction of the left temporal lobe.” From a folder he pulled out some of the films and slipped them onto the display board. “Dylan’s brain is on the left, the one on the right is a child about the same age but with
normal brain anatomy.” He used a ballpoint pen to point out the shadowy shapes. “As you can see, the gyri of Dylan’s brain—that is, the folds—are smaller and the sulci—the spaces in between—are larger. Usually, they are packed closer together as you can see in this normal scan.
normal brain anatomy.” He used a ballpoint pen to point out the shadowy shapes. “As you can see, the gyri of Dylan’s brain—that is, the folds—are smaller and the sulci—the spaces in between—are larger. Usually, they are packed closer together as you can see in this normal scan.
“What this means,” he continued, “is that the gyri of Dylan’s brain are not developed normally, that he has experienced some cell loss here—maybe as much as twenty-five percent in this area.”
“Oh, God,” she whimpered.
“But I’m afraid the real problem is in the thalamus down here,” he continued. “You can’t see that as well from the scan because the structures are subtle. But there are some malformations of the thalamus, and we know this because one of the telltale marks of such malformation is the abnormal formation of the gyri up here.”
“What’s the thalamus do?”
“Well, the thalamus is a complicated area very deep in the brain,” he explained. “It controls all parts of the brain affecting speech and motor functions, emotions, and sensory functions—so many aspects of our makeup. These kinds of structural deficiencies are commonly seen in individuals with language-processing problems such as Dylan’s.”
Rachel felt her soul slump. A silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond.
Finally Rachel asked, “Is this consistent with the damage of the people you studied?”
“Do you mean did your use of TNT bring this on?”
“Yes.”
The doctor took off his glasses and stared at her. “Mrs. Whitman, why do you need to know this?” It was the same question that Dr. Rose had asked.
She shook her head, but said nothing for fear of breaking down.
“There’s no way to know that. Some of the women who had taken TNT gave birth to perfectly normal children. All I can say is that it’s statistically more probable that you suffered some reproductive cell damage which was passed on to your son.”
“Is there anything that can be done?”
“Done?” He seemed unclear about the question. “Well, as I said there are medications that can help him focus better …”
“How about surgically?”
“To what end?”
“To reduce his problems,” she said. “To increase his learning capabilities.”
The doctor’s eyebrows twitched slightly. “Not that I know of.”
Rachel nodded. “I guess it was a dumb question, but I’m feeling very guilty and desperate.”
“I understand, but I’m afraid, for all practical purposes, Dylan’s brain has already wired itself as much as it is going to. As I said, there’s a structural deformity that cannot be corrected because circuitry is missing. And it can’t be manufactured. It’s like wanting to regenerate an amputated finger. It can’t be done.”
Rachel looked at him and her eyes puddled. “So there’s nothing that can be done? No new experimental procedures to help stimulate growth and regeneration of whatever … neurons?”
Dr. Chu shook his head. “Not that I know of.” He then glanced at the wall clock.
“So he’s going to be impaired for the rest of his life?”
He paused for a second, as if carefully measuring his words. “Without taking a functional MRI, all I can say is that the visible malformations are consistent with those found in individuals with language problems. This does not mean that special learning programs won’t help his development—”
Her voice straining, Rachel cut him off: “I did this to him.”
“Pardon me?”
“Because of me, he’s going to go through the rest of his life mentally handicapped.” The tears were flowing freely now, and she pressed a wad of tissues to her face.
“You don’t know that.”
“But I took the stuff. I did that to him.”
“But nothing’s conclusive. It’s entirely possible that it’s an hereditary expression or some other cause.”
Rachel just shook her head.
“Mrs. Whitman, my suggestion is that you accept what has happened and go on from here. And, if I may, avoid the pitfall of so many of today’s parents—namely the fixation on academic performance. Yes, it’s understandable in our competitive culture, yet so much more goes into one’s
destiny in life, especially a child’s emotional makeup and character. Unfortunately, too many people are stuck on a single notion of intelligence. In reality, intelligence is a multiplicity of human talents that go beyond basic verbal and mathematical performance. As someone once said, ‘If the Aborigine drafted an IQ test, all of Western civilization would flunk it.’”
destiny in life, especially a child’s emotional makeup and character. Unfortunately, too many people are stuck on a single notion of intelligence. In reality, intelligence is a multiplicity of human talents that go beyond basic verbal and mathematical performance. As someone once said, ‘If the Aborigine drafted an IQ test, all of Western civilization would flunk it.’”
She nodded quietly, letting his words sink in.
He tapped the pile of papers that represented Dylan’s test results. “IQ isn’t the measure of a person. Believe me. I know many so-called geniuses who are failures as human beings.”
“I realize that but, frankly, smarter people do better in life. You have to admit that.”
Chu looked at her with a puzzled expression, perhaps wondering why they were having this conversation. “Mrs. Whitman, I admit that in some walks of life higher intellectual abilities may mean more opportunities. But a high IQ is no guarantee of success, prestige, or especially, happiness in life.”
She glanced around his office, at the photo of him and his wife and children posed in ski gear smiling gleefully with snow-capped peaks in the background. The Yale School of Medicine diploma on the wall. “You’ve done well.” She wished she could retract the words the moment they hit the air.
“On paper, yes,” Chu shot back. “But you don’t know anything about my personal life or my psychological or emotional state. I could be miserable with my lot and contemplating suicide, though I’m neither.”
“I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. What you should do is spend less effort ranking your child and more trying to identify his natural gifts and competency. For all you know, Dylan may grow up to be an artist or musical genius, or someone gifted in social and interpersonal skills.”
She nodded. “So you’re saying that nothing can be done, I mean medically.”
Dr. Chu looked at her quizzically, as if surprised that she had not processed his words. He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Your son’s brain development is fixed. It cannot be structurally modified toward higher functionality. I’m sorry.”
It was time to leave. She thanked the doctor and packed all of Dylan’s medical records into her briefcase and left.
Outside the sky was overcast and it smelled like rain. Rachel walked to her car, feeling scooped out. In the distance lightning soundlessly flickered.
And her mind turned to Sheila MacPhearson as if she were some ministering angel.
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