away, because she settled back in her chair and studied him. Then after a moment she said, “May I ask, then, why you want something to let you sleep without dreams?”
“That’s not the same thing, is it?”
“Neurologically the activity is coincident.”
If you tell her yes, she’ll poke you with questions until you’re a damn dartboard—which means they’ll never let you out; in fact, they’ll make you some kind of adjunct study for that drug they’re pushing. “What can I tell you? No flashbacks.”
Her eyes hardened. She didn’t believe him. “I see, then it’s just a coincidence—the images and the fact that on several occasions you called for your mother, actually sounded as if you were having a conversation with her.”
“My mother?”
“One of the nurses caught it on tape.”
The initial hospitality lost its warmth. Nice ploy: Send in a clever female with sunny good looks and knockdown charm to coo him into submission, and you got yourself that grant and a fat bonus.
But right behind that thought another muscled it’s way up: Sour.
“You mean you’ve never talked in your sleep before? Talked to a dead relative or friend?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
He could hear the caution in her voice. “Given all the medication they were pumping into me, I’m surprised I wasn’t chatting with Cleopatra.”
“That may be true, but what made these episodes different was your voice. You sounded like a child, which suggests that you were reliving some deep-past experience. So I’m wondering if you’re aware of these flashbacks— if you’ve had them while awake, if you can tell us what you’re experiencing when they occur.”
She held him with those big eyes—beseeched him to tell her what they both knew was the truth: That he had flashbacks, that he talked to dead people, that he had been to places he hadn’t thought of in years, relived moment-to-moment interludes that he didn’t want to return from—splendid little kid-fun vignettes. Also the dark other stuff that came back to him in quickfire snaps that left him quaking in horror.
“What we’d like is to determine the kinds of activity your brain undergoes during certain conditions of recall. In other words, conduct some functional MRI tests.” She went on to explain.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Ms. Ballard.”
Her body slumped as she made a polite nod of resignation. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She stood up, holding her leather-bound clipboard and all her questions to her chest. “I’ll talk with Dr. Heller about adjusting your medications to help you sleep better.”
“Thank you.”
She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a business card and laid it on the table. “Should there be any changes,” she said, and thanked him.
He watched her leave, cutting a rippling wake across the ether of the patio—admiring and hating her pert little gabardined bottom and long legs and bobbing chestnut hair as she made her way into the building and through the lot for her cute little BMW to drive to her cute little condo where later in the day she’d crack open a cute little pinot noir with her cute little geek stud …
Suddenly he felt like crying.
51
Boston, Massachusetts
“MR. REYNOLDS, YOU PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK on or I’m going to tell my daddy!”
The little elderly woman shook her finger at the large naked man with his arms spread.
A few feet away, two college women who were admiring the bronze sculpture near the entrance of the Museum of Fine Arts turned around. The black woman in the Northeastern University baseball cap looked at her white companion and started to snicker.
But the elderly woman with the flowered dress and large shopping bag was not joking. She snapped her head at the young black woman and squinted. Then her expression opened up. “There you are, Lucy Goosey! Where’s my Jello?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You were supposed to be watching him and not running off to Patty’s house.” Her mouth began to tremble. “Now he’s missing.”
“Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mary gave the black woman a sharp look and stamped her foot. She then turned to the young white woman. “My mother’s going to wring her neck when she finds out. She wasn’t supposed to let him out without the leash. Now he’s lost, and it’s going to be dark soon.”
The black woman studied the little elderly woman in the blue flowered housedress and floppy canvas hat. Her legs looked swollen, like bologna rounds pressed into dirty white walking shoes. “I’m sorry, lady, but I think you’re confused.”
“I know what you said to Barbara Chin. Miss DuPont told me. I don’t care if I
“What party?” the white woman asked. “What’s she talking about?”
The old lady snapped her face toward her then dropped her eyes to the small granite pedestal with the bronze plaque:
“What are you talking about? That’s not Jello. That’s the Murphy’s dog, Boris. Jello’s yellow and nice—not like him.” And she kicked at the stone.
“Oh, boy!” the white woman said. Then to her friend she whispered, “She’s got a medical bracelet.”
Mary looked up at the black woman again. “You’re always doing ten things at once.” Then she snapped her head up at the statue. “What’s Mr. Reynolds doing here? It’s not his backyard. And I wish he’d put his clothes on.”
The black woman made a move to read the bracelet, but the elderly woman snapped her hand away and squinted at the band as if it were a watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. My daddy’s going to be home soon, and when he does he’s going to call your parents for this.” Then her voice broke. “He’s still a little puppy,” she said, looking nowhere. “Mommy and Daddy gave him to me for my birthday.”
The black woman made big eyes at her classmate to say the woman was totally delusional. “I’m sure you’ll find Jello. But can you tell us your name?”
A passing trolley train squealed against the tracks, and the elderly woman squinted toward the street. “Lady, can you tell us your name?” the white girl asked, a little louder.
But the old woman paid no attention. Her eyes were transfixed on the MBTA train on the far track moving down Huntington toward the Northeastern stop.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where you live?”
“Seventh.”
