Gray Matter

glibness.

“But that’s a legitimate ethical concern,” Rachel said. “It’s just one more advantage the rich have over the poor.” And that bothered her. If this was the miracle it appeared to be, then it opened a Pandora’s box of social woes, not the least of which was the fact that it ran counter to everything democracy stood for and to Rachel’s fundamental beliefs in social justice and equality. A secret privileged thing that was tantamount to intellectual apartheid.

“First, enhancement does work. And second, you’re looking at it the wrong way, hon. This is for your son. For his future. That’s where your priorities are. You’re talking about making life better for him, right? Right. Which means if you can afford it, you have a moral obligation to do it. It’s for your one-and-only kid, and that’s what counts, period! In a sense, it’s good for society too, because—who knows?—Dylan may grow up to be a great scientist or doctor. He may even be president someday. Or better still, another Bill Gates.”

“And what about this Dr. Malenko? What do you know about him?”

“Talk about brilliant! The man’s a world-class neuroscientist—a pillar of the community, a member of every civic group. He’s on the board of Mass General Hospital and the Lahey Clinic. A member of the Brain Surgeon’s Society or whatever. What can I say: He’s the cream of the crop, is all.”

Rachel listened and nodded, and took a sip of her coffee. Outside two greenskeepers were leaning against the pickup truck and laughing over some joke. One of them, a man in his fifties, probably had done manual labor most of his life and lived with his wife and kids in one of the humbler towns in the area, or maybe New Hampshire. He couldn’t be earning more than thirty thousand a year. She wondered about his life. She wondered if he was happy being who he was.

“Another thing is the fee. When we asked, he just said it was expensive.”

Sheila’s eyebrows arched. “It is expensive. But you’re making an investment like nothing else in life. You’re buying genius for your son. His enhancement could mean the difference between a so-so life and a great one.

“Think about that and about how much you’ll save in pain, missed opportunities, humiliation, and the rejection your child would suffer—not to mention costs for tutors, therapists, special schools—including Nova Children’s Center—SAT prep courses, et cetera. Or imagine the emotional payback when your kid wins a science fair, or writes the class skit, or is editor of the school newspaper, makes the honor roll, the National Honor Society. Or he graduates at the top of his class at Harvard only to start working at seventy-five thousand dollars a year at the tender age of twenty-two, or younger since he’ll probably skip grades. How do you put a price tag on all that? You can’t. Honey, if you can afford it, then you owe it to him. You owe it to him.”

Inside the playroom, Miss Jean was wrapping up the hour. Lucinda made a wave through the one-way window at Sheila. She couldn’t see her, of course, but she knew she was there. She knew it was a one-way window. Behind her Dylan watched in puzzlement as she waved at a mirror.

They got up to leave. “Do you know other enhanced kids?”

“There aren’t many in the area, but I know a couple.”

“Anyone I know?”

Sheila suddenly seemed torn. “Well, you may know of them.”

“Such as?”

“Look, I’m not supposed to tell,” Sheila whispered. “I mean, everything is tres confidential, especially the identity of the children, if you know what I mean.”

“Sheila, if we’re going to consider this, I want to meet other children and talk to the parents.”

Rachel could see her struggling but Sheila was not someone who could sit on a secret.

“Julian Watts,” she whispered.

“You mean Vanessa’s son, the boy who wrote a book on mazes?”

“Uh-huh. He’s like megasmart and talented. I don’t know his case history, but his mother, Vanessa, is this superstar scholar and the father, Brad, he’s an architect. And Julian was born … challenged.”

“We got an invitation to her book party at the club.” A fancy invitation had arrived the other day for a double-header Scholarship Banquet next Saturday night celebrating both caddy scholarship winners and Vanessa Watts’s publication of her new book on George Orwell. Rachel had met Vanessa in passing at the club, although she didn’t know her. Nor her son. “How do we go about meeting them?”

Sheila leaned forward into her conspiratorial huddle again. “Let me first explain that these kids don’t know they’re enhanced, know what I mean? It’s just not a good thing if they think they were made special. I mean their ego, and stuff. So you can’t really talk to them about, you know, before and after.”

“How could they not know they had a brain operation?”

“I’m telling you they don’t. They’ve got this amnesia drug the doctors use—something called ‘ketamine’ or ‘katamine.’ Whatever, it’s used for trauma cases, and whatnot, but it works like magic. They just don’t remember anything including how they were once, you know … different.”

“What about follow-up visits? Dr. Malenko said he checks up on their progress.”

“They only need to be seen two or three times until things level off, which is about a year or so,” Sheila said. “But it’s the same thing. They go in, he gives them the ketamine/katamine stuff. They get checked up and are sent on their way, and they don’t remember a thing. It’s incredible.”

“So these kids don’t even know about other enhanced kids.”

“Not a clue.”

Through the window Rachel could see Dylan put on his backpack. “I’d like to talk with the Wattses and meet Julian.”

“I’ll have to check, but I’m sure it can be arranged.”

As they walked outside to meet the kids, Sheila stopped. “I think you’re making the right decision for him.”

“But we haven’t made a decision yet.”

“Well, I mean you’re thinking about something that will make all the difference. I mean, I know, believe me. It’s like she got over multiple sclerosis or blindness or something.”

They walked into the sunlight. It was bright and warm, and the grass and leaves on the trees seemed to glow. Other mothers were waiting in the shade of the huge elm chatting among themselves.

“You know,” Sheila said as they walked outside, “there was this poll I read about the other day. You know, one of those factoid things you see on CNN? Well, they did a national survey of a few thousand people. They asked a simple question: ‘If there was one thing that you could change about yourself what would it be?’ The choices were to be better looking, younger, taller, nicer, less selfish, more outgoing et cetera. Even wealthier. You know what over eighty percent of the respondents said they wished?”

“What?”

“They said they wished they were smarter.”

Sheila walked away to greet Lucinda who stood like a statue waiting. Behind her Dylan burst out of the door with the others. “Hi, honey,” Rachel said as she stooped to catch Dylan. He gave her a big hug.

“Mom, you know what?”

“What?”

“I know all the days of the week.”

“You do?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Monday, Tuesday, Wegsday, Fursday, Somesday.”

In the distance, Lucinda walked toward the green Jaguar holding Sheila’s hand in her left and a laptop in her right.

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