Abruptly she turned and approached the desk. She couldn’t allow herself to think too much about this, because there was nothing rational about what she was doing. This was a blatant invasion of privacy.
But then she seemed to be making a habit of that lately, didn't she? She needed to eliminate Sam's paranoid idea.
Eathan always told them to go out and do what they had tc do to get what they wanted. Well, she was following his advice
She started with the top middle drawer and found no need to go further. A brass key with MEDECO stamped across its bow lay in the pencil tray.
Julie chewed her lip. She shouldn't do this. It wasn't right. II only she hadn't heard Sam say that.
She turned away and stepped back to the window, almost hoping she'd see Eathan's car approaching. But no, the driveway was empty.
That did it.
She snatched up the key and hurried over to the cabinet The key wobbled in her fingers as she shoved it into the lock and turned. She hesitated before pulling the doors open. What if they were alarmed?
Don't be ridiculous.
She yanked on the handles and swung the doors open a few! inches. No sirens, no bells and whistles, just a puff of cool ail redolent of musty old paper. She threw them wide.
And staggered back.
In a space almost like a small room, bigger, deeper than she'd imagined, half a dozen file cabinets sat in a neat row, the handles of their drawers arching toward her. But what she saw around them made Julie feel as if her entire life were flashing before her.
To her left the inside of the wall cabinet was decorated with the oversized scholastic awards or certificates of merit she'd won as a child—and she'd won plenty—along with prizes and ribbons for research papers and science projects; even some of the old science projects themselves, carefully wrapped in plastic and settled on shelves. The right side was devoted to Sam, a dazzling array of old paintings and collages, from childhood through high school, even some of her surviving papier-mache sculptures.
Julie gaped. Uncle Eathan ... it looked as if he'd saved just about everything of theirs he'd been able to lay his hands on. But why hide it away like this? Was he afraid to show that he cared this much for them?
And why don't I feel touched? she thought.
She stepped up and tugged on one of the file-cabinet drawers. It slid open, revealing a row of hanging folders. The first was unmarked but each after that was tagged in succession: Julia: Age 6 ... Julia: Age 7... and so on.
Her heart beat a little faster as she reached into the drawer. What was all this?
She pulled out the first folder, the unmarked one. It contained a number of folded newspaper pages, stiff and yellowed with age. Julie carefully unfolded one of the sheets and found herself staring at page one of The MiUbum Express. An ominous feeling crept over her when she saw the issue date of March 7, 1972. She knew that date. No need to look for the story. The banner headline told it all:
COUPLE DIES IN FIRE—CHILDREN MISSING And below it:
Millburn: Shortly after midnight, fire gutted the home of Nathan and Lucinda Gordon in the western hill section ...
Julie couldn't bring herself to read any further. And she could barely do more than glance at the grainy photo of the charred ruins that had once been her home.
Pretty damn morbid keeping that in here.
She carefully refolded it and tucked it back where she'd found it. Enough hard news. What was the rest?
She pulled out the Age 6 folder and opened it. The first thing she saw was her primary school picture at the Saint John School in Whitby. She saw her six-year-old face staring un-smilingly at the camera. Sam stood close behind her, practically spooned against her, looking no more happy to be there than her sister. A pretty grim time for them: their mom and dad dead only a year before, placed in the care of their uncle Eathan, who'd moved them to England, where all the other kids thought they talked funny.
Someone—Eathan, she assumed—had circled a J and pointed an arrow to her. But why no arrow to Sam? "
She flipped through the rest of the file: report cards, penmanship lessons, spelling and addition tests. All hers. Why no Sam? Unless...
She pulled open the top drawer on the neighboring file cabinet. And there she was: Samantha: Age 6 ... Samantha: Age 7...
A quick peek in Sam's Age 6 folder revealed the same class picture, only this time a circled S pointed to Sam. And along with Sam's report cards was some of her early crayon art. Typical of Sam, she never bothered to stay within the lines. A rebel even then.
Julie pulled open more drawers and saw that the Age cards went all the way up to 30 for each of them, even though they were only twenty-eight. Obviously intended as an ongoing project.
And equally obvious why the folders started at six: Everything up to age five had been consumed in the fire. The newspaper in that first, unmarked file was like a black stripe scorched across their timelines, marking the starting point of their recorded history.
But why? Why such a detailed chronicle of their lives? Even the most devoted parents weren't this obsessive. It was almost scary.
But then again, Uncle Eathan had to be one of the most meticulous people she'd ever met. Maybe this was just his way. It certainly showed how much he loved them.
But why keep it locked?
The last cabinet was a different make than the others, a little wider, a little taller, and much older. She tugged on the top handle but the drawer wouldn't budge. And then she noticed a four-digit combination lock on the facing above the drawer.
Great. A locked file within a locked cabinet. What did Eathan have in here? Another, smaller, locked cabinet?
Julie jumped as a car door slammed somewhere out front.
She darted to the window and saw Eathan getting out of his Bentley, but couldn't see who was in the passenger seat.
Oh God! He's back!
Quickly she closed the open file drawers. They banged shut.
"Damn!" she said, annoyed at her clumsiness.
More gingerly, but still hurrying, she shut the doors, re-locked the cabinet, then returned the key to Eathan's desk drawer.
Trying to look as casual as possible, Julie strolled out into the hall.
A quick glance left and right: empty.
She released the breath she'd been holding and hurried toward her room.
My uncle's hiding something.
Yeah, Sam, she thought. You're right about that. Eathan is hiding something. But nothing bad. That was pretty obvious.
It could have been worse. She could have found a collection of whips and chains and B-and-D sex toys. Or the bones of missing children. Or—she had to smile—a closetful of women's clothing, all in Eathan's size.
Instead she'd found ... their lives. Every event recorded, labeled, and filed away. How strange. A labor of love worthy of the most dutiful parent. And hardly sinister.
But what about the file cabinet with the combination lock? Whose life was kept in there?
None of my damn business.
She may have grown up here, but she'd overstepped her bounds just now in Eathan's study. That was his private sanctum. She'd just paid her first and last visit to his cabinet. From now on she'd concentrate on what she'd come here for: to explore Sam's memoryscape.
She slowed as she passed the top of the stairs. Dinner was rooking. Smelled delicious.
She wondered who Eathan's mystery guest was.
Fifteen
Memory storage is highly organized. Words, for instance: Nouns are stored along the left temporal lobe, but they're not all lumped together. At least 20 specific areas have been iden-tified for fruits, animals, numbers, colors, body parts, plants, etc. Verbs are stored near the motor cortex. How elegant . . . since verbs involve doing.
—Random notes: Julia Gordon
1
"Ah, Julia, I'd like you to meet Dr. Alma Evans." A dark, compact, middle-aged woman stood beside Eathan by the bar at the far end of the drawing room. She stepped for
ward, smiling and switching her drink to her left hand—the one with the cigarette—and extending her right, as Julie entered.
"Dr. Gordon. I'd have known you anywhere. You look exactly like your sister. I've heard so much about you from your uncle."
"Call me Julie, please," she said, taking the woman's hand. It was cold from the ice in her drink.
"Only if you call me Alma."
"Deal."
Alma Evans had dark hair and bright brown eyes. A nice smile, even if the teeth were a little crooked and slightly nicotine stained. Her accent was strictly upper-class British lockjaw.
Eathan said, "We're trying a fifty-year-old single-malt scotch 1 picked up outside Edinburgh last month. Care to try some?"
"Fifty years old? Is it still drinkable?"
"Eminently so," Alma said, holding up a short crystal tum
bler. "It's sinfully smooth---- "
Julie accepted a couple of fingers' worth neat. Usually she took hers on the rocks with a splash of soda, but diluting fifty-year-old scotch seemed a capital crime.
She raised her glass. "Cheers." And sipped.
It was heaven—smooth, rich, with a smoky, peaty tang.
"I'll take a case," she said. She sipped again. "Make that two cases."
Eathan laughed. "If you knew what this one bottle cost, I think you'd cut your order."
They discussed the various wonders of single-malt scotches until they'd beaten the subject to death, and then it was time for dinner.
As they headed for the dining room, Eathan drew her aside.
"Are you all right? You look a bit frazzled."
"I'm fine."
"Is it the memoryscape? Did you see something?"
It's not what I saw, she thought.
"Nothing that made much sense."
"I hope to change that," he said.
2
Rack of lamb was served with a vintage bordeaux. The fine cuisine of Oakwood's succession of chefs was wasted on Julie and her sister growing up—but she certainly could appreciate it now.
Eathan raised his glass.
"While we're feasting down here, let us not forget Samantha upstairs. To her quick recovery."
"Hear, hear!" said Alma Evans. "Poor thing ..."
"How well do you know Sam?" Julie said.
Eathan said, "Alma has been Samantha's psychiatrist for a number of years."
"Really?" Julie wasn't terribly surprised. Eathan's mention of a psychiatrist this morning, and then a mystery guest for dinner. She'd half suspected it. "I'm amazed she'd agree to any sort of therapy."
"After the Venice incident she decided maybe she should try something," Alma said.
Julie shot Eathan a look. "Venice? What happened in Venice?"
Eathan looked away. "A suicide attempt. She didn't want anyone to know—especially you."
"Especially me." Julie thought, Why am I not surprised at that, either? "She's overdosed before. You're sure this Venice incident was intentional?"
Eathan nodded. "She left a note. But that's all in the past. With Alma's help she got over what it was that made her so desperate. She actually seemed to be straightening out. Then this... coma. I brought Alma here to meet you tonight because she knows probably better than anyone what's been going on inside of Sam lately."
"This puts me in somewhat of an awkward ethical position, as you can imagine," Alma said. "But in weighing patient privilege against patient survival, I see no choice but to come down on the side of survival."
"I'm sure I appreciate your help," Julie said. "Every day we seem to be losing more of Sam, but I don't see—"
"I've asked Alma to stay over for a few days," Eathan said. "I thought she might be able to give us some insight into Samantha's dreams."
"Dreams?"
"Yes. Those things, those"—he waved his hand in the air-— "fantasies you see when you go into her memory."
"They're not dreams. They're memories."
"But they're not accurate memories, " Eathan said. "They're distorted. That statue of Perseus was a good example. I don't know yet what you saw today, but maybe Alma can interpret the symbolism."
Julie didn't like this. For one thing, she didn't want Eathan or anyone else talking up the new memory technology. For another, it was bad enough to have Eathan and Dr. S. looking over her shoulder; now to have this stranger...
But if she could answer some questions...
Julie turned to Alma. "My uncle told you about the statue being substituted for the microscope?"
She nodded. "Yes. This memory process you've developed sounds absolutely astounding. I must see it in action."
Julie nodded. She didn't know how she felt about that. It was one thing to share Sam's past with her therapist...
But I'm in there too.
"You will. But the distorted memory Eathan told you about: What's your take on that? Any idea what it could mean?"
"I really couldn't say," Alma said. "I'd have to see more of these experiences before I'd even attempt to come up with an interpretation. It seems symbolic...." Alma looked over to Eathan, then back to Julie. "But of what?"
Well, at least she hadn't offered some facile garbage for an answer. Julie was leery of any sort of instant analysis. Dr. Evans had just taken a step up in her estimation. She respected any supposed expert who had the courage to say "I don't know."
"Julie, my plan was to have Alma review the videotapes you've made so far of your 'memory' trips. Perhaps she might draw some conclusions, give us all a little guidance."
Julie stiffened as she remembered today's videotape.
The VCR attached to the monitor feed had recorded this afternoon's journey into Sam's memoryscape: the lovemaking ... and Sam's suspicions.
My uncle's hiding something. . . . He's hiding lots of things, I think.
She knew he was hiding a collection of their artifacts, but was that all?
Sam's suspicions might hurt Eathan. And might put him on his guard, make him even more dubious about letting Julie continue. She wished to avoid both.
Because, she thought, because—someday I might want to learn what's in that locked file cabinet.
She took a deep breath, then a sip of the bordeaux.
She'd have to hide the tape as soon as she got upstairs. Later she'd say she forgot to start the recorder before the session.
"Yes. Of course. I wouldn't show them to just anyone. They're intensely personal. But since Alma is her psychiatrist ..."
"Excellent!" Eathan said. "The more heads we put together, the sooner we can resolve this mess and return Samantha to consciousness." Eathan's smile faded. "That is... if she can return to consciousness."
3
After a dessert of lemon glace, they retired to the drawing room, where Alma lit a cigarette. Eathan passed out glasses of port, then ignited a thick, dark cigar. Julie felt as if she were in a Masterpiece Theatre episode. What was next—talk of the "Great War"? Trouble with the help?
"Since when do you smoke?" Julie said, fanning her hand in the air before her. She wanted to tell him how his stogie stank, but it was his house.
"I've picked it up over the last few years. Only cigars, and only rarely. One or two a week at most." He smiled. "I'm not a nicotine fiend."
Alma laughed. "Your uncle is learning to enjoy life a little. You Americans—so terribly abstemious about the good things in life. Smoke-free planes and restaurants, low-fat this, no-cal that, light, lighter, lightest. What a joyless existence. Please don't take this personally, but most of us over here think you're all quite mad."
Julie coughed. She couldn't take much more of this smoke. It was like the house was on fire.
"Yes. Utterly mad. Obviously." She turned to Eathan. She wanted the answer to one question before she hightailed it for the fresher air of the second floor. "I didn't know my father was a neurochemist. And that he'd published. Why didn't you tell me?"
He puffed out a plume of blue smoke. "Of course you knew—at least you knew he was a neuroc
hemist. I thought that's why you wound up in neurology yourself."
"I knew he was a chemist, but not a neurochemist. I had no idea."
"How'd you find out?"
She rolled out her prepared answer, hoping it didn't sound too glib.
"I was doing a computer search and noticed an abstract from an old article by someone named Nathan Gordon, Ph.D.— from way back in the sixties. I downloaded it and was shocked to realize I was reading my father's work."
Eathan smiled. "Nathan published sporadically. His theories on the developing brain weren't widely accepted at the time. Too bad he didn't live long enough to pursue them. He was a brilliant, brilliant man. He'd be a giant in the field of developmental neurology today if he'd had time to complete his work. As it was, with all his papers lost in the fire, no one could pick up where he'd left off."
Alma cleared her throat. "Probably you've simply forgotten that you knew he was a neurochemist. But the knowledge may have influenced you subliminally."
Julie wanted to say that she knew all about memory and subliminals. But she had to admit it no doubt was more than coincidence that she, the daughter of a neurochemist, wound up with a doctorate in neurophysiology.
"Perhaps," she said.
Another question popped into her head. "Tell me, Eathan: Did Dad have a bad temper?"
"What makes you ask that?"
"One of Sam's memories I saw today. He was arguing with our mom and seemed to be on the verge of a violent outburst."
Eathan stared at the glowing tip of his cigar. "Your father was a visionary. He saw the world differently and sometimes reacted to it in an unorthodox fashion. He was a good man, and he absolutely adored you and Samantha. I remember him talking endlessly about the two of you, how absolutely fascinated he was that identical twins could be so different. He fostered those differences, nourished them whenever possible. And as I'm sure you've realized, I've tried to do the same in his absence."
Eathan tapped his ash into an oversized tray on an end table, then looked back at Julie.
"But he had his faults too. He was often too wrapped up in his work for social niceties. People often mistook Nathan's preoccupied state for aloofness or even rudeness. I think you can empathize with that, can't you, Julia?"
F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 Page 14