by Dima Zales
“A cure for dementia and Alzheimer’s?” Uncle Abe’s gray eyes pulse with excitement, the way Mom’s often do.
“It’s not exactly a cure,” I say at the same time as Ada says, “It’s mostly a treatment for the symptoms.”
“How cute,” Uncle Abe says in Russian. “Your chick is already finishing your sentences.”
As though she understood the Russian words, Ada’s face lights up with an impish grin.
“We’re not a couple,” I tell Uncle Abe in Russian.
“Yet?” He gives me a knowing wink.
“It’s not polite to speak in Russian in front of Ada,” I say in English.
“I’m okay,” Ada says. Only the shadow of a smile lurks in the corners of her eyes now, making her look like a punky version of the Mona Lisa.
“Still, I’m sorry,” Uncle Abe tells her, his accent softening the t and the second r.
As we stroll through the hospital corridor, Ada takes the lead. She’s a typical New Yorker, always twitchy and multitasking. I surreptitiously look her up and down, my eyes lingering on one of my favorite assets of hers—that special spot between the soles of her Doc Martens boots and the tips of her spiky hair.
Ada glances over her shoulder, her amber eyes meeting mine for a second. Did she feel me gawking at her just now? Before I can feel embarrassed, she stops in front of a green door and says, “This is the room.”
The three of us walk in.
Unlike my dream, this isn’t an operating room. It’s spacious, with big windows and cheerfully blooming plants on the windowsills. At a glance, it’s reminiscent of my stylish Brooklyn loft—if a mad scientist’s wet dream was used as inspiration for the interior design.
Staff members from Techno, my portfolio company that designed the treatment, are already in the back. Mom is sitting on an operating chair in a white hospital gown, with a plethora of cables attaching her to a myriad of cutting-edge monitoring tools. Completing her getup is a headset—something straight out of the old Total Recall movie. It must be the “latest in portable neural scan technology” that JC, Techno’s CEO, mentioned to me. I make a mental note to define portable to him.
I hear a “hi” from the farthest corner of the room. The person who spoke must be hidden behind the wall of servers and giant monitors. The other Techno employees keep working silently, though it isn’t clear whether they didn’t hear me come in, or if they’re being antisocial.
Many folks at Techno could stand to improve their social skills. A psychiatrist might even label some of them as borderline Asperger’s. Personally, I find those types of labels ridiculous. Psychiatry can sometimes be as scientific and helpful as astrology—which I don’t believe in, in case that’s not clear. A shrink back in high school tried to attach the Asperger’s label to me because I had “too few friends.” He could’ve just as easily concluded I had Tourette’s based on where I told him to shove his diagnosis. Then again, maybe I’m still sore about psychiatry and neuropsychology because of how little they’ve done for Mom. Pretty much the only good thing I can say about psychiatry is that at least they’re no longer using lobotomy as a treatment.
I look around the room for JC. He’s nowhere to be found, so he must be in a similar room with another participant of the study.
Mom turns her head toward us, apparently able to do so despite the headgear.
My heart clenches in dread, as it always does when Mom and I meet after more than a day apart. Because of the accident that damaged Mom’s brain, it’s feasible that one day she’ll look at me and won’t recognize who I am.
Today she clearly does, though, because she gives me that dimpled smile we share. “Hi, little fish,” she says in Russian. She then looks at her brother. “Abrashkin, bunny, how are you?”
“Mom just used untranslatable Russian pet names for us,” I loudly whisper to Ada and wave hello to the still-uninterested staff in the back.
Mom looks at Ada without recognition, and I inwardly sigh. They’ve met twice before.
“Who’s this boy?” Mom asks me in English. “Is he an intern at Techno or something?”
“She’s not a boy, and her name is Ada,” I respond, trying my best not to sound like I’m talking to someone with a disability, something my mom deeply resents. “She’s not an intern, but one of the people who programmed the nanocytes that’ll make you feel better.”
“Nice to meet you, Nina Davydovna,” Ada says as though they haven’t done this before.
Mom’s eyebrow rises at either the girlish resonance of Ada’s bell-like voice or her proper use of the Russian patronymic. She quickly recovers, though, just like the last time, and also like the last time, she says, “Call me Nina.”
“I will. Thank you, Nina,” Ada says.
I realize Ada addressed my mom so formally on purpose—to lessen Mom’s stress—so I give her a grateful nod. Of course, if Ada wanted to go the extra mile, she could’ve worn different clothing or changed her hairstyle to eliminate Mom’s confusion about Ada’s gender. Then again, Mom’s confusion might be part of her condition, because to me, despite the leather jacket and black hoodie obscuring much of her body, Ada is the epitome of femininity.
“Is she his girlfriend?” Mom asks Uncle Abe conspiratorially in Russian. “Have I met her before?”
“I’m not sure, sis,” Uncle Abe says. “From the way he looks at her, I suspect it’s just a matter of time before they hook up.”
“Oh yeah?” Mom chuckles. “Do you think she’s Jewish?”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and not just because of this “Jewish or not” business. It’s something that became important to Mom only after the accident—unless she’s always cared but only started voicing it after the brain damage lowered her inhibitions. My grandparents certainly often spoke about this sort of thing, going as far as blaming the situation with my father on him being non-Jewish—something I consider to be reverse anti-Semitism.
It’s unfortunate, but their attitude was forged back in the Soviet Union, where being Jewish was considered an ethnicity and used as an excuse for government-level discrimination. Since one’s ethnicity was written in the infamous fifth paragraph of one’s passport, discrimination was commonplace and inescapable. My mom was turned away from her first choice of universities because they’d hit “their quota of three Jews.” She also had a hard time finding a job in the engineering sciences until my father helped her out, only to later sexually harass her and leave her to raise me on her own. Even I was affected by this negativity before we left. When my seventh-grade classmates learned about my heritage from our school journal, they told me that with my blue eyes and blond hair (which darkened to brown as I got older), I looked nothing like a Jew. Though they used the derogatory Russian term, they’d meant it as a big compliment.
What makes the topic extra weird is that in America, where Judaism is more of a religion than an ethnicity, we’re suddenly not all that Jewish. I mean, how can we be if I learned about Hanukkah in my mid-teens and when I had a very non-kosher grilled lobster tail wrapped in bacon last night?
Yeah, I also learned what kosher means in my mid-teens.
Either way, I couldn’t care less about Ada’s Jewishness—though, for the record, with a last name like Goldblum, she probably is Jewish. I don’t know what that term means to her either, since she’s just as secular as I am. I think my biggest issue with Mom’s question is that I simply loathe labels applied to entire groups of people, especially labels that come with so much baggage.
“It’s hard to say,” Uncle Abe says after examining Ada’s dainty nose and zooming in on her pierced nostril. “With that hair, she’s definitely not Russian.”
Here we go, another label. To my grandparents, the term Russian was interchangeable with goy or gentile, but I don’t think my uncle is using it in that context. Though in Russia we were Jewish, here in the US we’re Russian—as in, the same as every Russian speaker from the former Soviet Union. I’m guessing my uncle is saying that Ada does
n’t look like she’s from the former Soviet Union, since a certain way of dressing and grooming typically accompanies that, at least for recent immigrants.
I decide to stop this thread of conversation, but before I get a chance to put a word in, Mom says, “When I was young, that kind of haircut was called an explosion at the noodle factory.”
They both laugh, and even I can’t help chuckling. I know the haircut Mom is referring to, and it’s an eighties hairdo that may well be a distant ancestor to what’s happening on Ada’s head. The bleached, pointy tips make her look like an echidna with a Mohawk—an image reinforced by her prickly wit.
The door to the room opens, and a nurse walks in.
Seeing her scrubs raises my blood pressure, though I’m not sure if it’s from the standard white coat syndrome or a flashback to my earlier nightmare. Probably the former. There was no anesthesia in Soviet dentistry when I was growing up, so I developed a conditioned response to anything resembling dentist clothing. Anyone in a white coat gives me a reaction akin to what someone suffering from coulrophobia—the irrational fear of clowns—would experience during a John Wayne Gacy documentary or the movie It.
The nurse walks over to Mom and reaches for a big syringe lying stealthily by Mom’s chair.
The Techno employees in the back collectively hold their breaths.
The nurse doesn’t seem to understand the auspiciousness of the occasion. She looks like she wants to finish here and move on to something more interesting, like watching a filibuster on C-SPAN. Her nametag reads “Olga.” That, combined with her circa late-eighties haircut and makeup, plus those Slavic cheekbones, activates my Russian radar—or Rudar for short. It’s like gaydar, but for detecting Russian speakers.
I bet Mom is insulted by the hospital assigning this nurse to her. It implies she needs help understanding English. Having earned a Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering after moving to the States in her mid-thirties, Mom takes deserved pride in her skills with the English language—skills the accident didn’t affect.
In the silence, I can hear Mom’s shallow breathing; her fear of medical professionals is much worse than mine.
Olga grips the syringe and raises her hand.
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About the Author
Dima Zales is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of science fiction and fantasy. Prior to becoming a writer, he worked in the software development industry in New York as both a programmer and an executive. From high-frequency trading software for big banks to mobile apps for popular magazines, Dima has done it all. In 2013, he left the software industry in order to concentrate on his writing career and moved to Palm Coast, Florida, where he currently resides.
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Please visit www.dimazales.com to learn more.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Excerpt from Transcendence
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Beginning