by Jen Nadol
“I’ll let myself out,” he said softly.
chapter 26
I almost skipped class, but I felt I owed it to Professor McMillan to go. He’d been great, grading my exams and papers, though he wasn’t required to for an audit student. He even wrote a nice note on my last one, saying what a pleasure it had been to have someone there purely for the joy of learning.
I was late, hoping it would prevent me from having to talk to Lucas. I felt his eyes on me the minute I walked into class, but I ignored him, sliding into the first empty seat and focusing on Professor McMillan, already lecturing. He was mid-sentence when Lucas’s hand shot up.
“Yes, Lucas?” Professor McMillan turned to him, puzzled. I kept my eyes locked on my notebook.
“I was just thinking,” Lucas said, “that it might be interesting to apply the readings on determinism and free will to the hypothetical Ms. Renfield brought up in one of our earlier classes.” Lucas paused, adding pointedly. “Now that she’s here.”
He wouldn’t dare.
“What hypothetical is that?” Professor McMillan asked.
“About the patient and the doctor. The patient thinks she’s in good health, but the doctor finds something terminal.” Lucas paused to look at me. He really was. He was putting my life up for debate. “Should the doctor tell? Does he have a responsibility to share what he knows?”
Professor McMillan thought for a minute, then nodded. “Very well. Why don’t you lead the discussion?”
Lucas stood, a self-satisfied smile on his face. I closed my eyes, clenching my teeth as he repeated it: “What is the doctor’s responsibility?”
Hands went up across the room.
“Determinists would say that the outcome is already decided,” answered a blond girl, the one who’d called Lucas “choiceworthy.” “Like, say it’s heart disease. They’d say she was destined, from birth to have it. Maybe because the disease is in her genes or her mom brings her up on fatty foods or whatever. It’s like it’s fated—she never has a chance.”
“Okay.” Lucas frowned. “So, if it’s all predetermined, fated, as you said, the doctor has no responsibility to try to help the patient?”
He wasn’t looking at me, but he was talking to me. I was furious.
“No,” the girl answered. “The doctor still has to tell.”
“Why?” Lucas asked.
“Because he’s part of the predetermined events. The patient’s visit that day, the conversation they have, what they decide to do or not do—it’s all part of the patient’s destiny.”
“Exactly.” Lucas smiled approvingly. “So, even if he can’t control the outcome, the doctor is still morally responsible for fulfilling his role and telling the patient, correct?”
She nodded, beaming.
“And what about the libertarians? How would they view this dilemma?”
“Well, they think everything is about choice, so the doctor definitely has to tell what he finds,” a guy up front said. “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be giving the patient a chance.”
“Okay,” Lucas said, “so again, the doctor has to tell.”
I couldn’t believe Lucas was doing this: twisting the lesson to suit his own agenda, making it seem like I had a moral duty to tell people about the mark. He was encouraging these flawed arguments and no one was calling him on it. Not even Professor McMillan.
“And finally,” Lucas said smugly, “what would the compatibilists say?”
“Still the doctor’s responsibility to tell,” the same guy said. “I don’t think there’s any question about that in any of these arguments, the issue is really—”
Lucas cut him off, leaving me no doubt that this lesson was for no one but me.
I stood up. I was shaking, I was so angry. “First of all,” I interrupted, several people nearby turning to stare, “determinists don’t believe in moral responsibility and you know it, Lucas.” More heads turned at my bluntness.
“Second, libertarians would say the doctor’s only responsibility is to use his free will and choose the best solution—which might or might not be to tell—since nothing is predetermined.”
I had everyone’s attention now. “But it’s a stupid question to start with. I mean, maybe I can buy the idea that a doctor, who chose his role and took a sworn oath to intervene, should tell someone that they’re about to die. But of course we’re not really talking about a doctor here.”
I could sense my classmates looking at one another, confused. I never took my eyes off Lucas and he never took his off me. I tried to make my voice less strident, hoping one last time to get him to understand.
“I mean, we all know death is coming, right? We all have a chance to make the most of our time, to choose how we spend our days. There is a limit to them, it’s not a secret. Why should anyone be responsible for giving you more than your share? Especially when there are no guarantees about what you’ll do with them. Maybe it will be something good. Or,” I said, thinking of Eduard Sanchez, “maybe it will be the opposite.”
It was totally quiet in the room, every eye on me, notebooks and lesson abandoned. Professor McMillan had stood up, but he too waited, watching it play out.
“I’m not sure who I side with—determinists, compatibilists, whatever—but I believe Socrates was right that we are, each of us, responsible for our own happiness. You choose to smoke that cigarette, talk on that cell phone while driving, have that extra drink. You are responsible. In making those choices, you accept the outcome. Call it fate or personal accountability …” I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”
I gave Lucas a minute to answer, but I could tell from the disappointment in his eyes that we were worlds apart. Always would be.
I collected my books and, the room still silent, walked out the door.
chapter 27
I went to the park. To the pond, my thinking place. I didn’t really want to think, though. What I wanted was for all of this—the mark, my failed first love, Nan’s lies about my mother—to go away. Be some kind of dream. Instead, it got worse.
I almost didn’t answer my cell, sure it would be Lucas. It was Petra.
“You okay?” she asked almost immediately. “You sound bummed out.”
“My boyfriend and I had a fight.” In front of my philosophy class. About the meaning of my life.
“I’m sorry. I can call another time if you want …”
“No, no. What’s up?”
“I finally finished reading the files. There was more in there. Some new stuff. You got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I lay back, feeling the tickle of grass against my neck, and closed my eyes. I didn’t really want to hear anything else about my crazy mom and how she hadn’t been able to handle the mark. If she couldn’t, how could I? “Go ahead,” I told Petra.
“Turns out there was more than just survivor guilt. About halfway through her second year, it started to come out. Dr. Wells believed it probably existed before the accident, in some form, but grew afterward.”
“What grew?”
“Delusions.” I could hear papers shuffling. “You ever hear of Lachesis?”
“Is that some kind of condition?”
Petra snorted. “Not even close. It’s a person. She’s a person, I should say.”
The name, now that Petra identified it as one, was familiar, but just barely. I sat up, staring at the sparkly surface of the pond. “Who is she?”
“I looked it up to be sure,” Petra said. “Lachesis,” she read, “Disposer of Lots, one of the three Moirae. She measures the length of the thread of human life spun by Clotho.”
“The three Moirae? What are Moirae?” But even as I asked it, I felt my stomach roll. I remembered where I had heard the name before. “Who is Clotho?”
“My questions exactly,” Petra agreed. She continued reading. “The Fates, or Moirae, were Greek goddesses who controlled the destiny of everyone from the time they were born to the time they died. They were: Clotho, who spun the thread
of a person’s life; Lachesis, the apportioner, who decided how much time each person was allowed; and Atropos, the inevitable, who cut the thread when you were supposed to die.”
Petra kept reading. “The Fates were often depicted as cold and unmerciful, but weren’t always deaf to the pleading of others. When Atropos cut the thread of King Admetus, Apollo begged the Fates to undo their work. They promised that if someone took Admetus’s place in the gloomy world of Hades’ domain, he would live.”
I remembered Nan sitting with me, both of us leaning against my headboard, I in my pajamas, she with a well-worn book open before us. Sometimes she didn’t even need the book.
“Cassie? Hello? You still there?”
“I’m still here,” I croaked.
“So you’re probably wondering what this has to do with your mother.”
“Right.” My head was spinning. I tried to focus on the pond, the trees, anything real and concrete to anchor the things swirling in my brain. The memories, the stories, the facts that were adding up way too fast.
“Your mother believed she was a direct descendant of Lachesis, one of the Fates. The one who determines the length of a human life. She had constructed a whole world of facts to fit her beliefs. Dr. Wells only uncovered parts of it, even in their years of therapy. She was certain Georgia’s delusions ran deep. Some of the things she spoke about went way back.”
“Like what?”
Petra paused and I could hear more pages shuffling. “Remember how she said she’d known before when someone was going to die? There was a friend of hers in high school …” I heard Petra flipping pages again, but saved her the time, my whole body numb.
“Roberta.” The reason she’d run away. The bee sting. I could hardly think, unable to believe it hadn’t occurred to me before and unwilling to imagine it was true.
“Right! Roberta Bikakis. How did you know?”
“Just heard her name before, I guess.”
“Yeah. Anyway, she was a friend of your mother’s who died when she was sixteen. Your mother claimed she knew before it happened.” Petra paused. “Your family’s Greek, right?”
“Right.”
“People don’t usually pick these things out of thin air,” Petra said. “There’s always a source of the delusions. Your mom probably drew on the things she heard, or was taught at church.” I could picture Petra shaking her head in a sorry admiration. “Dr. Wells had to research the mythology to understand what Georgia was talking about. Your mother certainly knew her stuff. She constructed a very solid fantasy world.”
If only that were it, I thought. “What else did she … do the notes say about it?”
“Not much,” Petra answered. “Georgia was pretty tight-lipped, only dropping bits and pieces. In one session, Dr. Wells was questioning her about why she felt responsible for your father’s accident and she answered, ‘I am fate.’ That was it. Then it’s another two months before Georgia let the name Lachesis slip. The thing that struck Dr. Wells was how firmly Georgia held to her beliefs. Her facts never changed, never conflicted. Though Dr. Wells never got the full story, she was sure there was a whole construct beneath the surface that Georgia held tight to.”
“Uh-huh.” It came out like a punch in the gut, which was pretty much how I felt.
“The other thing,” Petra continued, “and this is what made me think she got the ideas from something she was taught, was that Georgia mentioned a book.”
There were goose bumps on my arms. “What book?”
“Hold on. I’ve got it in the notes somewhere.” More pages shuffling. “Here it is,” Petra said. “It was late in their sessions, only a month or two before your mom died. Dr. Wells was trying to get her to share more of her beliefs about her ability to predict death.” Petra paused, reading. “… and also about her being a descendant of this Lachesis.
“ ‘How can you be sure of this?’ Dr. Wells says.
“ ‘It’s in the book,’ Georgia answered.
“ ‘What book?’
“Georgia only shook her head.
“ ‘What book, Georgia?’
“ ‘I can’t tell.’
“ ‘Why not?’
“ ‘My mother told me not to.’
“ ‘Was it one of her books?’
“ ‘It’s ours. Meant for us alone, until she’s sixteen.’
“ ‘Until who’s sixteen, Georgia?’
“ ‘I’m not sure I’ll give it to her. I’m supposed to, but I don’t think I will. I wish it hadn’t been given to me.’
“And that’s it,” Petra said.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. Dr. Wells notes that Georgia was unresponsive to further questions. At first I thought the book might be one of your father’s. He was a history professor, right?”
“Ancient history.” He’d have known the myths, the stories of the gods and godesses. Could have helped a scared sixteen-year-old sort things out, maybe better than her own mother.
“When I reread the notes, though, it seemed pretty clear the book belonged to your grandmother Nan. And Georgia was probably talking about you, right? With the whole ‘until she’s sixteen’?”
“I guess.”
“That’s what Dr. Wells assumed. She tried to bring it up with Georgia at their next session and after that too, but she never got any further. And then … it ended.”
It ended. My mother checked out. Decided it was all too much.
“Was there anything more?” I asked Petra. “Anything about her … ability? Specifics, like what she thought she could do or see?”
“No. You know, Cassandra, your mother was pretty heavily medicated throughout. Dr. Wells tried getting her to talk about the delusions so they could work through them, she tried focusing on the positives—on you—to encourage Georgia to work toward reality, but truthfully there wasn’t a lot of progress in the three or four years she was at Barrow.”
Petra was silent, thoughtful for a minute, then added, “I’m sorry, Cassie. I know this must be hard to hear, even if you never really knew her.”
So much harder than Petra could ever know. “Thanks. For everything, Petra.”
“No problem. Keep your promise, Cass. Stay in touch.”
chapter 28
I hung around Bering for a day or two after that, but I had no job, no school, didn’t dare go out for fear of seeing the woman with the baby or Lucas or anyone from class.
I desperately wished I could rewind back to the day I decided to visit my parents’ grave and stay safely tucked in the apartment instead. To make things right, though, I’d need to rewind further, back to when I saw the mark on Lucas. Or maybe to the rainy day I followed Mr. McKenzie. But there’s never a way to go back, so I did the only thing I could. Go forward.
Drea and I had talked when she got home from her business trip. Yeah, she’d known my mother survived the accident, assumed I’d known too. She’d visited her once at Barrow.
“I didn’t live here, but I was back for my mom’s funeral,” she said. “I knew Mom would have wanted me to check in on Georgia. She always liked your mother, the daughter I should have been maybe.” Drea looked away. “I don’t even know if she recognized me, Cassie. She didn’t say a word the whole time, and she looked …” She caught herself, remembering that this was my mother; what she said would be some of the only real memories I’d have of her. “Well, not herself. I never went back. Ashamed to say I didn’t even come for her funeral.” Drea shook her head and, for once, seemed truly remorseful. “I guess I’m just not that great at keeping in touch. Maybe just not that great … with people, in general. I know I’ve been kind of a lousy guardian.”
“It’s okay, Drea,” I told her. “You were just what I needed.” It was more or less the truth.
We parted amicably. I had a few days left with her, but I was ready to go and she said she wouldn’t stand in my way. We left with hollow promises to keep in touch, but who knew? Maybe we would. She was family, after all.
Agne
s’s nephew John met me at the Ashville airport.
“You look tired, Cassie,” he said.
I nodded. “I am.”
The apartment was exactly as I remembered: throw blanket on the sofa, boxes in the hallway, mail tossed haphazardly on the foyer table, Nan’s door firmly closed. Everything just as I’d left it three months before.
My overnight bag slid from my shoulder and, out of habit, I tossed it toward my room. It landed with a thud in the uneven nook by my door, where I’d always kept my backpack. The sight and feel of so much familiar still hurt. Slowly I walked into the living room and to the window, looking out at Miller’s Pond, as rippled and shimmery as the one in Bering had been.
I stood there for a while, staring, thinking of nothing and everything. Then I went to my room and slept for the next nineteen hours.
After I’d rested, I searched the bookshelves. The book Nan had given me eight months before, on my sixteenth birthday, was there, waiting, just as I’d remembered. It was smaller than today’s paperbacks, yellowed and handwritten in Greek letters, like the ones on the fraternity houses at Lennox. It had to be the one my mother had mentioned. Too coincidental that Nan had given it to me, a book I couldn’t read, with no explanation, on my sixteenth birthday. I thought about throwing it away, maybe lighting it on fire and tossing it in the tub or sink to burn. But I’d come too far, knew too much already not to put the final pieces together.
I called around a couple places. Finding a Greek scholar in Ashville, Pennsylvania, isn’t the easiest thing, but I finally came up with a professor at the local college who was willing to take a look at it.
I met him at his office an hour later.
“It’s old,” Professor Laukaitis told me. “And not well preserved. I’ll do my best, but it’ll take at least a few days. Maybe a week.”
“Fine.” I gave him my number and went back to the apartment to wait.
On my third day home, I went into Nan’s room. I could still catch the faintest hint of her smell—fresh grass and lilies—and imagine her sitting cross-legged on the bed, hunched over a book or crossword.