Pascal's Wager

by Nancy Rue

  She seemed reluctant to accept that. In fact, I wasn’t sure she was actually going to get up and leave, even though I had the door open for her and was all but waving her out of the room. She did finally stand up and roll her way slowly toward the exit. But she stopped in the doorway and looked back at me.

  “I’m going to pray for you anyway,” she said. “God knows what you need.”

  It’s an epidemic around here, I thought when she was gone. Is this still Stanford, or did we turn into Notre Dame when I wasn’t looking?

  They released Mother the next day. Fortunately, it wasn’t a teaching day for me, so I could take her home. Freda II was there waiting for us, earrings in full bobbing mode. When she’d gotten Mother settled in the downstairs guest room, I summoned her to the kitchen. “Look, uh—” I blanked on her real name and went on. “I bought a lockbox to put all Mother’s meds in. You and I will be the only ones with keys, and we’ll keep them on us while we’re in the house.”

  “That’s an incredible idea,” she said, “but—”

  “Can I finish? I also think it’s ridiculous for us to keep her on the second floor when getting up and down the stairs is such a huge ordeal. I suggest you move her things into the guest room. She might fight you at first—”

  “She won’t fight me because—”

  Because you’ll be chanting the entire time, I know.

  “Don’t let her out of your sight, even when she’s asleep during the day. I was in the same room with her when she overdosed, so we just can’t be too careful.”

  “No, you can’t be too careful,” Freda said.

  I finally stopped, and I could feel my eyes narrowing as I looked at her.

  “We can’t be too careful,” I said.

  “Not me anymore.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If she went into some kind of transcendental moan, I knew I’d lose it for sure. But she opened her eyes and focused them on me in a way so deliberate that I thought she was going to attempt hypnotism.

  “I can’t work here anymore, Jill,” she said. “I’ll try to say this as gently as I can. I love Liz. I think she’s incredible, I think we’re kindred spirits, and I think I could have had a tremendous impact on her healing. But you—” She closed her eyes again and shook her head. “Your energy and mine just don’t mix. I leave here with my whole aura so disturbed. I think you’re toxic for me.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So you’re giving your notice.”

  “No, I have to leave now, before my psyche is poisoned any further.”

  “You’re leaving right now?” I nearly shouted. “You’re not even going to give me twenty-four hours to find somebody else?”

  “I’m sorry.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I feel it in here. I won’t have any peace unless I leave immediately.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said. “Nobody’s stopping you. Leave.”

  “I’ll just go in and say good-bye to Liz.”

  “Fine, and don’t forget to collect your crystals while you’re at it,” I said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  Her “aura” was noticeably ruffled. “Do you see what I mean? You have no respect for other people’s beliefs. I encourage you to find healing for that.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said.

  Then I stared her down until she retreated from the kitchen. When she was gone, I leaned back in the chair and gazed at the ceiling.

  “Okay,” I said to it. “What do I do now? Just what am I supposed to do now?”

  TEN

  After Freda II left, there was nothing else to do but call the social workers’ office and get another Freda. There was no telling how long it would take, so I phoned Deb and asked her to spread the word that I wouldn’t be in until late afternoon.

  “Don’t sweat it, Jill,” Deb said. “Jacoboni never comes in before noon and nobody says a word, so why should it be a problem?”

  If you’re lumping me in with Jacoboni, I’m doomed already, I thought.

  Doom was a word I thought about a lot over the next few days. It took that long to interview enough Fredas to find one who didn’t show signs of overdosing on the Zen lifestyle or who spoke a little English. I had grown up in a multi-cultural society, but I drew the line at having to use sign language when it came to my mother’s care.

  Finally—after having Max bail me out to watch Mother while I taught a class and rescheduled my office hours and Tabitha-tutoring sessions so I could conduct interviews—I found a Freda III I didn’t think would burn down the house. She was middle-aged and motherly, and she patted my arm at every possible opportunity and called me “hon,” but I was beginning to prioritize what I couldn’t deal with, and that was falling to the bottom of the list.

  It wasn’t until I felt sure Mother was once again taken care of and got myself back to my office that the sense of doom really settled over me like a layer of smog. I did everything I could to diffuse it.

  I redoubled my efforts on my research, spending so much time in the computer room that Jacoboni threatened to sublet my side of the office. I focused on the teaching seminar I was giving, talking it up so much that forty-five out of the fifty grad students in the department showed up for it. I threw myself into teaching my class. I even held a review session before the November exam and gave Tabitha a double dose of tutoring. But nothing I did blew the smog away.

  About three weeks after the pill incident, when we were well into November, I was feeling like a piece of frayed rope. As she was leaving one night, Freda III gave me the inevitable pat on the arm.

  “You get some rest tonight, hon,” she said. “Mother should sleep through. She was awake most of the day today.”

  “Really?” I said. “What did you do, slip her No-Doz?”

  “No, she had a visitor. He stayed quite a while.”

  “He who?” I said.

  “Burl somebody. Nice man, about my age. Gray hair. He said he worked at the lab with her, and she seemed to recognize him.”

  “Really?”

  “He fixed the back screen door and those broken stepping stones that go out to the koi pond.” Freda III shook her head. “Then the two of them sat in the living room for the longest time.”

  “I hope that does mean she’ll sleep tonight,” I said.

  She patted my arm yet again. “Now that she has that cast off, I think things are going to be much easier.”

  I took her suggestion and headed straight for the cot I had set up for myself in her room. I woke up once to the thought that I hadn’t put the usual barricade in front of the steps, but I sat up and looked over at my mother, and she was sleeping soundly, so I flopped back down and conked out myself.

  I was awakened later by a hard thudding sound. Who, I wondered, was dumping a bag full of watermelons down the staircase?

  I rolled over, intent on going back to sleep, when it struck me. I bolted up. Mother’s bed was empty.

  The stairwell was not. There was a pile of books there, and several more on the steps as if they hadn’t quite made the tumble to the bottom. From above, I could hear rustling around.

  Tripping over several volumes as I went, I tore up the steps and looked around frantically. Mother’s bedroom door was open, and the light was on. There was my mother, leaning out the front window from the waist down, with one knee hiked up on the sill.

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t yell and startle her. When I got to her, she jumped back, and then she put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

  I grabbed her by both shoulders and yanked her inside. The air was chilly and damp, but she wasn’t even shivering. She was just giggling.

  “What the heck were you doing?” I said. “Do you want to break your neck, too? What do I have to do, tie you to the bed?”

  For a moment, her eyes flickered. It was the first emotion I’d seen her show in weeks, and it was fear. I felt a rising wave of nausea.

  “Look, I’m not really g
oing to do that, all right?” I said. “All right, Mother? I wouldn’t do that. You just—come on, let’s go back to bed.”

  The fear left her eyes, and she began to giggle again. She chortled like a five-year-old all the way down the steps. I found myself tucking her into bed like she was about that age.

  “Get some sleep,” I told her.

  She nodded, and then proceeded to sit up and try to throw off the covers.

  “No! Mother, it’s night. See—darkness? Time to get some good REM sleep. You lose all perspective without it, remember?”

  She settled back onto the pillows and watched me. There was nothing in her eyes, but she kept them focused on me.

  “Okay,” I said. “See, we’re talking sleep deprivation here. I’m referring to myself. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m not going to finish my dissertation.”

  She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But she watched me. Her eyes went from my lips to my eyes and back again. As long as I talked, she did that. When I stopped and tried to go back to the cot, she was immediately up and scrambling out of bed.

  So I sat there and rambled on until four in the morning when she finally drifted off. Even then I couldn’t let myself sleep. She was likely to shinny up the chimney or something if I did. But if I just sat there, I would either tumble off the bed into a coma or smother in the cloud of doom.

  I got into a comfortable sitting position beside her and kept talking. I rattled on about K-theory and vector bundles, coefficient functions and Tabitha’s mother’s oatmeal cookies. I’m sure I fell asleep midsyllable.

  When I woke up around seven, I could feel something warm pressing against me. I had to pry my eyes open to see what it was. Beside me, Mother was still asleep. Her head had lolled to the side and was nestled against my arm.

  I closed my eyes and didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed with grief.

  When Freda III arrived, I forced myself out of bed and avoided her eyes as I got dressed and headed for Sloan. I got as far as the coffee hut between two of the libraries, and I knew I couldn’t go to the math department that day. I couldn’t do anything. I sank into a wrought-iron chair at an outside table and stared at the fountain.

  “You want coffee?” someone called from the counter.

  I shook my head.

  “Sure looks like she needs coffee,” I heard her say to her coworker.

  I didn’t need coffee. I didn’t need work. I didn’t need to get organized. What I needed were answers—and who was going to give them to me?

  Interesting, I thought vaguely. I’d always thought the only person who helped me was me. Maybe I did need a coffee.

  I opened my purse and dug through it for money. There were a couple of dollars hiding in the bottom under a crumpled-up card. I pulled it out and smoothed it on the tabletop. Samuel Bakalis, Ph.D., Associate Professor, Department of Philosophy, Stanford University. The phone numbers swam in print too small to read in my present condition. I turned the card over, and there was a bigger number scrawled with a pen.

  Call me anytime if you just want to talk, he’d said. And then there had been something about apologizing and hoping I would want to start the conversation over.

  I stuck my hand back in my purse and fished out the cell phone.

  “I will have a Café Borgia,” I called to the girl at the counter. I was probably going to need coffee after this phone call.

  At least his voice didn’t ice over when I identified myself, and he didn’t make a joke about wearing armor if I wanted to get together. He was, in fact, warmly calm, as if he’d been expecting my call.

  “We’ve had a couple of false starts,” he said. “They say insanity is doing the same thing the same way and expecting different results, so why don’t we practice some sanity here and not try to just sit down and have a conversation. You want to meet on the Loop? About four? We could run and talk—then maybe grab some juice someplace. By that time we should be too worn out to argue.”

  I want to talk now, I almost screamed into the phone. But the gal behind the counter was waving to let me know that my Borgia was ready, and I was already feeling a little more in control, so I said, “Okay, but under two conditions.”

  “One.”

  “We stay on the legal paths.”

  “Fine. Two.” “No God talk.”

  I held my breath. To my surprise he didn’t even hesitate.

  “Deal,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the guard booth at four. If we can get past the Gestapo, we’re good to go.”

  I actually almost laughed.

  That evening, I timed myself so I wouldn’t show up at the guard booth early. Looking as if I was too anxious would get us off on the wrong foot. He was there when I arrived, arms crossed lazily over his chest as he chatted with the Deputy Dog on duty. She was laughing with him.

  So he’s used to being Mr. Charming with the ladies, I thought. I hope he’s not expecting that kind of response from me.

  Sam looked up just then and saw me. “Hey, you!” he said. “Jill, did you know there’s actually a new rule up here that you can’t leave the paved paths?”

  The guard threw her head back and howled. “Try to keep him under control, would you?” she said to me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to her. I nodded to Sam. “You ready?”

  “You’re gonna run me into the ground, aren’t you?” he said.

  “You’re the one who wanted to do this here. I came to talk.”

  “All right, then, let’s go.”

  He took off, leaving me standing there for a moment. The arrogance, I thought. I can’t deal with the arrogance. I considered getting back in my car and going home. But I’d come this far, and besides, I needed answers.

  I caught up with him and made sure I had about a stride and a half on him before I said, “You sure you can run and talk at the same time?”

  He grinned. “Who’s running? First question.”

  “You already know the first question. What is the consensus in philosophical thought—do we have a soul or not?”

  He considered it for a few more strides. I noted that he was barely breathing hard, and we were halfway up Killer Hill. I willed myself not to breathe hard either, though I wanted to chug like a tractor.

  “I’ll stick with the philosophical tradition since that’s your ground rule,” he said. “So the question isn’t ‘Does your mother possess a soul?’ but ‘Does she possess the kind of soul that can transcend death or, in this case, a serious illness that takes away what has always been her life force?’”

  “All right,” I said. “So why is that?”

  “When we’re talking about soul, we’re actually talking about what the Greeks called the psyche. It’s the life principle, and in the Greek tradition, anything alive had a soul.”

  “That’s the Greek tradition,” I said. “What about now?”

  “In today’s society, a lot of people say only humans have a soul, which means they live in accordance with reason.”

  I only nodded until we got to the top of the hill, because, frankly, I was dying.

  Sam looked at me and said, “I lied.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “About talking and running at the same time.” He grinned. “I thought we’d be starting off discussing the stock market or something. You like to get to the point.”

  “I do,” I said.

  He grinned again. “Okay, then we better walk.” We set off at a brisk pace. I still had to half run to keep up with his long strides.

  “Where were we?” he said.

  “You were admitting that the rational self is actually the life force of the person,” I said. “It makes sense—I mean, that’s observable, measurable.”

  “Is it?” Sam said. “If you open the brain, you won’t find ideas in there that you can count and categorize.”

  “But the brain has a chemistry that enables the person to have ideas. As we now know, my mother’s ability to have ideas has been curtailed.”
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  I was surprised at the bitterness in my voice. It didn’t escape Dr. Socrates.

  “I wouldn’t throw up my hands yet,” he said. “If you’re asleep, or you’re unconscious, you still possess a rational soul.”

  “I do, because when someone wakes me up, I can think again.”

  “But while you’re asleep, it’s just inactive. Inoperative, if you will—impeded—”

  “All right, I get it. What’s your point?”

  “The same thing is true of your mother. Because of whatever damage was done as a result of her disease, her rational soul has been impeded. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there anymore.”

  “It doesn’t mean that it is.”

  “So who bears the burden of truth?”

  “In my view, you do,” I said.

  “Then let’s ask the real question,” he said. “Is there a spiritual principle that says the soul transcends a muting illness?”

  “Great. We have the question,” I said. “Now answer it.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “You won’t let me.”

  “What?”

  “You said no God talk. This question—the question you are asking—is directly linked to a belief in God—or a disbelief, depending on how you look at it.”

  “Then let’s look at it from the disbelief standpoint.”

  He slowed his pace a little. “Take Epictetus.” Then he grinned. “Please.”

  “Very funny.”

  “He felt that there were gods who were immortal, but that we as humans are not.”

  “Hence, no soul that transcends death.”

  “Right. Now, the New Age movement—you know what I’m referring to?”

  “Uh, yes,” I said dryly. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

  “The New Age belief is that there is a spiritual energy but that it is not necessarily God. Or they’re pantheists and think everything is God.”

  “Yeah, God hangs out in crystals, incense, earrings—”

  “Earrings?”

  “Never mind. You had to be there. I just know everything is ‘incredible’ to them.”

  “And everything is ‘wretched’ to you.”

  “At the moment, yes. That seems a lot more realistic to me.”