In the old tribal model, access to robust reproductive pools was constant. Therefore, reproduction was cheap. But access to food was not guaranteed. Therefore, food was valuable. Now our food/reproduction value has inverted. Access to food is more reliable and access to repro-ductive partners — as every fertile man and woman retreats behind technology — is becoming more and more unstable. Now relationships are “too complicated.” It’s all pornography and vibrators.
The tribe is dead.
In our modern developed society, technology dominates every human interaction. And, as surely as any creature, technology needs to survive. So it too must evolve.
As our genes adapt to this “new normal,” and as gene pools respond to natural selection, social detachment risks becoming the mutation that works. This mutation will become the “unit of selection” and it will certainly affect the progress of human evolution.
The “critical attachment” experiment using southern red-backed voles will serve as a model in the push to reshape (or salvage) genetic evolution. The red-backed vole is related to the prairie vole — a monogamous rodent that shows a high level of affiliative behavior — but the red-backed vole is a solitary creature.
If the results are as predicted, this new theory will save human evolution.
A slow shudder picks up inside me. Something uncomfortable and aching. I stick the journal back on the shelf, careful to arrange it in its proper place.
Uncertain now of what I’d hoped to find or what I’d hoped to feel when I found it, my eyes wander the hundreds of journals lined up in front of me. Like with everything Jonah, it’s too confusing, too strange. Holding import that’s just outside my grasp.
Sort of like a cavern — a reliquary — under a lighthouse.
My eyes land on another labeled shelf: Experiment M. Luellen. Instantly, I am stilled.
There’s only one journal in the cubicle, and I pick it up. Inside, scrawled notes scratch over the page. Answers to questions I never heard him ask.
— 30 years old
— real name: Marlie Frasier
— from Toronto
— childhood in Chatham, Ontario
— mother sick with Primary Progressive MS, residing at Summer- field Extended Care facility
— father is “out of the picture”
— works as a barmaid, Joe’s Local Pub, southwest Toronto
— has the “usual” amount of friends, “the kind you can go out for drinks with on a Friday night”
— no romantic attachments
— once enrolled at York University, Toronto, for BA degree, major in Sociology, never graduated
— claims to be a fiction writer, but no published work under either name
And then his summary:
Herein lies ample proof of Emotional Detachment Disorder. Loneliness and frustration have driven her here, providing a sound baseline for the experiment. She will be both willing to participate and easy to imprint.
Ice crawls up my spine, searching for a way in.
Page upon page of Jonah’s observations come next. Everything he said to Marlie, exactly how he said it, followed by calculations of how he thought his words affected her. There are charts recording the amount of time they spent together — the exact hours, minutes, and seconds — and how, from Jonah’s assessments, he thought those minutes made her feel. There are pages and pages of scribbled and edited versions of the letter he left for Marlie in the back room — most are profuse or exaggerated or sound like a person who speaks little English. And then there’s one, identical, which he must have copied to leave her.
Then I find: Experiment M. Luellen: How to Trigger Critical Attachment. Experiment successor to Experiment LLB.
Generation 1:
— Unlike Experiment LLB, gene history is not ideal. The action-reward system will be designed to override this fundamental deficiency. However, the living environment remains ideal.
— Controlled variables: social interaction, basic sustenance, cohabitation.
— Primary behaviors of interest: reciprocal altruism, contact leading to “love.”
— Experimenter will be one-half of bonded pair.
— Experimenter must always maintain emotional detachment.
Generation 2:
— Incision in prophylactic begins the process.
— Clomiphene dissolved in water stimulates and boosts egg production.
— Administer the anti-estrogen for five days at the appropriate time in cycle.
— Inseminate around estimated time of ovulation.
— At human subject’s fertile age, likelihood of conception: high. Of producing twins: high.
Clomiphene in water. Incision in a prophylactic. My breath turns to ash in my mouth.
Two children. Pair bonded.
When old enough, children will feed each other. Comfort each other. Speak for each other.
Intellectual, physical, and psychological needs will be supported. Two minds will be available to solve every problem. Two bodies will meet every physical challenge. Each will have someone to “love,” and each will have someone who “loves” them.
I slam the journal shut and stick it back on the shelf exactly how I found it.
Marlie is just Experiment M. Luellen. A baby — two babies — future experiments. Only studies that will keep Jonah busy. And only until they don’t behave as they should.
I leave the lab as quickly and quietly as I came and lock the door behind me.
Afierce anger grows inside me; it’s stronger than fear, changing the way my muscles move and the way blood siphons through my body.
I make my way down to the lighthouse without thinking about what I’m going to do next, but feeling the pulse of it. Along the path, Biscuit’s hole almost trips me up, and I notice it’s even wider than before. I glance about, carelessly wondering if Biscuit is still here.
Inside the lighthouse, I gather the climbing gear and the camping lantern. Outside, I put on the harness and clip the lantern to a hook on the back of it. Old memories ripple through my mind: Scotty tousling my hair before he put on my helmet, the feel of the rigid Rock Pit cliffs under my groping fingers, a summer sun warming my head, Scotty yelling out encouraging words: “To the left and up!”, “Take it slow!”, “You got it, Gemma! Way to go!”
Like I saw Jonah do, I crouch at the edge of the cliff and gather the sling that’s anchored to the rock. With shaking fingers and questionable strength, I attach the center of the rope and my safety line to the double carabiners, then I brace myself and throw the rope down the cliff. The doubled-up cord unfurls and plummets past Jonah’s secret hole, almost all the way to the water.
The sun has risen quite far by now and shines down the cliff like a flashlight. The sky is clear, and the wind has subsided.
I grab the rappel device and loop the rope into it, then make sure every carabiner is secure. The memory of how to do it comes back through the pressure of the equipment against my fingers. I turn myself around and let myself down. I feel the harness take my weight as I suspend my body over the cliff and into thin air and brace my feet against the rock. I test the rope again, then unclip the safety line and let it drop to my side.
Fear hits me now and bleaches out every other feeling. I go very slowly, extending my hands so I can feed the rope carefully through the rappel device.
Instead of dropping down, I walk the rock step by step. I let the rappel hold me, feeding the rope through it by fractions of inches. Already my hands are so cold and stiff, the rope feels rougher against them than I remember. Jonah’s hole isn’t far, but I know it’s death if I make a mistake.
Then I see the mistake I’ve already made. I freeze, squatting against the rock, to assess the situation. When I looped the rope through the rappel device, I put it on backwards, threading the rope through the smooth side instead of the side with teeth. Now, if I lose my hold, nothing will stop me from freefalling.
Adrenalin courses through me. And then comes pan
ic. Both together poison my concentration.
Instead of angling the rope to the side to control my descent, I straighten it. And, just as I feared, I begin to fall.
I fall fast. So fast, the rushing wind in my ears is thunder. So fast, I should be crashing onto the rocks. Waves should be splashing over me and dragging me out to sea.
Me dying and no one knowing.
My body jerks and flails about. My feet thrash for outcroppings to stop me, my hands desperately grab at the rope. One second passes, then two, but such slow seconds, it’s like time is caught in amber. Something I can clutch and gape at.
And then — unbelievably, miraculously — I jerk to a stop. I skid forward, and my head bangs hard on the rock.
A terrible pain radiates from my right hand and down my arm. I dare myself to look at it, terrified I’ll find half my body gone.
But my hand is still there, curled into a tight fist that’s coiled with rope. Somehow my body took over and wound the rope around my hand. Somehow my wrapped fist jammed into the rappel device.
I very carefully tiptoe my feet against the cliff to brace myself against an outcrop. The pain in my hand makes me want to scream. I get heavier and heavier as my feet try to find a grip. A hundred pounds, two hundred, a thousand.
My left foot finally finds a toehold. And then my right. I let my feet take my weight as I huddle against the rock, breathing, making sure I still can. In and out, in and out, like a metronome. A mineral smell fills my nose. The most vital smell in the world.
When I’ve caught my breath, I check my right hand. Rope burn. Blood oozes out of a row of cuts. It hurts so badly I want to scream. But I hold myself statue-still against the cliff while the scratch burns then heartbeats inside my skin. I put my palm to my mouth and suck it clean.
When my hand stops throbbing, I secure the rappel, tighten the rope, and peer between my toes to see how far I still have to go. Only a few more feet and I’ll arrive at the bush that grows over the window that leads into the cave.
Because my body is so exhausted, I don’t feel any relief when I slip through the window and fall into black. I don’t want to get up and walk into the dark. I just want to wake up from a nightmare.
My hands shake while I unclip the rappel device from the harness, then the lantern, which I turn on. Its light envelops me in a green halo. Nothing is visible beyond the halo but deeper blackness. Captured within the beam is the furthest wall, and beyond that the opening to the tunnel that Jonah mentioned in his journal. Stairs climb upwards to a trap door that must lead to the fields above and the exact spot where Biscuit was digging. If Biscuit were to keep digging, if we were to let him, there’s no doubt in my mind he’d eventually unearth the door.
There’s a small electrical panel on the wall beside me, and it occurs to me that Jonah has wired the room. Which explains the cable running from the lighthouse, down the cliff, and in through the window. Details I was hardly able to take in until now. I shine the lantern over the panel and, sure enough, there’s a switch beside it and an outlet below.
When I flip the switch, a plain bulb flickers on from a socket on the wall near the window. It bathes the room in light that looks almost pink because of the red rock. Since I don’t need it anymore, I turn off the lantern and crouch to put it on the ground. Near my feet, I notice a long row of glass jars. Inside each jar is something Jonah once showed me in a textbook — a preserved creature. Like a plastic figurine floating in gold water — never breathing, never real — its mouth and eyes gape and its suspended paws grasp imaginary air.
Earlier generations of Jonah’s voles.
Gone, then saved.
The observer effect: when you change results with the act of looking. Jonah thinks he withstands it, but every single thing he’s touched has been altered.
I turn around to check the rest of the room. Cardboard sheets like the ones I saw rolled into Jonah’s knapsack hang from the other walls. The sheet closest to me is edged and boxed with thick black marker. In the top corner is written: Experiment Marlie Luellen. Nothing is written in the space beneath.
The sheets next to it are covered with Jonah’s journal pages. Graphs and studies covering every inch of cardboard. At the top of each sheet is written in black marker: Experiment LLB. The name startles me like a shriek in the woods. Is the answer to the question here?
As I step closer to get a better look, my foot catches on something. On the ground is the most beautiful chest I’ve ever seen. Wood overlaid with decorative copper plating. Delicate patterns of interlaced diamonds and whorls. The chest Jonah pulled from the rocks in the Rock Pit. Underneath, cradling it, is the green frog blanket from the box in the back room.
I crouch down and carefully lift the lid. Inside is the wrapped bundle that made Jonah cry. I see now what made it so familiar when I first saw him handling it: the bundling cloth is soiled and stiff from being in the ground, but underneath the decay, it’s identical to the other green frog blanket. To my green blanket.
When I pick it up, the bundle buckles and jangles like a bag of gold. Even as I imagine the possible richness of a treasure, my heart starts to pound. My body begs me to stop, urges me to get away before it’s too late. Aidie’s voice, the memory of it, echoes in my mind: You have to get out of here, Gemma.
But my hands keep unwrapping.
Inside the cloth, bones clatter to disorder. Bones like the ones Jonah sometimes showed me after foraging in the woods, or in his textbooks as fine-ink drawings of skeleton parts. The difference is, these bones are miniature.
Too-small ribs and femurs and metatarsals and more and more slight bones laid out in a pile. And, last of all, the bones Jonah never showed me: a tiny human skull.
From the bottom of the cloth, a compressed star shines at me. My fingers reach between the bones to pick it up. It’s an earring: a perfect silver bird with its wings flying open.
My eyes burn from staring at such exquisite things.
I don’t need to find my old jewelry box to know this earring is the same as the one a tourist found in our grass years ago and gave to me, and I push it into my pants pocket for safekeeping. I wrap the bones up again, careful not to let the skull roll away, and bundle the frog blanket around it like mothers bundle babies, with its face free to the world. The skull’s mouth is shaped into a smile, and the smile makes me forget I should be scared.
The bundle feels lighter than I ever dreamed bones would feel. I gently shush and rock the bundle around the room, not sure what else to do. Something about comforting the bones comforts me.
But Jonah’s other hanging sheets call my attention. So many charts scribbled over with notes, so many notes marked with precise hours and minutes. I lay the baby bones back inside the chest and draw closer until the words take shape.
They are the plainest, simplest of words: eating, sleeping, crying, 2:11 a.m., 8:04 a.m., 9:49 a.m. Each moment reveals the next ordinary word: burping, crying, diaper changing, formula.
Babies. Two. Identified by two letters: G. and A.
Colic, nap times, rolling over, sitting, crawling, crying.
A terrible buzzing starts in my head.
G. and A. , over and over, everywhere.
My heart jerks and its beat stumbles into my mouth.
On the last sheet, the letters assemble into two full names: Gemma and Adria.
I feel myself rock back and forth. My brain spins circles inside my head. It reels me like a top. Who’s Adria? Who’s Adria? My brain screams the question so loudly I can’t breathe.
The last journal pages pinned to the cardboard sheets describe the experiment. Pages and pages explain something that happened to people I don’t know. Things Jonah did. My eyes blur the words, but still the meaning comes through.
Twin babies. Weaned from mother. Gemma and Adria.
Pair bonded. Four months old, five months, six months.
Sleep together. Feed each other. Comfort each other.
Limited human contact.
&nbs
p; More and more notes with times and dates and babies’ ages. Ten months, eleven months, one year.
Then:
A. not eating. Crying. More crying. G. not able to feed her. G. eating well. A. still not eating. Experimenter intercepts. But A. only wants G. And G. not able to feed her. A. losing weight. Nothing working. G. unable — or unwilling — to help.
My hands reach up and tear the pages off the wall. Flesh tearing off bone and dropped to the floor. As if what happened can be undone without drawing blood.
As I rip and pull, another name hooks me: Shannon. Written in red along the thick spine of a video. Underneath is a date, also in red. October. Almost sixteen years ago.
The tape sticks out of an old vcr that sits on top of an old tv that used to occupy a shelf in our living room, but is now wedged into a corner of the cavern.
When I was very young, Jonah used to let me watch recorded tapes of children’s cartoons. It was a way to keep me distracted while he worked. But when he asked Peg to take over my education, the tv was banished like everything else Jonah thought would spoil the integrity of my thinking.
Those painted, excitable children had been so real to me, and for days after they left I mourned. Cried by myself because Jonah didn’t want to hear me. And that’s when Aidie stepped through the closet and into my room. She was reaching out her hand and laughing — Come on, let me show you something. And I laughed too and took her hand.
It surprises me how natural it is to push the tape into its slot in the vcr and use the remote to turn everything on. A forgotten habit remembered.
A gasp of light illuminates the screen, and I start the video. It’s a face, very close, the movements somehow slowed down. Eyelids very slowly blink, tears very slowly roll down cheeks. Her hand comes up and with aching slowness wipes a tear away, then moves, slowly, slowly, to cover her mouth.
The Darkhouse Page 10