Michael Remembers Books 1

by Vassar Smith

  The phenotypical age usually indicates fairly accurately the biophysical age and comparable development of a retro’s body. There are exceptions, however. Two of them I find especially disturbing. First, while most of those subjected to a second retrogression eventually do mature, many of them experience a significant delay in the onset of adolescence—as long as 3-7 years in some cases. Even grimmer, in a very few of the second-time retrogressions, but in more than 99% of the third-time ones, the neural-endocrine process that initiates and effects the phenomenon known as puberty, never occurs. These people are literally condemned to remain children for the rest of their lives.

  It’s been four years now since my second Procedure. At 9/54 I look exactly the same as I did at 9—and at 9/32. But barring extraneous circumstances, all retros at my phenotypical age are developing normally. It will be at least four years before I’ll have any indication whether I’ll be one of the lucky or the very unlucky second-time retros. Right now it’s simply too early to tell.

  Chapter 13

  Although I had no reason to expect otherwise, when I regained consciousness after my second Procedure, I was relieved to find that it had made me again a little boy, but not a little tyke like the time before.

  Again there was a childless couple waiting—and approved by the State—to adopt me. Alexander and Patricia Farrell were about the same age as the Barkers had been when I first met them. The Farrells, however, were so well-dressed, well-groomed, and physically fit that they looked considerably younger. There’s no doubt that they were in better health—though God knows Mom and Dad Barker must have had strong constitutions to have withstood the daily assault of alcohol as they did, with nothing worse to show for it than hangovers and indigestion.

  Socially prominent and well-to-do, the Farrells had enjoyed most of life’s blessings—except fertility. They had long wanted a child, especially a son; but all the means of conceiving one naturally or with scientific assistance had either failed or proven beyond their means, or, like cloning, been ruled out on aesthetic and moral grounds. Ultimately, they had agreed to adopt a “bright, healthy retro boy already out of infancy, but not yet of school age.”

  With the mendacious finesse of social workers, the one managing my case emphasized the points that, as a child, I had exhibited neither any significant health problems nor delinquent behavior, and that I was highly appreciative of learning, culture, and refinement.

  Oh, she was telling the truth about all that! Her mendacity was in downplaying or avoiding wherever possible the fact that I was a second-time retro, a fact that would not easily escape the notice of anyone studying the file. The Farrells knew that retrogression erased most memories of one’s original childhood. Hence, they thought that a subsequent Retrogression Procedure must erase the memories from a “retro” childhood. My case worker made no effort to disabuse them of this misconception.

  For ages people have been haunted by stories of children who seemed something more or other than children, be it because of mental illness, precocious behavior, demonic possession, remembrance of past lives, or other unsettling phenomena. Most parents (adoptive as well as natural) cherish the notion of being able to pass on and through their children their own hopes, dreams, and values. Any factor that impedes or prevents this is feared and resented. So, I worried about whether I might be entering an emotional minefield. Fortunately, at first because I had no better alternative, later because I grew fond of them and respected them, the Farrells and I did not just accommodate one another, but actually bonded.

  My new parents were cultured people indeed. They had an impressive range of books in their personal library—most of them classics of poetry and literary fiction. They also had in their home several fine paintings and sculptures, even an antique grand piano, which they both played rather well. All this was reassuring on one hand, since one can usually reason with people who value learning and good manners. On the other hand, if they were rigid and doctrinaire, cultural pretensions would only make them more so. That could spell trouble.

  Like my biological parents, the Farrells insisted on reading to me before bedtime, then having me kneel beside my bed and say my prayers before I got into bed. I had no problem with this. My Tadlock parents were Christians and had brought me up in the same denomination to which the Farrells belonged. This fact was welcome news to my new parents, but it did occasion some disappoint­ment for Mom Farrell. She had been looking forward to having me baptized and then celebrating this event with a splendid reception afterward.

  But then, when the Farrells inquired about me to the office of my original parish (following the advice of their own parish priest), they were sent certificates of not only my Baptism but also my Confirmation (administered when I was twelve years old). Whatever else might be obliterated by retrogression, at least one’s Sacramental records remained inviolate. A second Baptism was generally considered redundant and therefore in questionable taste. There would be other occasions for us to celebrate as a family: birthdays, holidays, etc. Practical people that they were, the Farrells made their inquiry before discussing the matter outside the family. Of course her women friends and acquaint­ances in the church still wondered whether I had been baptized or was about to be. Mom got the word around that I had indeed been baptized prior to their adopting me. Naturally, she did not say when or where.

  Just as my memories from my first retrogression were still with me, so were my acquired knowledge and cognitive skills. This time my literacy and math remained as strong as ever. However, writing was a different matter. My little hands had to struggle and practice long hours to get used to holding a pen or pencil correctly and making the proper strokes and lines, curves and loops for letters and numbers. It also took me some time to get my fingers trained to make the keystrokes on a computer keyboard. But I could write legibly and coherently from the outset—just not as quickly as I remembered having been able to do.

  However, once I had determined that I could do this, I had to be careful, about when and how I applied this skill. Mom and Dad Farrell were delighted by my progress at learning to write and draw and color—as long as I didn’t show them anything too prodigious or advanced for my age. It actually would have disturbed them if, at “five,” I had written sentences with advanced syntax, sophisticated vocabulary, and impeccable punctuation. But they were ecstatic that I could draw recognizable pictures and color within the lines.

  Although they had no dearth of social and business connections, the Farrells felt their horizons pleasantly broadened as they enrolled me in school, sports, and elsewhere. Now that they, too, were parents, they had high hopes of obtaining even broader business and social connections—not just for socio­economic advancement but also in the belief that these ties would draw us into a closer relationship both as a family ourselves and in relationships with other families.

  Chapter 14

  Or so they had hoped. Unfortunately, no matter how much a society may aspire to be free of prejudice, none is. The United State of North America, or USNA for short—formed by the consensual union of the United States of America with Canada, plus the not-so-consensual annexation of Baja California and the northernmost states of Mexico—had by and large achieved harmonious relations between its diverse ethnic groups and religious denominations. It seems so strange today that 400 years ago many people would refuse to employ certain others or even mingle with them socially—simply because those other people came from a different ethnic or religious heritage. Yet, even our world today (ostensibly free of war and ethnic or religious discrimination) is not without prejudice. Some people just have to have someone to dislike, look down upon, and regard with suspicion. So, what became the chief bête noir in today’s world? Unfortunately, it’s the retros.

  In the 44 years since the advent of retrogression, the number of Procedures performed in this country alone has exceeded 7.5 million. Worldwide it’s probably four times that many. Few issues have so sharply divided public opinion. The vast majority favo
rs both the legal and medical application of retrogression. But many of those same people harshly discriminate against the retros themselves. I noticed this even before I became a retro.

  While society in general maintained a “wait and see” attitude toward the first retros and tended to regard them with as much or as little esteem as was accorded the adoptive family, the attitude of the “natural” children was far less ambiguous and equally less tolerant. So, it usually behooved retros to blend in and be as inconspicuous as possible. Though physically indistinguishable from “natural” children, retros can all too easily betray themselves through behavior atypical for children of their phenotypical age. Most often this occurs through their using sophisticated language, demonstrating some practical skill rarely possessed by a child, or simply not sharing the prevailing opinions and preferred activities of the “herd.”

  Even the etymological effects of the phenomenon continued. Just as new words had been coined to denote this new technology and the people to whom it was applied, soon words had to be formed to denote those to whom it had not, i.e. the people, especially the children, who weren’t retros. For a while journal­ists, even scientists referred to children in their original childhood as “natural” children. Linguistic and literary scholars quickly objected, not without amusement, that this term was not entirely satisfactory—because, until a few centuries ago, the term “natural children” had been used in polite society as a legal and social euphemism for “little bastards.” Such phrases as “persons in their original childhood” were obviously too cumbersome. Ultimately, the word that took hold, both as a noun and as an adjective, was “primo,” pronounced to rhyme with Nemo.

  For a long time I managed to stay “under the radar,” as they used to say centuries ago. The Farrells both took a long vacation from their professional positions and devoted most of their time that summer to me. I let them enjoy all the activities that gave them the pride and joy of parenthood. The first week with them I even let them bathe and dress me and perform the other ministra­tions of parents to small children. The novelty soon wore off, and they were just as glad that I quickly “learned” to do these things for myself. They also took great pride in going to recreational establishments with sights and activities for the delight of children and their parents.

  Then September came, and I was enrolled in kindergarten. It would have been hell if I hadn’t learned to be philosophical about it. Adults, with all the advantages of size and maturity, tend to regard small children with senti­mentality, often forgetting what monsters they can be: rude, self-centered, temperamental, often clueless about hygiene and personal boundaries. When one has to live among them, literally at their own level, it’s not easy to ignore all the bickering, teasing, farting, nose-picking, whining, and lots of other less-than-charming activities.

  Still, for that first year I blended in. If anyone knew that I was a retro, no one indicated so. Mom and Dad Farrell, who had read and heard countless “war stories” about the challenges and heartaches of parenthood (even with “normal” children), were overjoyed that I had proven so obedient, intelligent, and cooperative. At school I found a measure of amusement and satisfaction in watching the teacher, Mrs. Brown, exert a civilizing influence on even the worst-behaved kids in the class. Observing her pedagogy and its positive effects interested me even when the classroom activities themselves did not.

  I did my assignments satisfactorily without showing off. I got along with my classmates. By the end of the school year I was one of the few children in the class who had made neither an enemy nor a best friend.

  Then, when I had been with the Farrells for a little over a year, an incident occurred that exposed me as a retro. It was partly my fault, partly Dad Farrell’s. Blaming is useless, but I can’t help wishing that the incident had never happened.

  Chapter 15

  The Farrells were neither cruel nor even unkind. But they brooked no dis­obedience. They had staked their dearest hope—the highest stake that one can place—on the probability that I would not only respect and share their views and values, but also that I would avoid repeating the mistakes of my own past, a subject which, though rarely discussed, no doubt posed major anxiety for them.

  For centuries certain factions had tried to diminish or eliminate the role of parents as disciplinarians, especially when one of the options maintained by those parents was corporal punishment. Oh, yes, for about two centuries many, sometimes even the majority, maintained that spanking had no place in proper child-rearing and accordingly should be eliminated altogether. People also thought that scientists would develop time travel and spacecraft that could attain and exceed the speed of light. None of that has happened yet.

  In fact, in the last quarter-century there has been a paradigm shift back in favor of “old-fashioned” child-rearing, i.e. “spare the rod, etc.” though so far at least it hasn’t reverted to literally using a rod again. The Barkers were “progressive” enough that I didn’t have to worry about such a scenario. I had come to believe the same of the Farrells. I was mistaken.

  So far in my second retrogression I had stayed out of trouble, not just with the law and at school, but at home as well. Oh, I had gotten a few stern words, even the occasional swat on the seat of my pants to “get my attention” if I had disregarded instructions or had neglected some duty or responsibility—you know, like coming when called or not leaving clothes and toys on the floor anywhere outside my own room, etc. But there had been no real incidents, no downright confrontations—yet.

  Then came the showdown. By law children of my age were not to be left unattended. On a Sunday afternoon my parents got a call summoning them both to an extremely important business meeting. Deciding to trust me on my own for a few hours, they cited certain rules and promised to return by 17:00. In the meantime, I was not to leave the apartment. In the event of any question or problem, I was to contact them by complink immediately.

  I disobeyed both orders. My parents had hardly gone, when Tommy Crane, a nine ­year-old neighbor, showed up at the door and asked me to go to the park with him and his little sister Annette. I had met them only briefly, when their family had moved into the building two days ago. Our parents had not met yet. But there weren’t many children in the building, and evidently I had made a good impression on these kids and their parents. Tommy and Annette had heard about a great playground in the park down the street, but had never been there. I should have known better, but I agreed to go with them. Little Annette was so excited, that we left at once. I would not be entirely wrong in saying that her impatience distracted me into going out without the Farrells’ knowledge or permission. Plus, I figured that, as long as I got back home before 17:00, my folks would be none the wiser.

  There was another factor in my decision. I also chose to defy the Farrells because I was profoundly annoyed with them just then. Not once, but twice that day had Mom Farrell dressed me in outfits that had currently become stylish for small boys and, in my adoptive mother’s opinion, looked “adorable” on me.

  I, to the contrary, found such apparel ludicrous and demeaning. The first was a three-piece suit—all well and good, except that the trousers were short pants! I wore it to church that day, but resented it more and more by the minute and could hardly wait to get home and put on some normal clothes again! Unfortunately, once we got home, the situation got worse. For small boys someone in the garment industry had recently designed and promoted a knit cotton item called “scants,” which could be worn as sleepwear, swimwear, or daytime clothing for the lower body in warm weather. They did indeed feel comfortable, but I was accustomed to wearing garments that covered at least part of the legs. Even though they were of thicker material and had a lining, to me scants looked too much like underwear, even when worn with color-coordinated tee shirt and knee socks. Although this type of apparel was to have ominous and odious signi­ficance later, at first I objected to it largely as a case in point of someone’s successfully exploiting a bad idea. Still, i
t was—for the moment—fashionable enough that it attracted no comment from either Tommy or Annette. Had that happened, no power on Earth could have stopped me from changing back into regular clothes before leaving the apartment. As it was, I, like Tommy, acquiesced to his little sister’s impatience. And so I went out in that outfit of red scants, blue knee socks, and a blue tee-shirt with red trim.

  Off to the playground we went, and, for a while, anyhow, we had a great time. I never forgot the importance of getting home before 17:00. Unfortunately, neither did my parents.

  Their meeting went well, indeed surpassed all expectations. The parties finished their negotiations early and agreed to meet for dinner that evening in a certain fine restaurant. All would bring their families with them to celebrate. Dad and Mom came home elated—then panicked when they found that I wasn’t there.

  They immediately asked the neighbors and were relieved to learn that I had not run away nor been abducted. Nevertheless, they were understandably quite upset at my disobedience. As soon as he had determined where I was, Dad Farrell resolved to go get me and teach me a lesson then and there.

  I was on the swings, having a grand old time with my new neighbors, when I heard my adoptive father’s voice calling me, and quite near.. I stopped the swing, got off, and went to Dad Farrell as soon as I saw him. I apologized for any anxiety that I might have caused him or Mom, and I explained that I would have gotten home before them if they had kept to their schedule; that I had come here as a guide to our new neighbors; that it was a safe neighborhood, etc., etc., etc. My explanation proved not only unsatisfactory but profoundly irritating. Dad Farrell later told me that my response had smacked of “jailhouse lawyering,” and that had sent him over the edge.