by Gene Brewer
There were gifts, too, including What’s Your Opera IQ?, a quiz book covering everything she might possibly want to know about the subject. Of course it was a joke. Karen hates opera, and accompanies me only so I’ll watch her favorite old movies with her once in a while on TV. Nevertheless, I somberly thanked everyone for the thought, and promised to test her knowledge periodically. Other, more serious, gifts included travel and cookbooks, which she browsed through in bed half the night, the new bowling ball I had given her lying between us.
Though technically she had to go back before the end of the year to pick up her last check and take care of some loose ends, this was her first day of de facto retirement, and she had spent most of the morning in the kitchen simmering a hearty soup, kneading a sourdough bread, preparing a beautiful salad, and baking an apple pie for dessert. A far cry from my usual cottage cheese and crackers.
The rest of the afternoon was spent drowsily discussing family matters, making travel plans. One question that had put a damper (in my mind) on a permanent move to the country was what to do with the house I had grown up in with Karen right next door. In my mind’s eye I watched her come out to play, her teeth sparkling, her nose freckled, her hair shining in the sun. I reminded her that I didn’t want to lose all those wonderful memories.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “We’ll rent it to one of the kids. Why don’t you speak to Fred about it?”
I mumbled something and began to doze off.
“You’d better hang up your yellow pad pretty soon,” she pointed out, “before you start falling asleep at meetings!”
I didn’t tell her that had already happened more than once. But at least I hadn’t yet fallen asleep with a patient.
The Monday staff meeting, usually a pretty somnolent affair itself, was rather animated this time. There was a great deal of excitement about the abrupt change in Milton, who had been with us for years and, we’d all assumed, would be here forever. Now he was waiting in Ward One for word that he would be discharged, and was eagerly anticipating life beyond these walls, regardless of what it held. It was the kind of thing we hope will happen to all our patients, but which rarely does.
This success, of course, brought more pressure for me to encourage prot to talk to all the other inmates, particularly those pathetic figures who seemed like permanent fixtures, among them Linus, Albert, Alice, and Ophelia. And, of course, Frankie. Everyone in the room seemed perfectly willing to give him the credit if these patients could be given a new lease on life, as had Milton and others before him, including even a couple of former psychopaths.
And I thought: Should I encourage prot to spend more time with these unfortunate beings? Did the potential good outweigh the risks to my own patient, Robert? It was the old ethics question come to life—was it right to sacrifice one person for the benefit of two or three others? I didn’t know the answer then, and I don’t know it now.
But one thing I did know: He wasn’t going near any of the psychopaths this time, if I could help it. I didn’t want someone like Charlotte, who had killed and disfigured at least seven young men, to take advantage of his openness and generosity. Even if he had no use for his genitalia, I didn’t want him to lose them at the hands of a deranged psychotic.
“One Two Three—” said prot before he fell into the familiar trance. I hadn’t said a word.
“Can you hear me?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Just relax. I’d like to speak to Robert for a moment.” As long as prot was under hypnosis, there was nothing to lose by trying. Maybe Rob had thought about our last session, had a change of heart.
I waited for several minutes. He didn’t come forward, of course, but I thought perhaps I could wear him down a little. “Rob? Did you think about what I said last time?”
No response.
“We’re not going to discuss anything you don’t want to talk about. I’d just like you to tell me whether you heard me at our last meeting, and whether you can hear me now. If you can hear me, please raise your left hand.”
The hand didn’t budge.
“Rob? We’re wasting time. I know you can hear me. Now listen up. When you were here two years ago we talked about some of your problems, and we made great progress in solving them—remember?”
No response.
“When you were well enough to leave the hospital, you took a trip to your old home town, you started work on your bachelor’s degree in field biology, you married Giselle and had a son. You named him Gene, after me. Okay so far?”
No response.
“I think you did that because you thought you owed me something. Well, I agree with you. You do owe me something. All I’m asking in return for everything we’ve accomplished together is for you to say you can hear me. That’s all I’m asking. We can talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you some other time. Fair enough?”
Nothing.
“Rob? I’m going to count to three. When I get to three, you’re going to lift your left hand. Here we go: one... two... three!”
I looked hard at his hand, but not even a finger budged.
“All right, we’re just going to sit here until you lift your hand.”
We sat there, but the hand didn’t move.
“I know you want to do it, Rob. But you’re afraid of what will happen if you do. I assure you nothing will happen. This is your safe haven, remember? Nothing bad can happen to you here. Nor can you cause harm to anyone else. Do you understand? After you lift your hand you can go back and rest until next time. All right? Okay, here we go. Now—lift your hand!”
No response.
“Rob, I’m tired of screwing around. LIFT YOUR GODDAMN HAND!”
Not an iota.
“All right, Rob. I understand. You’re feeling so bad that nothing matters to you. Not love, not loyalty, not your son, not anything. But consider this: I, Giselle, little Gene, your mother—did I tell you Giselle called her?—your classmates and friends, all the staff and residents at MPI, everyone you know wants to help you through this difficult period if you will only let us. Please think about that, will you? I hope you’ll be feeling better the next time I see you. You may go now. Talk to you later,” I added matter-of-factly. “Okay, prot. You can come back out.”
He lifted his head and his eyes opened. “Hiya, doc. What’s happening?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. But I hope that will change soon.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“So do I.”
He closed his eyes. “Fivefourthree—”
“Wait!”
His eyes popped open again. “What? Am I doing it wrong?”
“No, not at all. But I’d like you to remain hypnotized for a while.”
“What for?”
“Let’s call it an experiment. How old are you now, by the way?”
“Three hundred—”
“In Earth terms, please.”
“Thirty-nine years, ten months, seventeen days, eleven hours, thirty-two minutes, and—”
“That’s close enough. Okay—now I want you to go back to when you were seventeen years old. In Earth terms, of course. You’re rapidly getting younger. Robert is in high school. You visited him then. Do you remember?”
“Certainly. We talked about it earlier.”
“Right. Rob’s girlfriend Sarah had just become pregnant. He didn’t know what to do.”
The young prot shifted some imaginary gum in his mouth. “He was in deep shit, as you humans so elegantly put it.”
“And you came to help him out.”
He shook his head. “People—there seems to be no end to their problems!”
“All right. We’ve been over that before. Now I want you to go back to the time you were nine Earth years old, which is about ninety on K-PAX, right? You’re becoming younger and younger. A hundred and twenty, a hundred, and now ninety. Understand?”
“Uh huh. I’m ninety.”
“Right. You’ve just turned ninety.
There aren’t any birthday presents, of course. Does that bother you?”
“Why should it?”
“Okay. What are you doing right now?”
“I’m looking at the yort trees over by the adro field. I think I’ll go and eat a couple of yorts.”
“Okay. You do that. Who else is around?”
“Some ems are jumping about in the trees. I see a korm flying above them, and a lot of aps running around in the field....” It was obviously a peaceful and beautiful prospect, like his only dream.
“Any other dremers around?”
“Only one.”
“Who is he?”
Ninety-year-old prot chuckled. “He’s not a he. He’s a she.”
“Your mother?”
“No.”
“An aunt? A neighbor?”
“We don’t have any of those on K-PAX.”
“A stranger? Someone you don’t know?”
“No.”
“What’s her name?”
“Gort.”
“Is she a special friend of yours?”
“Every being is a friend.”
“Nothing remarkable about Gort?”
“Every being is remarkable.”
“Have you known her long?”
“No.”
“All right, prot. You’re getting younger now. Younger... Younger... We’re going to go back to the time you were fifty years old.”
Prot’s eyes closed immediately. After that he didn’t move. I waited. He still didn’t move. I was beginning to worry that something might have happened to him. At the same time, I found myself unspeakably elated: Had this devastating period (age five) in Robert’s life somehow affected the mind of fifty-year-old prot as well?
“Prot?”
No response.
I was definitely becoming concerned. “Prot? Listen carefully. We’re going to go forward again to when you were ninety, okay? You’re getting older now. You’re sixty, seventy, eighty. Now you’re ninety again. Please open your eyes.”
They popped open. He seemed a bit confused.
“We were talking about Gort, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Bear in mind now that you are ninety years old. I want you to tell me something you remember about your eightieth birthday.”
“We don’t have birthdays on—”
“Yes, yes, I know. I mean, tell me what you were doing when you became eighty years old.”
“I went to K-REM.”
“What is that—another planet?”
“No. It’s one of our purple moons.”
“What’s it like?”
“Like your Sahara desert.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Not long.”
“Did you go with someone else?”
“Yes.”
“A man?”
“Yes.”
“How old is he?”
“Eight hundred and eighty-seven.”
“Must have been one of his last trips.”
He shrugged.
“All right. Now you’re getting younger again. You’re eighty and still getting younger. Seventy-five, seventy, sixty-five. Okay, now you’re sixty. What are you doing at this moment?”
Prot’s eyes closed again.
I waited, but he said nothing.
“Okay, prot,” I said quickly. “You’re getting older again. You’re sixty-five, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy. At this moment you’re seventy again. What are you doing right now?”
“Seeing how far I can jump.”
“Okay. Now listen carefully. I want you to tell me something that happened to you when you turned sixty years old.”
He pondered the question for a moment. “I don’t remember.”
The hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. “You don’t remember when you were sixty?”
He fiddled with the arm of his chair. “No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“What’s the earliest thing you remember?”
With no hesitation he said, “I remember a casket. Before that it’s a bit hazy.”
I could actually feel the muscles in my chest tighten. “What can you tell me about that hazy period just before you saw the casket?”
The young prot frowned hard with concentration. “I’m down on the ground,” he murmured. “Someone is bending over me.”
“Who is it? Who is bending over you?”
“I don’t know her. She is wiping my face with something.”
“She is cleaning you?”
“I suppose so. I’m groggy. And my head hurts.”
“Why does your head hurt?”
“I don’t know. I think I fell out of a tree. But I don’t remember....”
“Now this is important, prot. How old were you when this happened?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“And you don’t remember anything that happened before you were sixty-eight?”
He sniffed and wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “No.”
My God! I thought. The seminal moment didn’t come with Robert’s abuse when he was a baby, or even at age five with Uncle Dave, but later! It was something that happened about the time of his father’s death. Something so horrible that it overshadowed all the other terrible things that had befallen him. Did he actually witness his father’s demise? Or even his suicide? Was it possible that he was asked to assist in it? Could it have been—God Almighty—a mercy killing? I saw that our time was almost up, and perhaps just as well. I needed to think about all this.
“Okay, prot, I’m going to bring you back to the present. You’re beginning to get older. You’re seventy-five now, and rapidly getting older. Eighty, ninety. Now you’re a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, and now we’re back to the present time, and you’re here on Earth. Do you understand?”
“Of course I understand, doc. What’s the big deal?”
“Good. Very good. Now I’m going to wake you up. I’m going to count backward from five to one, and—”
“I know all that. Fivefour—Hiya, coach. We done for the day?”
“Almost. I just want to ask you a couple more questions.”
“Will they never end?”
“Not until we get some answers. Tell me what you remember about your sixty-eighth—I mean, tell me about the day you became sixty-eight years old.”
“Haven’t we—”
“Yes, but I want to hear it again.”
He repeated, quickly and mechanically, “I got a call from someone named ‘Robin.’ He said he needed me. So I hopped on over. It was the first time I had encountered sadness. It took a little while to understand what was wrong with him....”
“His father had just died.”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember before that?”
“Everything.”
“Being born, and all that.”
“Yep.”
“Prot, are you aware that when you were under hypnosis you couldn’t remember anything that happened to you before you were sixty-eight?”
“Get out of town!”
“How do you explain that?”
“Explain what?”
“That you can’t remember any of that stuff when you’re under hypnosis.”
“No idea, coach. Unless it has something to do with the kroladon.”
“The what? What’s a kroladon?”
“A memory-restoring device.”
“Your memory was restored with this thing?”
“Clever deduction, gino.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“It never came up.”
The tape of this session is silent for a full two minutes. Finally I sighed and asked him, “How does this ‘device’ work?”
“Search me. I think the kroladon doesn’t actually restore memory, but only re-imprints it on different circuits.”
“All right. How did you lose your memory?”
�
��I’m a little unclear about that. You see, there’s a little gap between the time you lose it and when the kroladon re-programs it. Otherwise—”
“Well then, damn it, when did you lose it?”
“When I was sixty-eight.”
“Just before your first trip to Earth.”
“Pre-SOISS-ly.”
“At pre-SOISS-ly the time of Robin’s father’s death!”
Without looking at the clock, which showed that our session was over, prot suddenly exclaimed, “Fruit time!” and hurried out.
I didn’t try to stop him.
This was crazy, an absurd situation. Contrary to all logic, the unhypnotized prot could remember, with the help of a “memory-restoring device,” events in his life beginning with the womb, while the hypnotized prot couldn’t remember a thing that happened before his “sixty-eighth” birthday. Perhaps because he didn’t exist prior to that time? Did he create his own early childhood? Was the “kroladon” him? I could hear my former mentor David Friedman cajoling me to “pursue, pursue, pursue.” On the other hand, he was also fond of uttering gibberish like “How now brown cow?” at the most unexpected times. Helped him to think, I suppose.
I mumbled that phrase three or four times, but didn’t come up with anything at all, except for an image of a puzzled cow. I did, however, decide to pursue, pursue, pursue, no matter where it led.
Giselle had come up with a list of Robert’s likes and dislikes, and from that came a few suggestions for the things he probably missed most in his current noninteractive state. Things like his son, Giselle herself, his mother, mushroom and black olive pizza, and chocolate-covered cherries. And, of course, his father. Not much we could do about that, but maybe something could be done with the rest.
I remembered the hint of a reaction when I had mentioned his mother. “But that might have been wishful thinking,” I confessed.
“Should we get her to pay him a visit?”
“I doubt it would help. She was here before when he was catatonic, remember? He never even acknowledged her presence, and all it did was upset her even more.”
Her eyes lit up. “I bet he’d respond pretty fast if his father came to see him!”
“Giselle, you know that’s impossible.”
“Is it? I have an actor friend who could play him pretty well if we get him something to base it on! Do you think it might be worth a try?”