The Memory Artists Part 23

February 17. For his first ten days here, JJ spent almost the entire time in the lab, even eating sandwiches down there, which Mom prepares for him in Saran wrap and a lunch bag, like he's going to school. He even drinks hot chocolate out of my old thermos. But now he spends most of his time upstairs-with Mom. Which is fantastic not only because she likes him a lot-she sometimes cries with laughter at his puns and cornballisms-but it gives me more time in the lab, uninterrupted and unworried.

February 18. I've taken the last two nights off. Tonight the three of us had Chinese take-out, rented Defending Your Life and Withnail and I, ate burnt popcorn and laughed uncontrollably-as we had the night before watching the same movies.

February 19. Mom got up early today, dressed herself elegantly, put on make-up, and was in a great mood all day. She looked totally refreshed-and energised, as if she were about to tango or belly dance at any second. JJ's laughter therapy is obviously kicking in.

Haven't seen Norval in a while. He's cancelled two Tuesdays in a row-and today he just didn't show up. When I phoned him he said he "forgot" we met on Tuesdays. Forgot?

Haven't seen Samira in a while either.

20:02, 20/02, 2002. The palindromic moment has just pa.s.sed, without fanfare. Everyone, including JJ, seems to have forgotten about it. And about a second meeting.

February 21. Mom was wandering at night again, with her trusty lamp, so JJ prepared something new for her: a maple sugar base with extracts of pennyroyal and rock mint, combined in a decoction of California poppy, Jamaican dogwood and Madagascan periwinkle.

What's strange is that Mom takes whatever medicine JJ and I give her, unquestioningly, like a trusting child. I can only pray her trust is well placed ...

February 24. There are starting to be extraordinary variations in my mother's memory abilities. I'll have to share the information with Dr. Vorta, see what he thinks.

February 26. No matinee today. Couldn't reach Norval all week. He may be out of town. With Samira?

March 1. JJ's memory for jokes seems near-infinite. So much lightness, so much laughter inside his brain-it must be what makes him so ... the opposite of world-weary. Must ask Dr. Vorta about this.

At breakfast, between mouthfuls of Lucky Charms, he reeled off this one: "So I'm talking to this friend of mine and he goes, 'Yup, I'm colour-blind to one colour.' So I ask him what colour he's blind to, and he goes, 'I don't know, I haven't seen it yet.'"

None of his jokes, I grant, are particularly funny (except in their unfunniness or delivery), and this one is no exception. But for some reason, after laughing politely this morning, I've been thinking about it all day. Perhaps because it points to a main difference, or divide, between science and art. Our "rational" side sees the humour of the punchline because it's self-contradictory, absurd, at variance with common sense. Our "artistic" side, however, sees a vein of truth within it-regarding imaginary fears or invisible barriers-because paradox is the currency of poetry. But science has room for paradox as well, as Einstein will tell you. "Don't be in thrall of reason," my father once said, "or you'll never invent anything, never be a great scientist. The pursuit of sanity can be a form of madness too, don't forget."

More later. Mom's calling ...

March 3. Something incredible just happened. Still not sure if I dreamt it. Samira Darwish arrived! Here at the house, well after midnight, out of the blue. The incredible part is that she's now staying here. Heliodora Locke! She said just for one night but I'm hoping for one thousand and one. More later. The sun's about to rise.

March 5. Spent this afternoon, in a daze, at the Osler Library, where Dr. Vorta had reserved some "Restricted" books for me, for on-site consultation only.

Turned out to be a blind alley. Or maybe I was distracted by ... other things. Anyway, when I arrived home, a surprise awaited me. Samira and JJ had made some radical changes-improvements-to the house. Which Norval may have paid for (?!). Tried phoning him today, but no answer, not even from the answering machine. Beginning to worry.

March 6. Didn't see Samira today or yesterday (except briefly last night as JJ and I let off some fireworks for my mom, which left Sam unimpressed, underwhelmed).

TV reenthroned in the family room after I found Mom, in tears, searching for it in the garage with her hunter's lamp.

March 7. Mom had wild, shrieking nightmares last night, so JJ prepared an antidote, a Schuessler Tissue Salt: Natrum sulphorica, 12X. Thank G.o.d for JJ. I just don't have time to do this sort of thing. I'm putting in twelve hours now, both in the bas.e.m.e.nt and at Ex Pysch, where Dr. Vorta's been generous with his time and facilities. What would I do without him?

This morning Mom came down and asked me if I had any extra money, just a little bit because she'd like to go shopping. She said a birthday was coming up and she had to buy a gift. Whose birthday is it, Mom? Your Uncle Phil's, she replied. And she was right.

Came up to spend the evening with Mom-JJ went back to his place to work in his hothouse-and she wanted to watch tennis all evening, because her favourite player (despite his headbands) was playing: Roger Federer.41 "Federer is getting better-er and better-er," she used to say. In any case, after he won, I was about to turn the TV off because the Friday night blue movie was coming on TVQ. Mom asked me if they are going to show naked men or naked women. I said both. Won't be a tick, she said, I'll just clean my gla.s.ses. "Federer is getting better-er and better-er," she used to say. In any case, after he won, I was about to turn the TV off because the Friday night blue movie was coming on TVQ. Mom asked me if they are going to show naked men or naked women. I said both. Won't be a tick, she said, I'll just clean my gla.s.ses.

Didn't see Samira today.

March 8. In between quiz shows, a trailer for the movie about Iris Murdoch came on and Mom said, Shh! It's about AD and I want to hear it! Clearly, Mom's getting better. But which drug is responsible? Is it the Hyperzine A, the qian ceng ta, that JJ's been slipping into Mom's tea?

March 9. Have hardly seen Samira at all. We had one great evening together, but that's about it. We pa.s.s each other in the house, but nothing more. She's usually out the entire day. At school, or with Norval?

March 10. At two in the morning, when I was sure everyone was asleep, I played my tape of Samira's movie, all the way through. I wanted to check out something. There are colours in her voice, subtle gradations, that I've never heard in real life, only on film. They're velvety and haloed with trivalent vanadium, and I realise now they occur only in her scenes with Stirling Trevanne. They're the sounds of love.

March 11. Watched another quiz show tonight-Mom and I for the first half, then joined for two minutes by ... Samira. She said I should try to be a contestant, that I'd be really good, that I could win some money to keep the house going, and that she'd be really proud of me. She then vanished for the rest of the evening.

March 12. Saw Sam again today-for a few seconds. She looked angry and barely acknowledged me. I'd gone to see Dr. Vorta to give him a copy of my lab notes, which include JJ's concoctions, and on my way out, he introduced me to a fellow synaesthete, a woman from Chicago named Kelly. (I'd seen her several months before, when I blew up in Dr. Vorta's office, but she didn't seem to remember me, or my voice, which goes to show all synaesthetes aren't alike.) Anyway, we talked for a while, laughed a lot, and that's when Samira suddenly emerged and walked right by us without saying a word.

Kelly and I went for a coffee at Cafe Apollinaire and started talking about American and Canadian accents. She said that Jane Mackay, the British painter, could tell the difference between the two because "the Canadian accent is more yellow." We then compared our alphabets and Arabic numerals. Like me, she a.s.signs a s.e.x to letters and numbers-although hers are quite different and much more detailed.42 We agreed on the top five most frequent consonant sounds (n, t, d, s, l), but not on their colours. Or on the colours of the days of the week. We disagreed on every one (including her "Ruby Tuesday") except for Wednesday, blue. And the only letter we agreed on was O (white-nearly 50% of synaesthetes see O as white). Anyway, we had a great time. She has a laugh that s.h.i.+mmers, like a credit-card hologram, with bursts of mango orange and cornflower blue. We agreed on the top five most frequent consonant sounds (n, t, d, s, l), but not on their colours. Or on the colours of the days of the week. We disagreed on every one (including her "Ruby Tuesday") except for Wednesday, blue. And the only letter we agreed on was O (white-nearly 50% of synaesthetes see O as white). Anyway, we had a great time. She has a laugh that s.h.i.+mmers, like a credit-card hologram, with bursts of mango orange and cornflower blue.

When Kelly began talking about Dr. Vorta and how much she admired him, I asked her about that time in his office, when I barged in on a spectrograph test, when I saw her half undressed. She said it was all very innocent-while waiting for him she simply decided to change out of her work clothes, because she was going blading later on with her boyfriend ...

I walked her to the Champs de Mars metro and was going to ask her if he was still her boyfriend but didn't because that's an adolescent question. What is one supposed to say? Are you attached? Are your affections engaged? "Shall we go for a drink?" I almost said, but I almost say things much more often than I say them. The words just wouldn't come out, stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut b.u.t.ter. "Bye," I bleated. I then decided to walk all the way home, perhaps to punish myself, which took a good hour. Five minutes in and freezing rain came down in squally gusts. I was sh.e.l.lacked and sopping when I arrived and Mom, just like old times, was very concerned after hearing me coughing and putting her hand against my forehead (I already had some sort of fever, before the storm). Suddenly her memory was restored as she prepared her standard cures-fizzing vitamin C, aspirin, steam inhalation (with a towel, over boiling eucalyptus leaves), chicken soup-while I, at her command, took a hot bath. "Then watch cartoons," she said. "I'll be up in a tick."

As I was closing my curtains a frostbow appeared in the sky, only the second I've seen. Exactly like a rainbow, except that it's a l.u.s.trous white. A good auspice? Before I could call out to my mother, or anyone else, it was gone.

March 14. Mom was in great spirits all day; I was quite sick. Not so much from the cold, but from tiredness, numbness. I could barely move. Mom kept asking what she could get me, did I need anything at the drugstore, did I want some chicken soup? In my bedroom, while JJ worked in the bas.e.m.e.nt, we watched Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and Mom shouted out some of the answers (most of them wrong). We then watched a similar show called Tip of Your Tongue, a low-budget satellite channel knock-off. The contestant chose History as his subject, and Mom knew some of the answers, which made her happy. Five minutes before the end, Samira appeared, and watched from the doorway, in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight. She smiled at my mother, and then at me, and the next time I looked she was gone.

4:20 a.m. Can't sleep. Sam left coloured residue in my brain, like a comet trail, that's been burning into my past. Not from her voice colours, but from something she was wearing: a diaphonous off-the-shoulder blouse of the darkest brown. In the light of the sun, mingled with the colour of her flesh, it took on this deep Rembrandtesque brown, with gold leaf and Roman ochre reflections ... The colour of Coca-Cola, almost. A shade I first saw in the summer between kindergarten and first grade, when I mixed all my mom's oil colours together on the stones of our patio. And saw for the second time in the Adirondacks, north of Ticonderoga, when I was with my father on one of his sales trips. He held me on his shoulders under a waterfall as the sun lit up a frothing stream of Coca-Cola...

He drowned in waters not ten minutes away.

March 15. For the past two weeks, after visiting my father's grave, I've been thinking about a skein of "coincidences" that revolve around The Arabian Nights. I've tried to block them out-because they're unscientific, illogical, superst.i.tious-but they've been gnawing away at me like an unkept promise. One. It finally dawned on me where my crossword puzzle/exitless maze dreamscape comes from: from the frontispiece of the Sir Richard Burton translation. How could I not have made this connection before? Two. JJ has a copy of the Galland translation, which I'd never read before. Three. Even though it's a sham, Norval mentions The Arabian Nights as an influence for his Alpha Bet. Four. Samira Darwish comes into my life. Five. At the cemetery, while gazing at my father's tombstone, I calculated the time between my mom's first suspicions of memory loss and the first signs of clear improvement: two years, 9 months. Or ... 1001 days. This is courting madness, I know. JJ's numerology and arcana have contaminated my brain. Still, if I push this one step further-and my dad, after all, said that irrational art and rational science should never be separated-perhaps number six will relate to the memory cure itself. That its ingredients, or the treasure map leading to them, will lie within the pages of The 1001 Nights.

After three tumblers of mulled wine ("plotty" my mom calls it), I recounted all this to JJ-he's the only one I could think of that wouldn't laugh-and he said YES, YES, YES!, jumping up and down and practically soiling himself. He then went to consult my Burton and Lane volumes (the ones that weren't in my room he dragged down from the attic) and began to read them on my bed, scouring them for clues. Why he has to do this in my room, on my bed, I'm not quite sure.

What I didn't tell him is that I already have a hunch about the clue, based on the fact that Norval, JJ and I are all-quite likely-in love with Samira. There's a similar triangle in "Prince Ahmed and Fairy Pari Banou," in which the Sultan's three sons-Ali, Houssain and Ahmed-are all in love with their father's ward, Princess Nouronnihar. To determine who should be the bridegroom, the sultan sends them out to find "the most extraordinary things" they can. Whoever brings back the rarest object will win the hand of the princess. So, Ali finds an ivory tube with a gla.s.s that will show any object he wishes to see. Houssain finds a magic carpet that will transport him wherever he wants to go. Ahmed finds an artificial apple, the scent of which will cure any illness. As they display their gifts, Houssain, looking through the tube, sees the princess, apparently on the point of death. They all jump on his magic carpet and are whisked to her bedroom, where Ahmed uses his magic apple to revive her ...

Now, Norval has a telescope, and he wrote about a "magic" telescope in his novel, so he's Ali Ali. I'm working on a cure, so I'm Ahmed Ahmed. Which means that JJ has to be Houssain Houssain. I'll have to ask him about a magic carpet ...

March 17. Just read yesterday's entry. Was I drunk? Of course I didn't ask JJ about a magic carpet. Am I losing it? No, because today I realised something: that all this toil and quest is folly, that I will never succeed I will never succeed, that my mother, like all Alzheimer patients before her, will worsen and die.

March 18. Spent all morning, afternoon and part of the evening downstairs, poring over a quartet of translations of The Arabian Nights, stopping only when I could no longer see the words. What was I doing? An undoable jigsaw, with half the pieces missing, of a f.u.c.king polar bear in a snowstorm.

I stared at the wall and emptied my mind, waiting for ... what? For a ghost to come and touch me? For Dad to whisper a clue in my ear from the beyond?

A knock on the door. Samira delivering me from madness and delusion with potent drink and her even more potent presence.

March 20. Feverish again, with burning eyes and ears and a tremor in my cheeks. I am in a bad way.

Haven't seen JJ and Sam holding hands again, or signs of trysts or anything like that. Not that I'm looking, not that it matters. I wish them well.

March 23. Spent the last three days, every second, in my bas.e.m.e.nt oubliette. Even slept there, dozing off and on like a sentinel drunk at his post. I don't want to see anyone. Fever now blazing its way into my brain-at the convict hour between 4 and 5 I stepped outside, into a blizzard, hatless and bootless, in that unreal clarity that comes from a lack of sleep and sustenance, chanting "alkahest, alkahest ..."

7:09 a.m. A ray of light has pierced the gloom. I finally found the clue. It wasn't in Lane or Burton or Payne but in JJ's edition, in Galland's "The Sleeper and the Awakener": She went quickly to a druggist's shop, and asked of him a drug often administered to men when diseased with forgetfulness. Without a word he ground up blossoms of Aleppine jasmine and Damascene nenuphar, bulbs of poet's narcissus and rootstalks of curc.u.ma, seeds of club moss and stems of amaranth ...

March 26. Spent last three days checking out the phytochemical structures of each. Three, possibly four, may be worth a shot, particularly in combination: narcissus, which is already used in the AD palliative Galantamine; club moss (JJ's qian ceng ta or Hyperzine A); curc.u.ma (turmeric), whose polyphenols may protect the brain from lipid peroxidation and scavenge nitric oxide-based free radicals; and amaranth, whose stems and roots contains colloidal carbohydrates similar to those in apple pectin, which eliminate toxic metals that likely contribute to dementia. A desperate, pathetic long-shot-but what the h.e.l.l. When combined, at least on paper, the chemical equations line up beautifully, almost a work of art.

March 29. A sea-change in Mom's condition. She finished the crossword puzzle in the Globe and Mail-something she hasn't done in over two years. JJ said he didn't help her and I believe him. Might be on the verge of something ... Something that works almost immediately, like an intravenous drug.

March 30. A major and minor relapse. My wonder drug may not be so wonderful. Not performing as I hoped it would. Dr. Vorta extremely sceptical. "Lucid intermissions are not uncommon," he says. I've thought of something else, a simple fix, but won't say anything now because I don't want to jinx it.

April 1. Good signs the past two days. Including this morning. While reading the newspaper at breakfast, Mom told me she has totally recovered, remembers everything and is going back to teaching full-time. April Fool's, she added.

April 3. Think I've found it. A memory pill I've provisionally called Nepenthe-Amaranth-56. 43 43 It'll need months-years-of animal testing and development, but I will not wait. We have neither months nor years to spare. It'll need months-years-of animal testing and development, but I will not wait. We have neither months nor years to spare.

April 5. Finally got hold of Norval. And even asked him about The Alpha Bet. On target, he said. I asked what letter he was on. "None of your business. But if you must know-the plural letter. A bit of a stumbling block, that." The plural letter! Is that possible? With a deadline in 5 weeks. Is he stalling because he's in love with Samira? I didn't ask, naturally. In any case, I've more important things to worry about.

April 6. Mom in a great mood all day, Sam in a bad. JJ as joyful as ever. More later. Still madly tinkering.

April 9. My mind feeling viscous and slow, like mucilage. No, more like the motor of a car that's been to Mexico and back-no stops, 24-hour ignition. So today took a break-for the first time in 2 months, Nor and I met for our matinee. While waiting for the film to start he made a strange confession. Indirectly. JJ, it seems, has been "pestering" him for a couple of Top Ten Lists (poetry-one in English, one in French, no particular order). He wouldn't reveal his French list, but-astonis.h.i.+ngly-he gave me his English: Rochester, "Song" ("Love a woman? You're an a.s.s!")Larkin, "Aubade" and "The Old Fools"Lord Byron, "Don Juan" and "Darkness"Delmore Schwartz, "Calmly we walk through this April's day"Donne, "Go Catch a Falling Star" or "Woman's Constancy"MacNeice, "Sunlight on the Garden"Dante Rossetti, "Without You"Dowson, "Cynara"

Fair enough. Except for the fact they're weren't all Decadent or Symbolist, no real surprises-except for the last two or three. Laments for dead lovers.44 Which is what his novel is about, more or less. And there was a strange look on his face when he mentioned them, as if he were trying to confide in me. Must get to the bottom of this. But not now-have more important things to do. Which is what his novel is about, more or less. And there was a strange look on his face when he mentioned them, as if he were trying to confide in me. Must get to the bottom of this. But not now-have more important things to do.

April 10. Can't focus. Completely blocked. So spent the day at the McLennan library memorising pa.s.sages of Arabic literature and language. Why? Because last week at the lab Samira seemed dazzled by Norval's "knowledge" of Arabic (which is three b.l.o.o.d.y phrases at most, two of them lewd). Pathetic, I know. But I had to get my head out of the dungeon anyway.

Dr. Vorta called after supper. He wants to do a "revolutionary" experiment on me, with a trans-magnetic stimulator of his own invention. It sounds a bit dangerous to me, but I trust him. He said it's to study my synaesthesia, but when I told Norval about it over the phone, he said the experiment was designed to eliminate it! Which naturally I don't want-I'm afraid my memory could go along with it.

April 15. Mom's excited-next month Norval's going to try to get on one of her favourite shows, Tip of Your Tongue. (I refused.) She can hardly wait. It's a horrible show really-amateurish sets, fake applause, a Vegas emcee with a toupee and girdle, etc. The studio's in Montreal North, in an industrial plaza. It's considered camp by university students, maybe because it comes on Friday at midnight and has the odd "X-rated" question. The top prize, in any case, is fifty grand. But no one has gone all the way yet, which is unusual for a show that's been on the air for two years. They've made the final rounds extraordinarily difficult, almost impossibly difficult. So most contestants quit while they're ahead, take the money and run. In any case, it's a bit of a longshot for Norval even to get selected as a candidate. We're all going to cheer him on. JJ said Dr. Vorta is going to try to make it as well.

April 21. Still can't focus in the lab. Totally zoned out. Had a good week in late March but the days since have been foggy and downhill.

April 23. With the hope of unblocking, met Norval again for the matinee. For Shakespeare's birthday they were showing Brook's King Lear. The last acts always. .h.i.t me hard-too sad for words-but today they were simply crus.h.i.+ng. I tried to stop the tears, tried to hide them from Norval, but couldn't. It was these lines that got me going: I fear I am not in my perfect mind.Methinks I should know you, and know this man;Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorantWhat place this is; and all the skill I haveRemembers not these garments; nor I know notWhere I did lodge last night ...Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not.If you have poison for me, I will drink it ...

April 27. Finally got a kind of clarity, a view from another realm, for twenty-six hours straight. Where there were walls there are now doors. Decided not to give up on the NA-56, even if Vorta and the leagued universe are against me. Made one small addition and one small subtraction, epiphanically, like a sacred sculptor. Result: it began to take on the faintest of scents ... of green apple.

Chapter 16.

Samira's Diary February 4/02 Left Norval today. Or rather, left his loft for other accommodations ... I was a roommate in January, nothing more. We barely saw each other.

The few times we were together he ignored me, either reading or maniacally playing bow & arrows, or should I say "practising his archery." With his Turkish & Mongol bows-made by some Hungarian "master bowyer" ... Phoom, thwack, phoom, thwack ... Usually in the bull's eye, like Robin Hood. Or through an apple, like William Tell.45 The whole time I was in a period of chast.i.ty, and l.u.s.t. Norval has this force field, this presence-like some being who's visited heaven & h.e.l.l & brought back the best of both. Worst of both? It was so frustrating being around him, listening but not being listened to, at the altar of his ego. He has a knack for making anything I say sound stupid far in advance of my saying it. I felt like a bug, something that could be stepped on without notice. I was an S, for G.o.d's sake, nothing more! When I told him I wouldn't be part of his vile game, wouldn't be another name flamed, placed in the kill files, that was it. He never came on to me again. After that he just looked at me with subwayish blankness, listened to me as though he wouldn't care if I hanged myself from his candelabra.

February 5 Now living with Ted, an old (Platonic) friend from high school. He's a tech-crash victim who used to have money to burn. Already, after one day together, I think there could be problems. Among other things, he talks about mutual funds, endlessly.

I would've made love with Norval-if he'd cancelled the Bet. Because of what he said about killing himself after Z. I mean, if he's remotely serious, then I can hardly help him on his way to Z, can I ...

But maybe he's simply out of my cla.s.s-too much intelligence, too much beauty (his body would've satisfied the standards of Michelangelo himself). And what is my cla.s.s? "Almost average" in his words.

February 6 Ted beginning to stare at me, continuously. In some cultures b.r.e.a.s.t.s are considered something for babies to be interested in, not grown men.

February 7 I know it's stupid, self-destructive, but I just can't stop thinking about Norval, hoping-for what? Love, affection? A phone call? Why am I so b.l.o.o.d.y duncical? Isn't it only men who fall for physical beauty & are blind to everything else?

Stirling looked great, but in conversation seldom rose above the sound-bites expected of celebrities. After him I swore that actors & artists were out-they don't know who the h.e.l.l they are, and make those around them feel the same way. It's all vanity & ego, they're walking & talking pathological disorders, usually in codependent relations.h.i.+ps with a therapist or mother or ex-girlfriend. And now I'm being sucked back into all that ...Am I one of those who get as much excitement from looming disasters as others from looming success?

Does Norval have anything else besides beauty? Yes. He can be shockingly funny, sharp-witted. (But so much thought & so little feeling ! Wit is the salt of conversation, as they say, not the food.) And although he hates humans, he loves animals. His dream, he said, is to go on an African safari and shoot elephant poachers.

February 13 Things getting to the up-to-here point with Ted. And especially with his bubblehead girlfriend "Galaxy." But don't know where else to go. Almost no money left. Thank G.o.d for Dr. Vorta.

February 20 JJ's magic "palindrome" day. Everyone seems to have forgotten about it- & about the club's second meeting-& I didn't do any reminding. Norval wouldn't have come anyway-plus our clubhouse is out of commission. I miss those guys, I really do, but doubt I'll ever see them again, socially at least.

February 21 When Ted isn't talking about pork futures or telling mind-numbing golf stories, he's coming on to me. Plus his girlfriend & I don't exactly see eye to eye. She's giving me little hints that she wants me out-like last night, when she screamed at me to leave her boyfriend alone (?!), and this morning when she suggested I'd be "much happier" somewhere else.

February 22 Ran into JJ in the Ex-Psych elevator! Really happy to see him. He was bringing Vorta a coffee & doughnut. (I thought JJ was a research a.s.sistant, but it looks like he's a gopher, a gruntworker) Anyway, he set the tray down on the floor, gave me a huge hug & then asked me something very strange-to "help out" Noel & his mother, who has some sort of memory problem. He couldn't remember Noel's phone number but he wrote down his address for me. I didn't know what to say as I took it, just said I'd think about it. I mean, what can I do to help? I know almost nothing about these things.

March 3 Galaxy went ballistic last night-she thinks I'm sleeping with Ted. Because she counted condoms & didn't get the figure she was expecting . (I didn't tell her that Ted's sleeping with someone else.) Anyway, she ended up throwing all my stuff onto the street-some of it, anyway. At one in the morning! Into a b.l.o.o.d.y s...o...b..nk!! I managed, by some miracle, to flag a cab & was on my way to my mom's, rooting around for loose change in my purse, when I came across Noel's address. Destiny? Unlikely, but I decided to go to his place anyway, then & there, unannounced- ridiculously late at night, in a snowstorm! Plus it was a cheaper cab ride. If I see a light on, I said to myself, I'll stop. I saw a light on.

My embarra.s.sment needle was off the scale at first, but I calmed down and Noel & I ended up talking for hours. Really for the first time. He's a very strange man-and fascinating. I can see why Norval likes him so much. He's gentlemanly & courteous in an old-fas.h.i.+oned way & a really kind soul, very warm & gentle, the kind of man I adore but am not attracted to-it's a disease, I think, a genetic impairment that will probably ruin my life.

Noel's life seems to be on hold while he looks after his mother. Although he's got a great memory, he seems to have forgotten about himself.

It was so weird talking to Noel about everything-about my "former life." But I had to, because he dropped a bombsh.e.l.l! He guessed my secret!! From my "voice colours." But I asked him not to tell anyone & for some reason I know he won't.

What I didn't tell him about was the abortion. Which may have been the real reason Stirling lost his mind. And for my mother to hate me. It's a black zone that's off limits to everyone. Maybe because it brings on this awful gut feeling, this nightmarish warning from a crystal ball:THAT I'll NEVER GET PREGNANT AGAIN.

Sterling once told me I wasn't good for men. That I was like a contagion, a retrovirus that gets into them & makes them sick ...

March 5 While Noel was at the library, I spent all day with JJ, shopping & cleaning up the house & making adjustments that will make it easier for Stella to function-some of the things I've learned in cla.s.s and from Dr. Vorta. Anyway, we laughed all day, about totally silly things. JJ's like joy medicine. Despite having a few ... idiosyncrasies, shall we say. For example, he's a compulsive b.u.t.t-clencher-clench-release-clench-release, hundreds of times a day- walking down the hall, making lunch, talking to Mrs. Burun. It's hard to look at anything else. You find yourself counting, tapping your toes and, if you're not careful, squeezing right along with him.

March 7 Got to see Noel interact with his mom today. From a distance, kind of eavesdropping. I could learn a few things from him-he's patient, attentive, warm ... Every night, according to JJ, he reads to her, every night he fills in gaps in her forgotten life. Last night, at her request, he & JJ made these incredible fireworks & set them off in the back yard. His mother watched them like a little girl, totally spellbound. (JJ was like a little boy, literally jumping up & down.) It's so nice seeing Noel & his mom together, the way they smile, touch, communicate without words. Wouldn't mind having that kind of relations.h.i.+p with my mother. With anyone.

Better stop here, starting to sound like Pollyanna.

March 8 Things are working out well. School is good, living here is good. Haven't seen much of Mrs. Burun because I've been at school or the library-making up for missed cla.s.ses! Haven't seen Noel either, who's down in the cellar most of the time. My only regret is that I'm not helping his mother very much, as I promised to do ...

March 10 I suspect-no, I know-that Noel has feelings for me. And I hardly needed my woman's intuition to figure that one out. I better be careful-he's the last person I want to hurt.

Would that be remotely possible? A relations.h.i.+p with Noel? No, simply not in the cards, ever. (1) I'm besotted by his best friend. (2) He's "unmanageably weird," as Nor says, with too many problems-I have more than enough of my own, thank you very much. (3) I don't need any more men in co-dependent relations.h.i.+ps with their mothers. (4) I'm not attracted to "nice guys," unfortunately, never have been & never will be. (5) I'm not good enough for him-I'm hardly the saint he thinks I am.

March 11 I think JJ's good for Noel, seeing things that Noel is sometimes blind to-like the guy who sees all the engineers futzing with a broken machine and realizes that no one has thought to plug it in. Today they were down in the lab all day, so I ended up spending the entire time with Noel's mom. She's a wonderful woman, very elegant & refined & beautiful-especially after I did her hair & helped her select some things to wear! Diane Von Furstenberg & Kate Spade cla.s.sics. She looked fabulous! Fifty-six going on thirty-six. I learned quite a bit about her from going through her alb.u.ms & books. She's an historian-or was-and even wrote bios on Hypatia of Alexandria & Ada Byron, Countess Lovelace (which I've borrowed, because I hadn't heard of either one).

March 12 Haven't seen Noel in a while. It's like he's avoiding me, or angry with me. For not doing enough around the house? Maybe he's just not interested in me, in the way I thought he was. Or maybe he's just too busy, too obsessed with his work downstairs. Or maybe he's got a new girlfriend. Or maybe I'm paranoid ...

March 13 That new girlfriend may be the "Bath Lady". A merry divorcee with flamenco-red lipstick, plunging neckline & huge, seemingly inflatable b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which she practically engulfs him with every time they hug/meet. She's been coming on to him for months, according to his mom. They seem to have a certain intimacy ... I've found notes she's written-pointless Post-Its regarding his mom with X's or hearts at the end. Not that it's any of my business, but I don't think she's right for Noel, and I don't think she should get her (long & painted) claws into him. It may be my imagination, but she seems to be treating the house as if it will one day be hers. In any case, with JJ & I here, she's really no longer needed. And it's not like they can afford her.

March 14 For the second time, I walked by as Noel & his mom were watching some quiz show on TV, and wanted to join them. But from the way they looked at me, I felt like an intruder, disrupting their privacy.

March 18 Spent a great evening with Noel down in the lab, drinking some volcanic brew that JJ concocted & chatting about everything under the sun. Including some of the things Noel has had to endure in life-the "personality disorders" that got him certified as "disabled" when he was sixteen. Like a fear of leaving his house on his own, of being in the presence of others, which could hit him like "blinding sunlight." But he's worked on his problems-with medications, therapy & mind-over-matter-& now he's more or less OK. Except for worrying about his mom and not eating or sleeping.

When our evening ended, after JJ dropped in, Noel glanced down & saw JJ & I holding hands. Which JJ does all the time, even with Mrs. B, like a little boy instinctively grabbing his mother's hand. Still, it was awkward & I felt like taking my hand away. But I didn't. Maybe because I wanted to get a reaction from Noel. Was there one? No. None whatsoever.

March 19 Suddenly I'm quite happy, believe it or not. I'm learning a lot, enjoying my art therapy courses, staying rent-free in a beautiful room with a view of the mountain & cemetery ... and I think I'm in love with three men! Has that ever happened in history?

March 22 Haven't seen Noel in days. He's back to locking himself away downstairs, rarely coming up for air. And with JJ spending more time with Mrs. B, I'm starting to get a bit lonely. I just don't feel like seeing my loopy friends anymore, my bar-hopping, pillpopping rutting friends in ruts. (The only difference between a rut & a grave, says Norval, is the depth.) G.o.d love 'em, but it's like I've turned the page on all that. I've wasted way way too much time & money on drugs-& I'm even starting to blame myself for that date-rape attempt. Because when I arrived at the party I was already blitzed on various illegal substances, which left me wide open. Dr. Rheaume said that line of thinking is "backwards & counterproductive." too much time & money on drugs-& I'm even starting to blame myself for that date-rape attempt. Because when I arrived at the party I was already blitzed on various illegal substances, which left me wide open. Dr. Rheaume said that line of thinking is "backwards & counterproductive."

Took a stab at phoning Norval-had all the numbers punched in but hung up before it rang. Then hit my mom's speed dial. She seemed happy to hear from me, and even happier to answer questions about recipes from the restaurant. I'm going to see her on the weekend-her suggestion, believe it or not.