Brain Child Part 15

But, as he had slowly come to understand as he read more, apparently he didn't have feelings.

It was something he was only beginning to be aware of, and he didn't know whether he should talk to Dr. Torres about it or not. All he knew so far was that things seemed to happen to other people that didn't happen to him.

Things like anger.

He knew Lisa had been angry at him this afternoon, and he knew it was a feeling that she got when he did something she didn't approve of.

But what did it feel feel like? like?

He thought, from what he'd read, that it must be like pain, only it affected the mind instead of the body. But what was it like?

He was beginning to suspect he'd never know, for every day he was becoming more and more aware that something had, indeed, gone wrong, and that he was no longer like other people.

But he was supposed to be like other people. That was the whole idea of Dr. Torres's operation-to make him the way he'd been before.

The problem was that he couldn't remember how he'd been before. If he could remember, it would be easy. He could act act as though he was the same, and then people wouldn't know he was different. as though he was the same, and then people wouldn't know he was different.

He was already doing some of it.

He'd learned to hug his mother, and kiss her, and whenever he did that, she seemed to like it.

He'd decided not to act on any of the things he seemed to remember until he'd determined if his memory of them was correct.

And after this afternoon, he'd remember to hold Lisa's hand when they were walking together, and to pay a check if Bob Carey asked him to.

But what about other people? Were there other people he used to borrow money from and loan money to?

Tomorrow, when he saw Lisa, he'd ask her.

No, he decided, he wouldn't ask her. He couldn't keep asking everybody questions all the time.

He'd seen the look on Bob Carey's face when he'd asked Lisa what city she was talking about, and he knew what it meant, even though it hadn't bothered him.

Still, Bob Carey thought he was stupid, even though he wasn't. In fact, after the tests on Monday, he knew he was just the opposite. If anything, he was a lot smarter than everybody else.

He got out of bed and went to the family room. In the bookcase next to the fireplace, there was an Encyclopaedia Britannica Encyclopaedia Britannica. He switched on a lamp, then pulled Volume VIII of the Micropaedia off the shelf. A few minutes later, he began reading every article in the encyclopedia that referred to San Francisco.

By the time they got there, he would be able to tell them more about the city than they knew themselves. And, he decided, he would know his way around.

Tomorrow-Friday-he would find a map of San Francisco, and memorize it by the next morning.

Memorizing things was easy.

Figuring out what was expected of him, and then doing it, was not so easy.

But he would do it.

He didn't know how long it would take, but he knew that if he watched carefully, and remembered everything he saw, sooner or later he would be able to act just like everybody else.

But he still wouldn't feel anything.

And that, he decided, was all right. If he could learn to act as though he felt things, it would be good enough.

Already he'd learned that it didn't matter what he was or wasn't.

The only thing that really mattered was what people thought thought you were. you were.

He closed the book and put it back on the shelf, then turned around to see his father standing in the doorway.

"Alex? Are you all right?"

"I was just looking something up," Alex replied.

"Do you know what time it is?"

Alex glanced at the big clock in the corner. "Three-thirty."

"How come you're not asleep?"

"I just got to thinking about something, so I decided to look it up. I'll go back to bed now." He started out of the room, but his father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Is something bothering you, son?"

Alex hesitated, wondering if maybe he should try to explain to his father how different he was from other people, and that he thought something might be wrong with his brain, then decided against it. If anyone would understand, it would be Dr. Torres. "I'm fine, Dad. Really."

Marsh dropped into his favorite chair, and looked at Alex critically. Certainly the boy looked looked fine, except for his too-bland expression. "Then I think maybe you and I ought to talk about your future, before Torres decides it for us," he suggested. fine, except for his too-bland expression. "Then I think maybe you and I ought to talk about your future, before Torres decides it for us," he suggested.

Alex listened in silence while Marsh repeated his idea of sending Alex into an advanced program at Stanford. As he talked, Marsh kept his eyes on his son, trying to see what effect his words might be having on the boy.

Apparently there was none.

Alex's expression never changed, and Marsh suddenly had the uneasy feeling that Alex wasn't even hearing him. "Well?" he asked at last. "What do you think?"

Alex was silent for a moment, then stood up. "I'll have to talk to Dr. Torres about it," he said. He started out of the room. "Good night, Dad."

For a moment, all Marsh could do was stare at his son's retreating back. And then, like a breaking storm, fury swept over him. "Alex!" "Alex!" The single word echoed through the house. Instantly Alex stopped and turned around. The single word echoed through the house. Instantly Alex stopped and turned around.

"Dad?"

"What the h.e.l.l is going on with you?" Marsh demanded. He could feel blood pounding in his veins, and his fists clutched into tight knots at his side. "Did you even hear me? Do you have any idea of what I was saying to you?"

Alex nodded silently, then, as his fathers furious eyes remained fixed on him, began repeating Marsh's words back to him.

"Stop that!" Marsh roared. "G.o.ddammit, just stop it!"

Obediently Alex fell back into silence.

Marsh stood still, forcing his mind to concentrate on the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, willing his rage to ease. A moment later he became vaguely aware that Ellen, too, was in the room now, her face pale, her frightened eyes darting from him to Alex, then back again.

"Marsh?" she asked uncertainly. "Marsh, what's going on?" When Marsh, still trembling with anger, made no reply, she turned to her son. "Alex?"

"I don't know," Alex replied. "He was talking about me going to college, and I said I'd talk to Dr. Torres about it. Then he started yelling at me."

"Go to bed," Ellen told him. She gave him a quick hug, then gently eased him toward the hall. "Go on. I'll take care of your father." When Alex was gone, she turned to Marsh, her eyes damp. When she spoke, her voice was a bleak reflection of the pain she was feeling, not just for her son, but for her husband too. "You can't do this," she whispered. "You know he's not well yet. What do you expect from him?"

Marsh, his anger spent, sagged onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, honey," he said softly. "It's only that talking to him just now was like talking to a brick wall. And then all he said was that he'd talk to Torres about it. Torres!" he repeated bitterly, then gazed up at her, his face suddenly haggard. "I'm his father, Ellen," he said in a voice breaking with pain. "But for all the reaction I get from him, I might as well not even exist."

Ellen took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. "I know," she said at last. "A lot of the time I feel exactly the same way. But we have to get him through it, Marsh. We can't just send him off somewhere. He can barely deal with the people he's known all his life-how would he ever be able to deal with total strangers?"

"But he's so bright..." Marsh whispered.

Ellen nodded. "I know. But he's not well yet. Raymond-" She broke off suddenly, sensing her husband's animosity toward the man who had saved Alex's life. "Dr. Torres," she began again, "is helping him, and we have to help him too. And we have to be patient with him, no matter how hard it is." She hesitated, then went on. "Sometimes...well, sometimes the only way I can deal with it is to remember that whatever I'm going through, what Alex is going through must be ten times worse."

Marsh put his arms around his wife and pulled her close. "I know," he said. "I know you're right, but I just can't help myself sometimes." A rueful smile twisted his face. "I guess there's a good reason why doctors should never treat their own family, isn't there? Lord knows, my bedside manner deserted me tonight." His arms fell away from Ellen as he stood up. "I'd better go apologize to him."

But when he entered Alex's room, his son was sound asleep. As far as he could see, even his rage hadn't affected the boy. Still, he laid his hand gently on Alex's cheek. "I'm sorry, son," he whispered. "I'm sorry about everything."

Alex rolled over, unconsciously brus.h.i.+ng his father's hand away.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

At a few minutes past nine on Sat.u.r.day morning, Bob Carey maneuvered his father's Volvo into the left lane of the Baysh.o.r.e Freeway, and three minutes later they left Palo Alto behind. Alex sat quietly in the back seat next to Lisa, his ears taking in the chatter of his three friends while his eyes remained glued to the world outside the car. None of it looked familiar, but he studied the road signs carefully as they pa.s.sed through Redwood City, San Carlos, and San Mateo, then began skirting the edge of the bay. His eyes took in everything, and he was sure that on the return trip that afternoon, even though he would be seeing it all from the other direction, all of it would be familiar.

Then, a little north of the airport, Bob veered off the freeway and started inland.

"Where are we going?" Kate Lewis asked. "We want to go all the way into the City!"

"We're going to the BART station in Daly City," Bob told her.

"BART?" Kate groaned. "Who wants to ride the subway?"

"I do," Bob told her. "I like like the subway, and besides, I'm not going to drive Dad's car in the City. All I need is to have to try to explain how I smashed a fender on n.o.b Hill when I was supposed to be in Santa Cruz. I'd wind up grounded lower than Carolyn Evans was." the subway, and besides, I'm not going to drive Dad's car in the City. All I need is to have to try to explain how I smashed a fender on n.o.b Hill when I was supposed to be in Santa Cruz. I'd wind up grounded lower than Carolyn Evans was."

Kate started to protest further, but Lisa backed Bob up. "He's right," she said. "I had to argue with my folks for half an hour to keep from having to bring Kim along, and if we get caught now, we'll all be in trouble. Besides, I like BART too. It'll be fun!"

Forty minutes later, they emerged from the BART station, and Alex gazed around him, knowing immediately where he was. Yesterday he'd found a tour guide to San Francisco in the La Paloma bookstore, then spent last night studying it. The city around him looked exactly like the pictures in the guidebook. "Let's ride the cable car out to Fisherman's Wharf," he suggested.

Lisa stared at him with surprised eyes. "How did you know it goes there?" she asked.

Alex hesitated, then pointed to the cable car that was just coasting onto the turntable at Powell and Market. On its end was a sign that read "Powell & Mason" and, below that, "Fisherman's Wharf."

They wandered around the wharf, then started back toward the downtown area, through North Beach on Columbus, then turning south on Grant to go into Chinatown. People milled around them, and suddenly Alex stopped dead in his tracks. Lisa turned to him, but he seemed unaware of her. His eyes were gazing intently at the faces of the people around him.

"Alex, what is it?" she asked. All morning, he'd seemed fine. He'd asked a few questions, but not nearly as many as usual, and he'd always seemed to know exactly where he was and where they were going. Once, in fact, he'd even told them where a street they were looking for was, then, when asked how he knew, admitted to having memorized all the street signs while they rode the cable car. But now he seemed totally baffled. "Alex, what's wrong?" Lisa asked again.

"These people," Alex said. "What are they? They don't look like us."

"Oh, Jeez," Bob Carey groaned.

"They're Chinese," Lisa said, keeping her voice as low as she could, and silencing Bob with a glare. "And stop staring at them, Alex. You're being rude."

"Chinese," Alex repeated. He started walking again, but his eyes kept wandering over the Oriental faces around him. "The Chinese built the railroads," he suddenly said. Then: "The railroad barons, Collis P. Huntington and Leland Stanford, brought them in by the thousands. Now San Francisco has one of the biggest Chinese populations outside of China."

Lisa stared at Alex for a moment; then suddenly she knew. "A tour book," she said. "You read a tour book, didn't you?"

Alex nodded. "I didn't want to spend all day asking you questions," he said. "I know you don't like that. So I studied."

Bob Carey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You studied? You read a whole guidebook just because we were coming up here for a day?"

Again Alex nodded.

"But who can remember all that stuff? Who even cares? For Christ's sake, Alex, all we're doing is messing around."

"Well, I think it's neat," Kate told her boyfriend. Then she turned to Alex. "Did you really memorize all the streets while we were on the cable car?"

"I didn't have to," Alex admitted. "I got a map, too. I memorized it."

"Bulls.h.i.+t!" Bob's eyes were suddenly angry. "Where's the mission?" he demanded.

Alex hesitated a moment; then: "Sixteenth and Dolores. It's on the corner, and there's a park in the same block."

"Well?" Kate asked Bob. "Is he right?"

"I don't know," Bob admitted, his face reddening. "Who even cares where the mission is?"

"I do," Lisa said, reaching out to squeeze Alex's hand. "How do we get there?"

"Go down to Market, then up to Dolores, and left on Dolores."

"Then let's go."

The little mission with its adjoining cemetery and garden was exactly where Alex had said it would be, crouching on the corner almost defensively, as if it knew it was no more than a relic from the city's long-forgotten past. The city, indeed, had even taken away its original name-San Francisco de Asis. Now it was called Mission Dolores, and it seemed to have taken on the very sadness its name implied.

"Want to go in?" Lisa asked of no one in particular.

"What for?" Bob groaned. "Haven't we all seen enough missions? They used to drag us off to one every year!"

"Well, what about Alex?" Lisa argued. "I bet he doesn't remember ever seeing a mission before. And did you ever see this this mission? Come on." mission? Come on."

Following Lisa, they went into the little church, then out into the garden, and suddenly the city beyond the garden walls might as well have disappeared, for within the little s.p.a.ce occupied by the mission, there was no trace of the modern world.