Brain Child Part 17

Marsh glanced at the clock. It was only a quarter to ten, and he knew Alex was seldom in bed before eleven. "So early?"

"I'm gonna read for a while."

He shrugged helplessly. "If you want to."

Alex hesitated, then leaned down to kiss his mother. "Good night."

"'Night, darling," Ellen replied. She watched her son leave the family room, then turned her gaze to Marsh, and immediately knew that the discussion of what had happened that day was not yet over. "All right," she said tiredly. "What is it?"

But Marsh shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not going to talk about it anymore." Suddenly he grinned, though there was no humor in it. "I guess I've just suddenly fallen victim to a feeling, and I don't like it."

Ellen sat down on the couch next to him and slipped her hand into his. "Tell me," she said. "You know I won't laugh at you-I won't even argue with you. I've had too many feelings myself."

Marsh considered for a moment, then made up his mind. "All right," he said. "I just feel that something's wrong. I can't quite put my finger on it, because I keep telling myself that what I'm feeling is a result of the accident, and the brain surgery, and the fact that I'm not too crazy about the eminent Dr. Torres. But no matter how much I tell myself that, I still have a feeling that there's more. That Alex has changed somehow, and that it's more more than the brain damage." than the brain damage."

"But everything that's happened is consistent with the damage and the surgery," Ellen replied, keeping her voice as neutral as possible and choosing her words carefully. "Alex is is different, but he's still Alex." different, but he's still Alex."

Marsh sighed. "That's just it," he said. "He's different, all right, but I keep getting the feeling that he's not not Alex." Alex."

No, Ellen thought to herself. That's not it at all. You just can't stand the idea that Raymond Torres did something you couldn't have done yourself. Aloud, though, she was careful to give Marsh no clue as to what she'd been thinking. Instead, she smiled at him encouragingly.

"Just wait," she said. "We've had several miracles already. Maybe we're about to have another one."

As she went to bed that night, she decided that when she took Alex down for the special meeting Raymond had asked for tomorrow morning, she'd have a private talk with the doctor.

A talk about Marsh, not Alex.

For Maria Torres, sleep would not come that night. For hours she tossed in her bed, then finally rose tiredly to her feet, put on her frayed bathrobe, and went into her tiny living room to light a candle under the image of the Blessed Mother. She prayed silently for a while-a silent prayer of thanksgiving that at last the saints were listening to her entreaties, and answering her.

She was sure the answers were coming now, for she had been in the Lonsdales' house all afternoon. She had listened as they talked to their son and heard his story story of what had happened at the mission in San Francisco, and like all the of what had happened at the mission in San Francisco, and like all the gringos gringos, they had barely been aware of her presence.

To them, she was n.o.body, only someone who came in now and then to clean up after them.

But they would find out who she was, now that the saints were listening to her, and had sent Alejandro back at last.

And Alejandro knew her now, and he would listen to her when she spoke to him.

She let the little candle burn out, then crept back to her bed, knowing that sleep would finally come.

She hoped the gringos gringos, too, would sleep well tonight. Soon there would be no sleep for them at all.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"How come Peter isn't here?" Alex asked. He was lying on the examining table, his eyes closed, while Raymond Torres himself began the task of attaching the electrodes to his skull.

"Sunday," Torres replied. "Even my my staff insists on a day or two off each week." staff insists on a day or two off each week."

"But not you?"

"I try, but every now and then I have to make an exception. You qualify as an exception."

Alex nodded, his eyes still closed. "Because of how I scored on the tests."

There was a short silence, and Alex opened his eyes. Torres was at the control panel, adjusting a myriad of dials. Finally he turned back to Alex. "Partly," he said. "But frankly, I'm more interested in what happened in San Francisco yesterday, and at school on Monday morning."

"It seems like I'm getting some of my memory back, doesn't it?"

Torres shrugged. "That's what we're going to try to find out. And we're also going to try to find out if there's any significance to the fact that even what little you have remembered seems to be faulty."

"But the dean's office used to be where the nurse's office is now," Alex protested. "Mom just told us so."

"True. But apparently it was moved long before you ever went to La Paloma High. So why-and how-did you remember where it used to be, instead of where it is? Even more important, why did you remember Mission Dolores, when you apparently have never been there?"

"But I could could have been there," Alex suggested. "Maybe yesterday wasn't the first day I sneaked off to San Francisco." have been there," Alex suggested. "Maybe yesterday wasn't the first day I sneaked off to San Francisco."

"Fine," Torres agreed. "Let's a.s.sume that's the case. Now tell me why you remembered a grave that's over a hundred years old, and thought it was your uncle's grave? You have no uncles, let alone one who's been dead since 1850."

"Well, why did I?"

Torres's brows arched. "According to those exams you took last week, you're smart enough to know better than to ask that question before these tests."

"Maybe I'm not smart," Alex suggested. "Maybe I'm just good at remembering things."

"Which would make you some kind of idiot savant," idiot savant," Torres replied. "And the fact that you just suggested it is pretty good proof that you're more than that." He slid a pair of diskettes into the twin drives of the master monitor, then began preparing a hypodermic. "Peter tells me you woke up early a couple of times," he said, his voice studiedly casual. "How come you never mentioned it?" Torres replied. "And the fact that you just suggested it is pretty good proof that you're more than that." He slid a pair of diskettes into the twin drives of the master monitor, then began preparing a hypodermic. "Peter tells me you woke up early a couple of times," he said, his voice studiedly casual. "How come you never mentioned it?"

"It didn't seem important."

"Can you tell me what it was like?"

Carefully Alex explained the sensations he'd had when coming up from the anesthesia that always accompanied the tests. "But it wasn't unpleasant," he finished. "In fact, it was interesting. None of it made any sense, but I always had the feeling that if I could only slow it down, it would would make sense." He hesitated, then spoke again. "Why do I have to be asleep when you test my brain?" make sense." He hesitated, then spoke again. "Why do I have to be asleep when you test my brain?"

"Peter already explained that," Torres replied. He swabbed Alex's arm with alcohol, then plunged the needle into his arm.

Alex winced slightly, then relaxed. "But if it got bad-if I started hurting or something-you could stop the tests, couldn't you?"

"I could, but I won't," Torres told him. "Besides, if you were awake, the very fact that you'd be thinking during the examination would have an effect on the results. In order for the tests to be valid, your brain has to be at rest when they're administered."

Thirty seconds later, Alex's eyes closed and his breathing became deep and slow. Checking all the monitors one more time, Torres left the room.

In his office, Torres leaned back in his desk chair and began methodically packing his pipe with tobacco. As he carried out the ritual of lighting the pipe, his eyes kept flicking toward the monitor that showed what was happening in the examining room. All, as he had expected, was as it should be, and he would have a full hour alone with Ellen Lonsdale. "I presume you're going to tell me why your husband isn't here this morning?"

Ellen s.h.i.+fted in her chair and nervously crossed her legs, unconsciously tugging at her skirt as she did so. "He's...well, I'm afraid we're having a little trouble."

"That doesn't surprise me," Torres commented, concentrating on his pipe rather than Ellen. "I don't mean this as anything against your husband, but a lot of doctors have a great deal of difficulty in dealing with me. In fact," he added, his hypnotic eyes fixing directly on her, "a lot of people have always had difficulty dealing with me." The barest hint of a smile crossed Torres's face. "I'm talking about the fact that I was always considered something of an oddball."

Ellen forced a smile, though she knew his words carried a certain truth. "Whatever you might have been in high school is all over now," she offered. "You were just so bright we were all terrified of you!"

"And, apparently, people still are," Torres replied dryly. "At least your husband seems to be."

"I'm not sure terrified is the right word-" Ellen began.

"Then what would you suggest?" Torres countered. "Frightened? Insecure? Jealous?" He brushed the words aside with an impatient gesture, and his voice grew hard. "Whatever it is-and I a.s.sure you it's of no consequence to me-it has to stop. For Alex's sake."

So this was what it was all about. Ellen sighed in relief. "I know. In fact, that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today. Raymond, I'm starting to worry about Marsh. This thing with Alex's intellect...Well, I hate to say I'm afraid he's going to get fixated on it, but I guess that's exactly what I am am afraid of!" afraid of!"

"And," Torres added, "you're afraid that he might decide that I have served my purpose. Is that correct?"

Ellen nodded unhappily.

"Well, then we'll just have to see that that doesn't happen, won't we?" Torres smiled at her, and suddenly Ellen felt rea.s.sured. There was a strength to the man, a determination to do whatever must be done, that made her feel that whatever happened, he would be able to deal with it. She felt herself begin to relax under his steady gaze.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Torres shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "Until he actually suggests removing Alex from my care, I don't see that either you or I need to do anything. But if the time comes, you can be sure that I will deal with your husband."

Your husband. Ellen repeated the words to herself, and tried to remember if Raymond had ever used Marsh's first name. To the best of her memory, he hadn't. Was there a reason for that? Or was it just Raymond's way?

Suddenly she realized how little she actually knew about Raymond Torres. Practically nothing, really. A thought drifted into her mind: did he feel as strange about his mother working for her as she did? "Raymond, may I ask you a question that has nothing to do with Alex at all?"

Torres frowned slightly, then shrugged. "You can ask me anything, but I might not choose to answer."

Ellen felt herself flush red. "Of course," she said. "It...well, it's about your mother. You know, she's working for me now, and-"

"For you?" Torres broke in. Suddenly he put his pipe on the desk and leaned forward, his eyes blazing with interest. "When did that start?"

Ellen gasped with embarra.s.sment. "Oh, G.o.d, what have I done? I was sure you'd know."

"No," Torres replied, shaking his head. Then he picked up his pipe and drew deeply on it. "And don't worry," he added. "There is a lot about my mother that I don't know. Frankly, we don't see each other that much, and we don't agree on much, either. For instance, we don't agree on her working."

"Oh, Lord," Ellen groaned. "I'm sorry. I should never have hired her, should I? I didn't really think it was right, but when Cynthia absolutely insisted, I...well, I..." She fell silent, acutely aware that she had begun babbling.

"Cynthia," Torres repeated, his expression darkening. "Well, Cynthia's always had her way, hasn't she? Whatever Cynthia wanted, she always got, and whatever she didn't want, she always managed to keep well away from her."

Himself, Ellen suddenly thought. He's talking about himself. He always wanted to go out with Cynthia, and she'd never give him the time of day He's talking about himself. He always wanted to go out with Cynthia, and she'd never give him the time of day. But was he still holding an old grudge? Surely he wasn't, not after twenty years. And then he was smiling again, and the awkward moment had pa.s.sed.

"As for Mother, no, I didn't know she was working for you, but it doesn't matter. I'm quite capable of supporting her, but she'll have none of it. I'm afraid," he added, his brows arching, "that my mother doesn't quite approve of me. She's very much of the old country, despite the fact that she was born here, as were her parents and grandparents. She has yet to forgive me for my own success. So she supports herself by doing what she's always done, and whom she works for is no concern of mine. If it helps, I think I'd rather have her working for you than for someone else. At least I can count on you to treat her decently."

"I can't imagine anyone not-" Ellen began, but Torres cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"I'm sure everyone treats her fine. But she tends to imagine things, and sees slights where none are meant. Now, why don't we get back to Alex?"

Though Ellen would have liked to talk more of Maria, the force of Raymond Torres's personality engulfed her, and a moment later, as Torres wished, they were once more deeply involved in the possible meanings of Alex's experiences in San Francisco.

Alex opened his eyes and gazed at the monitors that surrounded him. The tests were over, and today, as he came up from the sedative, there had been none of the strange sounds and images that he had experienced before. He started to move, then remembered the restraints that held him in place so that he couldn't accidentally disturb the labyrinth of wires that were attached to his skull.

He heard the door open, and a few seconds later the doctor was gazing down at him. "How do you feel?"

"Okay," Alex replied. Then, as Torres began detaching him from the machinery: "Did you find out anything?"

"Not yet," Torres replied. "I'll have to spend some time a.n.a.lyzing the data. But there's something I want you to do. I want you to start wandering around La Paloma, just looking at things."

"I've done that," Alex said. As the last of the wires came free, Torres released the restraints, and Alex sat up, stretching. "I've done that a lot with Lisa Cochran."

Torres shook his head. "I want you to do it alone," he said. "I want you just to wander around, and let your eyes take things in. Don't study things, don't look for anything in particular. Just let your eyes see, and your mind react. Do you think you can do that?"

"I guess so. But why?"

"Call it an experiment," Torres replied. "Let's just see what happens, shall we? Something, somewhere in La Paloma, might trigger another memory, and maybe a pattern will emerge."

As his mother drove him home, Alex tried to figure out what kind of pattern Torres might be looking for, but could think of nothing.

All he could do, he realized, was follow Torres's instructions and see what happened.

After Alex and Ellen left, Raymond Torres sat at his desk for a long time, studying the results of the tests Alex had just taken. Today, for the first time, the tests had been only that, and nothing more.

No new data had been fed into Alex's mind, no new attempts had been made to fill his empty memory.

Instead, the electrical impulses that had been sent racing through his brain had been searching for something that Torres knew had to be there.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Alex's brain, there had to be a misconnection.

It was, as far as Torres could see, the only explanation for what had happened to Alex in San Francisco: somehow, during the long hours of the surgery, a mistake had been made, and the result was that Alex had had an emotional response.

He had cried.

Raymond Torres had never intended that Alex have an emotional response again.

Emotions-feelings-were not part of his plan.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"Well, I don't give a d.a.m.n what Ellen Lonsdale and Carol Cochran say, I say that Kate's grounded for the next two weeks!" Alan Lewis rose shakily to his feet, an empty gla.s.s in his hand, and started toward the cupboard where he kept his liquor. "Don't you think you've had enough?" Marty Lewis asked, carefully keeping her voice level. "It's not even noon yet."

"Not even noon yet," Alan sneered in the mocking singsong voice he always took on when his drinking was becoming serious. "For Christ's sake, Mart, it's Sunday. Even you don't have to go to work today."

"At least I go to work all week," Marty replied, and then immediately wished she could retrieve her words. But it was too late.