can wait,” Susan said. “I have my car—I can drive you home.”
Trouble! But there was no avoiding it now.
He stood. “I get off at four.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Susan Christopher said.
Rain all day, grey down the big office windows as he wheeled his cart around; rain when he followed Susan Christopher out to her car, red-blinking rain all up and down the dark rush-hour streets. Benjamin sank into the front passenger seat as Susan pulled out into the traffic. She said, “Do you know about John, about what he is?”
“A little,” Benjamin said. “I know more about him than I used to. His brain, right? His brain is different.” My brain, too, he thought: it’s where we live. Briefly, he imagined the kind of house called a “semi-detached,” two separate homes butted up against a common wall. Noisy neighbors, Benjamin thought. Used to be the wall was thicker; nothing came through. Now, when John was in control, Benjamin retained some sense of his own existence, as if he had retreated to an upstairs room where he could watch from the window, or just float and dream, while his raucous neighbor shouted and raved.
“His brain is unique,” Susan was saying. “He was made that way. There were hormones—drugs—that changed the way he grew.”
“Dr. Kyriakides.”
Susan nodded.
“And now that’s changing,” Benjamin guessed.
She gave him a second look, maybe surprised that he had guessed. She nodded. “The tissue in the brain is more fragile than anyone expected. It deteriorates—it may be doing that already.”
“A mental breakdown,” Benjamin said.
“Maybe. Maybe even worse than that. Not just for John—for you.
But he could not dispel the image of his brain (John’s brain) as a house, a cavernous mansion, strange and multichambered—now grown brittle, dry, drafty, and susceptible to flash fires. “You don’t really know what might happen.”
“No, not really.”
But
something
was happening; Benjamin knew it; and he guessed she was right, you couldn’t burn down half a house and leave the other half intact—what happened to John would surely happen to Benjamin, too. For years Benjamin had been John’s shadow, his half-self, a marionette. But in the last few months he had emerged into a real existence—a life; and when he said the word “I” it meant something; he had moved in with Amelie, who looked at him and saw Benjamin. “Benjamin,” she would say. Maybe he had let himself believe that this would go on forever… that John would fade; that John would become the shadow, reduced at last to “John,” a memory.
But now maybe we both lose. Maybe we’re both memory.
Susan drove into the core of St. Jamestown, where the peeling apartment towers stood like sentinels. She pulled up at the curb opposite the rooming house, but neither of them moved to get out. Susan turned the heater up.
Benjamin looked thoughtfully at her. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to help.”
“Help how?”
“I want you to see Dr. Kyriakides. I want you to let him treat you.”
“Can he change what’s happening?”
“We’re not sure. We’d like to find out.”
But the idea was disturbing. He felt a spasm of unease that was clearly John’s: as if John had rolled over inside him. “John doesn’t want me to do that.”
“He’s reluctant,” Susan admitted. “I’ve spoken to him.”
Benjamin gazed at the rain. “I don’t control him.”
“You control yourself.”
“I’m not sure—I don’t know if I could do something he didn’t really want. I mean, it’s never come to that.”
“I just want you to think about it,” Susan Christopher said. “That’s enough for now.”
“Oh, I’ll think about it.” Benjamin unlatched the door. “You can count on that.”
He crossed the rainy street to the boardinghouse, where the front door opened and Amelie stepped out, hugging herself, glancing a little nervously from Benjamin to the
Trouble! But there was no avoiding it now.
He stood. “I get off at four.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Susan Christopher said.
Rain all day, grey down the big office windows as he wheeled his cart around; rain when he followed Susan Christopher out to her car, red-blinking rain all up and down the dark rush-hour streets. Benjamin sank into the front passenger seat as Susan pulled out into the traffic. She said, “Do you know about John, about what he is?”
“A little,” Benjamin said. “I know more about him than I used to. His brain, right? His brain is different.” My brain, too, he thought: it’s where we live. Briefly, he imagined the kind of house called a “semi-detached,” two separate homes butted up against a common wall. Noisy neighbors, Benjamin thought. Used to be the wall was thicker; nothing came through. Now, when John was in control, Benjamin retained some sense of his own existence, as if he had retreated to an upstairs room where he could watch from the window, or just float and dream, while his raucous neighbor shouted and raved.
“His brain is unique,” Susan was saying. “He was made that way. There were hormones—drugs—that changed the way he grew.”
“Dr. Kyriakides.”
Susan nodded.
“And now that’s changing,” Benjamin guessed.
She gave him a second look, maybe surprised that he had guessed. She nodded. “The tissue in the brain is more fragile than anyone expected. It deteriorates—it may be doing that already.”
“A mental breakdown,” Benjamin said.
“Maybe. Maybe even worse than that. Not just for John—for you.
But he could not dispel the image of his brain (John’s brain) as a house, a cavernous mansion, strange and multichambered—now grown brittle, dry, drafty, and susceptible to flash fires. “You don’t really know what might happen.”
“No, not really.”
But
something
was happening; Benjamin knew it; and he guessed she was right, you couldn’t burn down half a house and leave the other half intact—what happened to John would surely happen to Benjamin, too. For years Benjamin had been John’s shadow, his half-self, a marionette. But in the last few months he had emerged into a real existence—a life; and when he said the word “I” it meant something; he had moved in with Amelie, who looked at him and saw Benjamin. “Benjamin,” she would say. Maybe he had let himself believe that this would go on forever… that John would fade; that John would become the shadow, reduced at last to “John,” a memory.
But now maybe we both lose. Maybe we’re both memory.
Susan drove into the core of St. Jamestown, where the peeling apartment towers stood like sentinels. She pulled up at the curb opposite the rooming house, but neither of them moved to get out. Susan turned the heater up.
Benjamin looked thoughtfully at her. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to help.”
“Help how?”
“I want you to see Dr. Kyriakides. I want you to let him treat you.”
“Can he change what’s happening?”
“We’re not sure. We’d like to find out.”
But the idea was disturbing. He felt a spasm of unease that was clearly John’s: as if John had rolled over inside him. “John doesn’t want me to do that.”
“He’s reluctant,” Susan admitted. “I’ve spoken to him.”
Benjamin gazed at the rain. “I don’t control him.”
“You control yourself.”
“I’m not sure—I don’t know if I could do something he didn’t really want. I mean, it’s never come to that.”
“I just want you to think about it,” Susan Christopher said. “That’s enough for now.”
“Oh, I’ll think about it.” Benjamin unlatched the door. “You can count on that.”
He crossed the rainy street to the boardinghouse, where the front door opened and Amelie stepped out, hugging herself, glancing a little nervously from Benjamin to the
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