and shook the earth. He couldn't get away from the sound. It came again and again. His mouth was crusted with dirt. Dirt was in his mouth, too. His mind wandered around his life. At one point he was telling the pretty blond doctor taking care of his sister that he'd rather die than Chloe.
He still dreamed about the way the doctor ruffled his hair, and said, "You're a fine child, we don't want to lose you."
He tried to explain that he was the boy, he should be the one. Boys were always picked first.
But she shook her head. "We can't make the change. It doesn't work like that."
Why not? They were twins. They had the same blood. Wasn't he supposed to get whatever she got?
"You're the lucky one. It's not your fault. You just didn't get it."
But would he get it later?
"No," the doctor said. "No. You won't ever get it."
But how could he
know
that? He wandered on through his life. He lost consciousness again. The next time he heard his own gasping breath he thought he was drunk at a loft party in SoHo.
Ninth grade.
The cool kids had gotten a couple of kegs of beer, marijuana, and some pills he later found out were Ecstasy. About seventy-five kids were there. His friend George had invited him. When Maslow told him he wasn't allowed to go to loft parties, George told him not to worry, it wasn't a real loft party. George had this car service. He said they could leave anytime they wanted. Maslow's father was away on a business trip, as usual, and his mother hadn't cared about anything for a long time. So he went in George's limo.
George got them in the door. Then he gave Maslow some beer. Maslow took it even though he was nervous. It looked like a loft party to
him.
He drank some beer and started talking to this girl, Gloria. The beer made him feel less nervous. Gloria was very pretty. She asked him how old he was.
He thought his answer over very carefully. Gloria looked pretty old to him, maybe as old as eighteen. She was wearing a tight dress, really short. He was afraid if he said sixteen, she might think he was too young.
"Seventeen," he said.
She made a face. "I'm only fifteen. You're too old for me." She was dancing alone to the music.
Quickly, he changed his tune. "I was just kidding. I'm really only sixteen." He felt stupid; he couldn't even dance with her.
"Why lie about something like that?" She walked away.
He had another beer, and the beer made him feel it didn't matter. After a while he had two more. Then George passed him a bong and he had a few puffs. He'd seen bongs in the Village, but this was the first time he'd had one in his hand. He puffed and the pot smoke nearly took his head off.
That was how he felt lying in a puddle unable to move now. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. There was dirt all over him. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be awake and remember his dead sister, about whom he did not think much anymore. It was very dark, the roar came and went, and the smell was like death.
Ten
A lmost as soon as Jason had finished talking with April, he was sorry about involving the police in the Maslow situation before looking into it a little further himself. As the morning progressed, several explanations occurred to him. Maslow was on staff at Manhattan East, a psychiatric hospital. An emergency there-a suicide, or some other crisis, could easily have kept him busy all night. Maslow might well have been on call last night. Jason forgot to mention that to April, and later felt a little ashamed of himself for using a police detective as his own private investigator.
Jason's anxiety about what he'd done was transmitted to his first three patients. He was supposed to maintain the highest level of interest in the most detailed of accounts of his patients' daily lives. As soon as his attention wavered, and the precious empathic bond was severed, his patients always retaliated. He understood this, but he was human and these comments often got to him despite all he knew.
That morning,
He still dreamed about the way the doctor ruffled his hair, and said, "You're a fine child, we don't want to lose you."
He tried to explain that he was the boy, he should be the one. Boys were always picked first.
But she shook her head. "We can't make the change. It doesn't work like that."
Why not? They were twins. They had the same blood. Wasn't he supposed to get whatever she got?
"You're the lucky one. It's not your fault. You just didn't get it."
But would he get it later?
"No," the doctor said. "No. You won't ever get it."
But how could he
know
that? He wandered on through his life. He lost consciousness again. The next time he heard his own gasping breath he thought he was drunk at a loft party in SoHo.
Ninth grade.
The cool kids had gotten a couple of kegs of beer, marijuana, and some pills he later found out were Ecstasy. About seventy-five kids were there. His friend George had invited him. When Maslow told him he wasn't allowed to go to loft parties, George told him not to worry, it wasn't a real loft party. George had this car service. He said they could leave anytime they wanted. Maslow's father was away on a business trip, as usual, and his mother hadn't cared about anything for a long time. So he went in George's limo.
George got them in the door. Then he gave Maslow some beer. Maslow took it even though he was nervous. It looked like a loft party to
him.
He drank some beer and started talking to this girl, Gloria. The beer made him feel less nervous. Gloria was very pretty. She asked him how old he was.
He thought his answer over very carefully. Gloria looked pretty old to him, maybe as old as eighteen. She was wearing a tight dress, really short. He was afraid if he said sixteen, she might think he was too young.
"Seventeen," he said.
She made a face. "I'm only fifteen. You're too old for me." She was dancing alone to the music.
Quickly, he changed his tune. "I was just kidding. I'm really only sixteen." He felt stupid; he couldn't even dance with her.
"Why lie about something like that?" She walked away.
He had another beer, and the beer made him feel it didn't matter. After a while he had two more. Then George passed him a bong and he had a few puffs. He'd seen bongs in the Village, but this was the first time he'd had one in his hand. He puffed and the pot smoke nearly took his head off.
That was how he felt lying in a puddle unable to move now. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. There was dirt all over him. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be awake and remember his dead sister, about whom he did not think much anymore. It was very dark, the roar came and went, and the smell was like death.
Ten
A lmost as soon as Jason had finished talking with April, he was sorry about involving the police in the Maslow situation before looking into it a little further himself. As the morning progressed, several explanations occurred to him. Maslow was on staff at Manhattan East, a psychiatric hospital. An emergency there-a suicide, or some other crisis, could easily have kept him busy all night. Maslow might well have been on call last night. Jason forgot to mention that to April, and later felt a little ashamed of himself for using a police detective as his own private investigator.
Jason's anxiety about what he'd done was transmitted to his first three patients. He was supposed to maintain the highest level of interest in the most detailed of accounts of his patients' daily lives. As soon as his attention wavered, and the precious empathic bond was severed, his patients always retaliated. He understood this, but he was human and these comments often got to him despite all he knew.
That morning,
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