F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (20 page)

 
          
A
pretty busy fellow in his day, it seemed, but Perseus's major accomplishment
was killing Medusa, the snake-haired horror whose visage turned men to stone.
He did it by not looking directly at her, but watching her in the polished
surface of his shield as he walked backward. To fool Medusa about his backward
approach, he'd worn a mask on the back of his head.

 
          
Right.
The Perseus sculpture Samantha broke in the memoryscape had some sort of face
on the back of its helmet.

 
          
Whatever,
the trick worked: Perseus got close enough to cut off Medusa's head.

 
          
But
why was Perseus substituted for the microscope in Sam's memory? What was the
point? The mask? The shield mirror? Looking backward?
Not
looking
backward?

 
          
Was
there a point?

 
          
Frustrated,
Julie jammed the book back into its slot on the shelf and went upstairs to
Sam's bedroom.

 
          
She
stopped on the threshold. White curtains were drawn against the morning light.
A woman in a starched nurse's uniform swiveled in her chair, her reading
glasses perched precariously on her nose. She started at the sight of her,
glanced quickly at her patient, then back to Julie.

 
          
Yeah,
we're
twins.

 
          
Julie
raised a hand to the nurse, indicating that there was no need to get up.

 
          
Sam's
room
—
but different.

 
          
Toward
the end, before she ran off to
Europe
, Sam had started filling her walls with art, her own
bizarre sketches and strange drawings from the other students at art school,
along with garish images ripped from punk-rock magazines, all haphazardly
taped to the wall.

 
          
Most
of them were gone. This wasn't Sam's room anymore.

           
Only one painting remained on the
wall now, something Sam did when she was young. A country house in a meadow,
sitting under a perfect blue sky. Unusual for Sam's work, even at that early
age. The only giveaway that Sam did the painting was the windows in the house.
They were all black, dark ugly smudges dotting the carefully rendered
clapboard.

 
          
Julie's
eyes always were drawn to those black holes, to the secrets inside the house.

 
          
The
nurse was still looking up.

 
          
"Miss,
would you like a few minutes alone?"

 
          
She
had a thick
Manchester
accent; she spoke in a
hushed tone as if this were a wake.

 
          
Which
it may very well be, thought Julie.

 
          
Julie
shook her head. "No, thank you."

 
          
She
walked around the bed to the makeshift computer table holding her equipment. Everything
looked in good order. She'd have to check the connections, of course, then do
some
tests to
see if the satellite link was operational.

 
          
She
flicked a switch. The computer beeped, and ran through its diagnostic check.

 
          
She
looked at Sam, half expecting her to react to the noise.

 
          
But
she lay there, immobile. Her skin smooth, her face relaxed, giving no hint of
the chaos within. She looked free. At peace.

 
          
Julie
looked around for another chair and saw an oak straight-back against the wall.
Sam used to
sit
in
it
and pretend to do homework, all the while
filling sketchbook after sketchbook.

 
          
Julie
pulled the chair to the console and sat down.

3

 
          
It
took most of the afternoon to initialize the system and set
^;
jf the
protocols with the satellite link.

 
          
When
everything was up and running, she asked the nurse to call Eathan into the
room.

 
          
"I
think I'm all ready," she said when he arrived.

 
          
"You're
going in
now?
Can't you wait until after dinner?"

           
Julie shook her head. "No. Time
is important, I think. I told you, I'm concerned about progressive
deterioration. Besides, Dr. Siegal is on-line and waiting. Is something
wrong?"

 
          
"I
have to go to
Leeds
, to pick up someone at the
airport."

 
          
She
turned. "Really? Who?"

 
          
"Someone
who may help. Someone who you'll want to meet. But that's
my
secret
until dinner."

 
          
She
smiled. "Thanks for letting me do this. I know you don't agree...."

 
          
Eathan
raised a finger.

 
          
"Just
be careful."

 
          
"Not
to worry. Dr. Siegal will be monitoring me all the way."

 
          
This
time,
anyway.

 
          
"The
wonders of modern technology. Oh
—
what about the nurse?"

 
          
"She'd
better wait outside. What I'm doing is about as deep an invasion as one can
make. I'd like to show some respect for Sam's privacy."

 
          
"Consider
it done."

 
          
As
Eathan and the nurse left, Julie donned her helmet, then slipped the data glove
onto her right hand.

 
          
She
opened and shut the fingers, double-checking that her guide, the glove, was in
good working condition.

 
          
She
spoke softly. "Okay, Sam
—
let's see what you've been up
to while I was away."

 
          
Julie
used the glove to press icons on the screen, initializing the programs,
establishing the link, checking the feedback system. A green light at the
bottom told her that the feed was going out to Dr. S.

 
          
"Here
we go," Julie said.

 
          
She
leaned forward; it had been days since her last visit. She licked her dry lips.
Would there be anything left?

 
          
Memories
die. If the brain loses synoptic
connections
to a
memory, it's
gone forever
—
the event cannot be
reconstructed
by the brain's convergence systems, at least not without help.

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

           
You sense it immediately.

 
          
It's
different.

 
          
Sam's
memoryscape is even more of a disaster zone, more of a post-apocalyptic
nightmare. There's been change, deterioration.

 
          
You
recognize the nodes that you visited previously, barely glowing in the
deepening gloom. The dollhouse estate appears to be sinking into the scorched
surface of the 'scape as though it were quicksand, taking its childhood
memories with it.

 
          
Some
of the glowing mounds you saw on the horizon during your first visit have
disappeared completely, and the remaining there are like scattered blooms in
the desert.

 
          
This
is bad. If you had any doubts about the progressive deterioration of Sam's memoryscape,
this confirms them. Her mind
—
her life, her
self
—
are disappearing before your eyes.

           
But wait... the studio is still
glowing. Have the paintings within changed? The studio is key, you're convinced
of it.

 
          
But
you keep turning, farther to your right. And there on the horizon, something
still glows, pulsating with life. Excitement bubbles within you as you point
the glove and sail toward it.

 
          
Along
the way, you notice a white ball
—
glaringly white
—
rolling along the ground on a path diagonal to yours. Your
paths will intersect ahead. You look beyond it for someplace from which it
could have sprung but you see nothing, no one. It appears to be moving under
its own power. You pause, waiting for it to come within reach, and when it
does, you touch it. The ball stops. Its glowing white surface shimmers as a
seam forms along its equator. It splits open and the northern hemisphere flips
back, revealing its contents.

 
          
A
cube, as black as the charred surface of the 'scape. You touch it and it splits
open, revealing another glaringly white sphere. You touch the sphere and
nothing happens. Nothing else nests within.

 
          
Another
crazy matrioshka doll. First Sam in Julie in Sam, now this. Is there a reason
for only three nested dolls? God, is it important? And why are two of the dolls
always the same? What does it mean?

 
          
Your
growing frustration tempts you to boot the whole mess across the memoryscape.
But before you can do anything, the black cube snaps closed on the smaller
sphere, and the outer sphere closes over the cube. The ball begins rolling
again, rolling away, origin and destination unknown.

 
          
You
watch it for a moment, then continue on toward the pulsating light. As you near
it you see a vast plain. Odd figures stand here and there, a man on his knees,
a girl holding a bird skeleton in her hands. A multicolored cube swirls, oozing
color as though alive.

 
          
The
figures cast long, black shadows ... and now you remember seeing this
painting. You laugh. You
know
this strange place. It's a Salvador Dali,
one of his whimsical surreal landscapes:
The First Days of Spring.
You
prefer his earlier, more realistic work. This is dumb. But to Sam this was a
disturbing painting, sad, overwhelming. You didn't get it.

 
          
So
much about art you never got. All those extra courses you took in Saint
Martha's School, determined to show Sam you could be as artsy-fartsy as she.
All it took was a little effort.

 
          
Not.
Even with a lot of effort, you never got it. But you have an excellent memory.
You can see a painting and name the artist, the work, and even the year it was
painted. But as to what it means or what it does for you?

 
          
Usually
nothing.

 
          
But
now to enter the painting, to see the figures move, the shadows stretch to the
horizon, the colors pulsate ... it's wonderful. Incredibly beautiful.

 
          
And
then you see something else. A new structure, not in the painting.

 
          
A
house.

 
          
You
stop. Something terribly familiar about that house.

 
          
You
don't move any closer. You want an answer first.
Whose house is it?

 
          
You
look down at the ribbon bar showing Sam's respiration and pulse. Both have
picked up. Because you're here? Or because
—
?

 
          
The
house. You know what it is now. It's the house in
Putnam
County
, in
Millburn
.
Your
house
—
before the fire, before it burned and took your mother and
father away.

 
          
A
pang of loss hits you like a blow, surprising you. Funny, you thought you were
over that.

 
          
You
hesitate.

 
          
You've
pictured the house before, even thought about it, but always in flames. Always
with the fire in the basement racing to the first floor, quickly dancing up to
the roof. Always with your father rushing back in, running, hurrying to save
your mother.

 
          
You
never imagine the house like this: peaceful and intact, small and inviting,
with a front porch with an old-fashioned glider, the clapboard siding painted
eggshell white with rose trim.

 
          
They're
in there, you think.

 
          
Your
mother, your father, captured by Sam's memory, lookine the houselike they did.

 
          
Still,
you don't move. It's too much for you.

 
          
And
yet, how can you turn away? How can you
not
go in?

           
You point your glove at the old
Victorian house and begin to glide toward it, up to the front door. It opens
and ...

 
          
...
the smells waft around you
—
the rich, sharp tang of the
crackling fireplace competing with the aroma of the dinner in the oven, a roast
of some kind. The light-bedizened balsam in the corner adds a pine scent to the
mix.

 
          
A
man comes out of the kitchen. Dark hair, thick, dark mustache, and piercing
eyes.

           
Daddy.

 
          
The
word, the concept, so ancient, so primal. Your heart stops. Time stops. You
want to run to him, throw your arms around him, but you can't. You're not here.
You're Scrooge and this is Christmas Past. You can only watch.

 
          
You
watch Daddy stop at the fireplace and stare at it. He crouches and grabs a
poker. He jabs at the wood, stabbing it, forcing it to burn hotter, brighter.

 
          
Little
Julie and Sammi are crouching too, huddled together on the stairs. So small,
just past toddler age, two girls in matching Dr. Demon's. No way to tell them
apart, no way to keep them apart. They heard the shouting and have come down to
see.

 
          
Someone
else comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a flowered apron. It's Mom.
Her blond hair in a Brady Bunch shag, and her smile so fragile, as if ready to
crumble at any second. Except when she looks at you.

 
          
Mom
... as if it were yesterday.

 
          
"Nathan,"
she says. "Nathan, we have to talk."

 
          
Daddy
continues his assault on the wood, unable to leave the fireplace, to turn to
the woman.

 
          
Finally,
he stands up, slowly leaning the poker against the red brick hearth.

 
          
"And
what exactly did you want to talk about?"

 
          
Mom
comes closer. Another wipe of the hands on the apron. Struggling to clean them,
to make the stain go away.

 
          
"Nathan,
what I said, I didn't mean."

 
          
"Oh,
you didn't? That wasn't what you meant? Why the hell
else
would you say
something like that?"

           
Mom doesn't move. She stands her
ground. She shakes her head. "Because we have no
life.
You and your
work, this obsession with your theories. You're never here. And when you
are..." She glances toward the stairs and sees the two forms crouched
there. "Never mind."

 
          
"No,
Lucy, I won't 'never mind.' I care more about our family than you can
imagine." He takes a step toward his wife. "But who do
you
care
about? Who do
you
love?"

 
          
Why
is he asking her that? And like that?

 
          
Mom
shakes her head. She looks like she's about to cry. The two girls are frozen on
the stairs, an audience watching everything, understanding none of it.

 
          
"I-I-"

 
          
Another
step, and he's in her face, yelling. "Answer me! Who the hell do
you
love?
Who the hell do
you
care about?"

 
          
And
Mom turns away
—
except she turns slowly
—
like a wind-up ballerina. Her gaze falls on the two girls.

 
          
There's
an answer there. Through the yelling, the jumble of smells and emotions... an
answer.

 
          
And
then a knock on the door. Ignoring it, Daddy turns back to the fire and stabs
at the logs again. Mommy hesitates, then goes to the door and opens it.

 
          
It's
Uncle Eathan, looking incredibly
young,
with longer hair and a much
fuller beard than he wears now. The girls are so glad to see him. Even Mommy
forces a smile.

 
          
"What's
up, doc?" she says.

 
          
You
pull back. Too abruptly, and you're out of the house. No door slams behind you.

 
          
Did
the memory end, or was there more to see?

 
          
The
feelings overwhelm you. And you think: I don't get overwhelmed by feelings.
Christ, that's not me. And then there's a more important question: What is this
memory doing here?

 
          
At
least some part of the memoryscape is alive and you should be glad about that.

 
          
But
it's starting to feel like a minefield. And you've got so many unanswered
questions.

           
You click on the Window button and a
few seconds later Dr. Siegal appears.

 
          
"Yes,
Julie? Ready to come out?"

 
          
"Not
yet."