Final Disposition (7 page)

      “Sorry, I was just trying to figure something out,” Cellars said distractedly.

      “Might be easier to just ask.”

      “Your face … I can’t decide … Greek?  Your nose isn’t the right shape but your eyes are certainly dark enough.  Spanish?  Maybe, but your skin is a little too light.  Italian?  That’s possible, but your eyes turn down in a slightly Asian way?”

      “You can’t remember anything about who you are, but yet you‘re aware of racial and cultural features?”

      “Apparently,” Cellars said with a shrug.  “Some kind of knowledge base buried in the back of my head, I guess; but I have no idea if it’s real or imaginary.”

      “Sounds real enough to me, Cowboy.  There’s an island right off the southernmost tip of Italy that was invaded by just about everybody throughout history.  That’s where I hail from.”

      “Sicily?”

      “Global maps, too, huh?  Well, don’t sound so dumbstruck.  There
are
people living there.”

      “Yeah, but you probably know the, uh, reputation of those residents is a bit checkered?”

      “Are we talking about the history of violence that Sicilians are supposedly known for?”

      “Exactly.  But I suppose that’s probably just an exaggeration, right?  I mean, the whole ‘mafia’ thing, revenge, and the tendency to carry on a grudge in some spectacular ways — that’s all exaggerated by fiction and the movies, right?”

      Marcini paused for a long moment, looking straight into Cellar’s eyes, then repeated, “what do you want for dinner?”

      “Aren’t we going to wait for the waitress?”

      “Dream on, Cowboy,” Marcini chuckled.  “You wait here.”

      She walked quickly around the table, heading toward the serving counter … a movement that immediately caught MacGregor’s attention.

      Cellars glanced over his shoulder, briefly observing that Marcini’s snug nurses uniform left little to the imagination.

      
Okay, be that way
, Cellars thought, as he turned his attention back to MacGregor.  He was pleasantly aware that the primitive portion of his brain was humming contentedly again as he slid his chair back from the table, crossed his left ankle over his right leg, reached into his jacket packet, and then got to work, being careful to keep his hands hidden under the table.

      Two minutes later, Lisa Marcini was back with a pair of frosted metal containers — both filled to the top with a malt-looking substance — that she sat on the table in front of Cellars.  A straw was sticking out of the top of both containers.

      “Try one of those,” she said … and then stared at the object in Cellar’s hand.  “And just what are you doing with that?’ she asked.

      “Found it strapped to the bed frame,” he said, holding up the small electronic device.  “Been trying to figure out what it is and how it works.”

      “It’s a new variation on the i-Phone™ and i-Touch™ that functions as a radio as well as a telephone and audio/video player,” she said, walking over next to his chair and taking the small electronic device from his hands.  “It’s called a j-Connector.

      “J-Connector?”

      “You know about tools and guns and lots of other guy stuff, but you don’t know about j-Connectors?”

      “Apparently not,” Cellars shrugged.

      “Welcome to the brave new world of total communication,” Lisa Marcini said, smiling and shaking her head in amusement as she sat down in the chair next to him.  “What you do is press this button here,” she went on, waiting for the bright display to appear on the rectangular screen, “slide this bar across with your finger to activate the menu, and then make your selection.”

      “Wow.”  Cellars blinked, and then watched in astonishment as the colorful menus smoothly changed under the sliding touch of her index finger.  “That’s pretty amazing technology.”

      “You’ve really never seen one before?”

      “Not that I know of … is it yours?”

      “No, it’s yours,” Marcini said, “a bonus part of your recovery program.  We find that patients with —”

      She hesitated, and then went on smoothly, “— brain injuries respond well to certain types of music.”

      “Certain types?”

      “It seems to be a personal thing.  Some patients like classical music, some rock, some heavy metal.  You, on the other hand —”

      “Don’t tell me,” he said, “country western?”

      “That would have been my first guess,” she nodded, “but no, you had to be … unusual.”

      “In that —?”

      “Your brain seems to have a thing for rock music played by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.”

      “Really?”  Cellars cocked his head curiously.

      “Hey, don’t worry, you’re still Cowboy as far as I’m concerned,” Marcini said reassuringly, her dark eyes flashing as she handed the electronic device back to him, “but all I had to do is slip those earphones into your ears, select the Symphonic Rock album, hit the ‘shuffle’ and ‘play’ buttons, and then watch your neural monitors smooth out like glass as your mind drifted away.”

      “Must have made for some pretty boring night shifts if all us patients do is drift and sleep,” he suggested as he used his index finger to flip through the menus.

      “Some people are definitely easier to deal with than others,” she said, giving the distant MacGregor a meaningful glance.  “On the other hand, I don’t think your watchdog would be all that soothed by nice music.”

      “No, probably not,” Cellars agreed, still fascinated by the electronic device.

      “Which reminds me,” Marcini went on.  “Does the song ‘
This Magic Moment
’ meaning anything to you?”

      Cellars thought for a long moment and then shook his head.  “No, I don’t think so.  What kind of song is it?”

      “One of the most beautiful love songs ever composed, in my opinion,” she replied.  “Written by a couple of guys named Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman for a group named ‘The Drifters.’  Any of that ring a bell?”

      “No, should it?”

      Marcini hesitate a moment.

      “The doctor’s think so,” she finally said.  “A part of our standard evaluation process for patients who’ve suffered head injuries is to expose them to a wide range of music while monitoring the different functional areas of their brain under the fMRI.  It turns out that music — much like smell — is an extremely effective and sensitive tool for retrieving or enhancing specific memories.”

      “You mean ‘personal’ memories, like the ones I don’t seem to have any more?”

      Marcini hesitated again.  “I’m not sure you and I should be discussing this without one of the doctors being present.”

      “You mean like Grayforth and Vargas, my recent inquisitors?” Cellar asked, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice.

      “On the other hand,” Marcini went on smoothly, “you seem much more comfortable and relaxed talking with me, so I really doubt that I’m causing you any harm.”

      “Apart from the little guy,” Cellars reminded teasingly, visibly relaxing again.

      “He’s definitely going to have to toughen up a bit if we’re going to continue to be around each other,” Marcini said, fixing him with a brief dimple-grinned stare.  “But to answer your question, no, the human brain’s memory response to music seems to be more related to the retrieval of abstract data related to specific songs or themes, and not to actual blocks of memory.”

      “You keep on saying ‘human brain,’” Cellars noted.  “Does that mean non-human brains react to music differently than we do?”

      “Very much so.  In fact, a lot of species don’t react to music at all.  As best we can tell, they just hear it as a jumble of unrelated and therefore meaningless noises … no sense of the underlying themes, melodies and harmonics.  There’s an awful lot that we don’t know about how brains work … humans in particular.”

      “So that’s what you were doing when I regained consciousness … using the fMRI and music to try to figure out how mine works?”

      Marcini hesitated once more, her timing predictable now, and Cellars could feel his cerebellum starting to get a sense of the flow and rhythm of her answers to specific kinds of questions.

      
Wow, this is pretty cool
, he thought abstractly,
like I’ve got my own internal fMRI.  Wonder if I could always do this?  Too bad I can’t remember.

      “That’s right,” she finally said.

      “So you’re not really a nurse, like Vargas wasn’t really a medical doctor?”

      He said it matter-of-factly, like it was an obvious observation rather than an accusation, but it caused Marcini’s head to snap up sharply.

      “Dr. Vargas had to have gone though basic medical school to become a clinical psychiatrist,” she said firmly, “and I can assure you that I am a fully qualified RN.”

      “I’m sure you are —” Cellars responded, feeling the individual functions of his brain responding enthusiastically to the sudden and unanticipated shift in the pitch, timbre, contour, rhythm and tempo of her wonderfully soothing voice. 

      He had the sudden sense that he could play her voice like some incredibly complex musical instrument, and the realization was almost overwhelming.

      “So why did you —?”

      “— but I get the feeling you know too much about the brain and music — especially the non-human and abstract data parts — to
just
be an RN.”

      He said it matter-of-factly again, but this time the words came out as a gentle question.

      Her hesitation felt almost sensual in the deep recesses of his neural awareness.

      “I also hold an advanced degree in neuro-psychology … and yes, you’re right, I am conducting research on your condition, as well as assisting with your treatment,” she finally acknowledged, and then locked on to his eyes with her dark, smoldering gaze.  “Does that bother you … that I’m working with you in a somewhat covert manner?”

      Cellars shook his head.

      “On the contrary,” he said with a relaxed smile, “I’m delighted that you’re scientifically interested in how my brain works; especially since I have a very similar interest in yours.”

      “A scientific interest?”  Marcini cocked her head skeptically.

      “If you count music as a science — which you seem very inclined to do — then yes, I think I can make a good case that my interest in you has a very firm scientific base.”

      “This ought to be good,” Marcini commented.  Her voice and eyes glistened with amusement.

      “I’m very confident that it will be,” Cellars promised. “So tell me, what other music did I respond positively to besides ‘
This Magic Moment
’?”

      Marcini thought for a moment.

      “The Beatles’ ‘
Let it Be’
… Elton John’s ‘
Candle In the Wind
’ … Elvis Presley’s version of ‘
Always On My Mind
’ … ‘
Cherish
’ by The Association … and two songs by Jim Croce: ‘
I Have To Say I Love You In A Song
’ and ‘
Time in A Bottle
’,” she finally said.  “There were others, but those stood out in terms of what we saw as fairly dramatic synapse responses.”

      Cellars had been listening intently to the melodic shifts in her voice as she listed each song.

      “Do you like those songs also?” he asked gently, wondering if she would try to mask her own all-too-obvious emotions.

      “Very much so,” she replied without hesitation.

      “And how would you categorize them?”

      “As very beautiful love songs.”

      “Every one of them?”

      “Yes.  Each in their own way, of course; but —” she started to respond, but then hesitated.  “You don’t remember hearing any of those songs, do you?”

      “Not by name.”  Cellars shook his head.

      “They’re in your j-Connector, under ‘Colin’s Favorites,’” Marcini said.  “You can listen to them any time you want.”

      “You mean by myself, not under fMRI observation?”

      Marcini nodded.

      “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

      Marcini hesitated for another perfect beat.

      “From my scientific viewpoint,” she finally said, “it appears that you may be a very romantic fellow beneath that rough Cowboy exterior.  I find that idea … intriguing, in a scientific way, of course,” she added with a dimpled grin.

      “Exterior?” Cellars cocked his head curiously.

      “The cuts and bruises on your hands, arms, head … and pretty much the rest of your body,” she explained.  “The first time I saw you in our version of an ER — without much on, they were cutting away your clothes — looking all bloody, scrawny and beat up, I said something to the effect that it looked like you’d spent most of your life riding bulls and working with barbed wire.”

      “Ah.”

      “And speaking of being scrawny,” she reminded, gesturing with her head at the metal containers that had begun to drip water down their warming sides, “are you planning on eating anything?”

      “Oh yeah,” he said, setting the j-Connector aside and reaching for one of the containers, “forgot I was hungry.  What is this?”

      “Try it.”

      Cellars took a tentative sip, blinked in surprise, pulled the straw out, quickly sucked the contents out, set it on the table, and proceeded to drink half the container in one long and steady gulp.

      “Find it edible?” she asked teasingly.

      “No, delicious,” Cellars corrected, and then quickly finished off the contents of the metal container in a second long gulp.  “What is it?”

      “Classic high-carb, high-protein energy drink: soy protein, vitamins, ice cream, couple of raw eggs, chocolate syrup, and milk.  My special recipe.”

      Cellars set the first container down and looked at the second one.

      “Are we sharing,” he asked, looking up at Marcini.

      “No, I’m going to make myself something more substantial — and far less fattening — for dinner.  But you’re going to want to drink the second one a little more slowly, so that your stomach doesn’t send it back up in protest, and I have to clean it all up.  Fair deal?”