The Unseen World (46 page)

“Want to see something else?” said Gregory. “Come on, I'll show you.”

He opened the door in the hallway that led to the attic, flicked a switch at the bottom of the stairs that sent bright light down toward them from the ceiling under the roof. Ada followed him up the stairs and looked over the half wall at the top.

The attic was a time machine: not a thing had changed.

The posters on the walls, the orange shag carpeting, the tattered couches, the boxes in the corner: all of it was there.

“It was the deal I made with Kathryn,” said Gregory, ruefully. “I told her she could do whatever she wanted with the rest of the house.”

There, on the desk, was the same computer that had been there since their childhood: the 128K Macintosh. Ada walked toward it.

“Does it still work?” she asked.

“I haven't tried it in years,” said Gregory. “But let's see.” And he waved her toward it with a nod of his head.

She put a hand on it. The top of it was a beige square of hard plastic with an indentation, like a fontanelle, along the back. The smallness of the screen surprised her: she had remembered it being larger. There, in the front, was a built-in disk drive; and attached by cords were an external disk drive, a stout keyboard with fat little keys and a number pad, and a boxy mouse. The wires themselves were thick and gray. One was corkscrewed, like an old-fashioned telephone cord.

She had forgotten how shaky these computers felt, how much they rattled, like brains in skulls. The keyboard, when she touched it, sent a shock of nostalgia through her. She was thrilled by the familiarity of it, the feel of it when she touched any letter.
Ada Sibelius
, she typed, and the keyboard clacked like teeth. It sounded as if it were loaded with springs. She missed buttons like these, fat hearty ones, buttons it took real intention to depress.

She turned on the power switch and held her breath for a
moment. Nothing happened. And then a tone sounded, and it whirred satisfyingly to life. A little floppy disk icon with a question mark appeared in the center of the gray screen. Its mind was missing from its body, as David used to say.

“Here,” Gregory said, reaching into the case next to the computer, pulling out for her the floppy that contained the operating system.

She fed the disk into its mouth as if it were a child, and reflexively it swallowed, and she paused to register a sound she had not heard in decades: the loud shuddering scratch of a thinking machine. Machines thought so quietly now.

The question mark turned into a smiling computer. Slowly it woke from its long dreamless sleep. And in its waking Ada, too, was roused by memories: of Liston, of David, of Hayato and Charles-Robert and Frank Halbert. Only the latter three were still alive; the machine had outlived the rest.

The funny thing about early home computers, she thought, was that they really did nothing. The main disk contained a calculator, a notepad, some other silly small applications that took up little memory. The only icon on the desktop she didn't recognize belonged to whatever disk was in the external hard drive, which someone had titled
Dontlook12
.

Gregory began to laugh. He put a hand over his eyes. “Oh, God,” he said.

“What?” asked Ada.

He waved a finger toward the icon. “Just reliving my most humiliating childhood memory,” he said. “Of many,” he added.

Ada raised her eyebrows, shook her head.

“You don't remember?” said Gregory. “Really?”

She looked back at the desktop, and then finally a vague memory came back to her: something about a long string of encrypted text, most likely created by Gregory.

“Oh,” said Ada. “The encryption you made when we were kids?”

Gregory was still shaking his head, laughing. “I don't know how
you ever looked at me again,” he said, “after you read that. I wanted to die. You were nice not to tease me about it.”

And then it all came back: she had told him once she'd decrypted it, she realized.

“I never read it!” she said. “I saw it, but William interrupted me before I'd finished.”

“You're kidding,” said Gregory. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” said Ada. “I promise. I think I was just trying to make you feel bad when I found you in David's house later.”

Gregory dropped his hands to his sides. “I spent years and years being embarrassed about that. I can't believe it.”

“What did it say?” said Ada.

Gregory paused. He turned toward her. His face was kind, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, uncanny, a time traveler's face. It tugged at her. It rang a bell someplace deep in her abdomen.

“Never mind,” said Gregory.

“
I
have to tell you something now,” he said.

“What?”

“Two things, actually.”

“What are they?”

“You'll hate me for them.”

“No, I won't,” said Ada, and she meant it; in that moment it didn't seem possible.

“I took the disk,” said Gregory. “I took David's disk, the original copy. I was seventeen. You had just left for college.”

She paused, regarded him. He looked solemn, his head lowered, as if waiting for a blow.

“Why?” she asked him.

“I wanted to solve it. I wanted to be the one to solve it for you,” said Gregory.

“I could have solved it myself,” said Ada. “I think I would have, eventually.”

“I know you would have,” said Gregory. “It made no sense. It was wrong. When I was a kid,” he began, but then he shook his head. “I meant to put it back before you noticed it was gone, but I forgot to. And then my mother told you she must have thrown it out, and then I was too embarrassed to confess.”

Gregory darted a glance at her. Looked down again.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so sorry. It was incredibly wrong of me. I've thought for years about returning it to you, but instead I've just been avoiding the issue altogether.”

“Well,” said Ada. “Thank you for returning it now.”

She thought for a moment. She remembered the other times that Gregory had apologized to her, as a boy, in this attic: for the mistakes he had made. Once, for using a terrible word about her father.

“What was the other thing?” she asked.

He hesitated. “I didn't really have a meeting in San Francisco,” he said.

She smiled, finally. “I probably could have guessed that one.”

“I really did find the disk when I was going through my things to move out,” said Gregory. “I hadn't looked at it in years. I was afraid to. I even forgot where it was. And as soon as I came across it and saw the inscription on it—I knew.”

“I can't believe I gave everyone copies to work from,” said Ada. “Of course we needed the original. I should have known better, even as a kid. David would have been so disappointed.”

“It didn't occur to me, either, back then,” said Gregory.

She tried to recall him: Gregory as a teenager. He was still painfully shy at that age. In the Queen of Angels Upper School, he had transitioned from being outspoken and therefore the target of every bully, to being silent and therefore largely invisible. By his junior year he was listening to punk rock and New Wave, drawing on the sneakers he wore on weekends, sitting sullenly in class. He was part of a larger group of boys like him. Nobody paid them any attention, which was exactly what they wished for. He had also, around that time, stopped speaking almost entirely to Ada, who until that point had been his only friend. She had been hurt; she had tried to engage him, the way she had done previously, with lessons, or with games. By the late eighties there were decent ones to play on the computer, and Ada had mastered some of them. But suddenly Gregory preferred to be by himself. He had taken
William's room when William left home—enrolling at Roger Williams after Liston's absolute insistence that he get a college education, and then just barely scraping by for a year before dropping out to work construction—and Gregory proceeded to split all of his time between his new bedroom and the attic. Ada, sensing that she would be unwelcome, at a certain point stopped venturing up to the third floor altogether. Through college and graduate school, they were cordial but never close.

Gregory walked to the window of the attic. She watched him as he went.

“How did you find it in the first place?” she asked. “Back when we were kids. It was hidden in a dictionary.”

“I was . . . going through your stuff. After you left for college.”

“Why?”

“Will you make me say it now?” said Gregory.

“No,” said Ada, though she realized as soon as the words left her that she wanted him to. She wanted to hear his voice as he said it.

She looked down at herself with something like curiosity. She rarely considered her own physical presence on the earth; for much of her life, and increasingly in recent years, she had felt like a brain in a vessel meant only to sustain its function. Only Jim, in graduate school, had ever made her feel anything different. Only Jim had looked at her body with open want, had touched it, the first time, as if it were something fragile and substantial at once; something capable; something meant to be tested and revered. Those years were a spell under which she had fallen. Since then she had told herself they were anomalous, a coincidence, a lightning strike of taste and place and timing. No one, since Jim, had turned a gaze upon her like the one that Gregory now bore.

She watched him as he looked at her. And she felt something ancient and abandoned awakening in her, bottomless and strange, like the revelation of a new dimension she had not known existed.

“You can say it if you want to,” said Ada. But suddenly she felt
there was no power in language, and then they were not speaking, or thinking. He was near her.

“Can I?” he said, and she nodded. He put a hand to her face first, as if testing for fever.

When she breathed, she felt she was taking something into her lungs alongside the air: the molecules of Gregory, the ether of him, the atmosphere. His world. Something difficult to describe in words alone.

1980s

Boston

A
bout Harold Canady, Ada found no further information in any newspaper. He had well and truly disappeared: just as he had wanted to.

When David's house sold, finally, in 1987, they found nothing at all when they went through his possessions. Outside the family photograph that Ada had discovered years ago, he had kept no trace of his earlier life.

“Well,” Liston had said, “David was always thorough, wasn't he?”

Ada nodded.

She could never bring herself to call her father Harold, even silently, and Liston seemed to tacitly agree. For the rest of her life, even into her old age, when so much else had come to light, he was David to her. He had chosen to go by this name for a reason, she told herself.

She spent the rest of her time at the Queen of Angels Upper School in a sort of limbo. For the final half of her freshman year, she avoided any contact with William. She avoided being alone with him. When he left for college in August, she let out a deep breath that she did not realize she'd been holding. Liston, who didn't miss much, had looked at both of them curiously from time to time; but she never asked the question.

At school, Ada had many good-enough friends, and two or three true compatriots. Lisa Grady became suddenly and violently pretty as a sophomore, and was kind enough to keep Ada as her closest companion, despite Ada's previous disloyalty; the two of them would remain friends into old age. It was around this time that Gregory, too, began to withdraw from her; and so only Matty and Liston were left to talk to at home. She told herself she didn't mind; the two of them provided excellent companionship, and Liston, as she grew more comfortable in her role as director of the lab, became more carefree, funnier—more like the Liston that Ada had known as a young child.

Together, Ada and Liston visited David at St. Andrew's twice a week, on Wednesday evenings and on Sundays. Ada never regained the easiness she had once felt around him; but slowly she reached an agreement with herself, premised on the idea that David must have had a plan for her. For them. She told herself that it would one day become clear; and in the meantime, while he was alive, she would try to treat him as she always had.

In his room at St. Andrew's, she and Liston talked to him about the happenings of the lab, about the most recent developments in the field; and although he could not respond to them, he followed them, back and forth, with his eyes. He nodded from time to time. He smiled: at times he even smiled. In these moments, she forgave him.

A
da was eighteen the year that David died, in June, when everything was becoming warmer. It was not a surprise: he had not spoken in nearly two years. Unable to feed himself, he had become perilously thin, a jangle of bones and sinews. In that year, Ada's visits reminded her of her trips to the library with Liston. There was a similar underwater quality: her breathing slowed, with his; she gazed at him, and he at her, and sometimes she reached out and held his hand—an exercise that at first felt unnatural and later correct. Once, inspired, she sang his favorite Christmas carol to him—it was “Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming,” from a Handel and Haydn Society record of carols that skipped from use—and watched as his face changed and opened. He opened and closed his mouth, as if searching for the words; he looked up at her with the face of a child. She sang to him regularly after that, whenever no one else was there.

Three weeks before his death, he was moved to the hospice ward. There he stayed in bed all day, barely awake. On rare occasions he opened his eyes, squinted into the light like a newborn. The nurses put their hands to his forehead kindly.

Liston was there with her when it happened. It was a Sunday. David was breathing, and then he was not: as simply and quietly as
the turning of a page. And Liston had said, “David?” One time, just once. A question.