The Wonder Garden (30 page)

She talks in an undulating voice about the little girl and her audience with angels. “So amazing, don't you think?”

Michael finds himself pulling his arm away in punishment, bringing the Scotch glass to his lips. He has nothing to say about the attractions of heaven.

He had pushed for the surgery. It was a long-thwarted ambition of his to perform a hemispherectomy. Most patients opted to travel to Johns Hopkins, but he was determined to persuade someone to stay at St. Joseph's. At age eight, the girl was somewhat old for a surgery best suited for infants whose brains have not yet calcified into task centers. But Rasmussen's encephalitis was causing debilitating seizures, and the parents did not want to travel. The girl resembled his youngest daughter, with the same shade of maple wood hair. During the surgery, with the patient's head concealed by blue sterile drape, he kept lapsing into the thought that it was Hannah's cerebrum beneath his knife.

It was after the frontal and parietal lobes had been disconnected and he was cutting the corpus callosum that intraventricular hemorrhaging began. The team's first attempts to cauterize were insufficient. They went into silent focus. For just a fleeting moment, Michael slipped. He allowed himself to think of the child, of the little memories tucked into the folds of her brain tissue, and his fingers went stiff. Standing over the open skull, he imagined having to tell the family. If he lost her, he would have to be the one to tell them. He had lost only one patient before, but there had been no relatives to inform. Meeting the grave eyes of the attending surgeon at his side, he felt a crater open inside him.

The hemorrhaging finally, magically, ceased, and the girl's heartbeat returned to normal. After they fastidiously replaced the section of bone and sutured the skin of the scalp, Michael left the OR without a word. The attending surgeon called after him, but he kept walking, exiting through the radiology wing to avoid the family in the waiting room.

It was after eight in the evening. He raced his BMW over the roads that led to his own family. He felt a vertiginous impatience to see them, to wrap them in an iron embrace that would never weaken. When he got home, he would pull them close and talk to them. He would say and do what a husband, a father, might say and do. Coming through the door and standing in the entryway, he could hear the voices of his wife and children, the younger ones getting ready for bed. He stood for a long time in the foyer, listening. At last, Rosalie came down the stairs and glanced at him. He stood, mesmerized. Her gaze lingered for a moment, as if reading something, then slid away.

Now, standing with the blond woman, the same unmoored sensation returns. The name she gave him has faded out. Something unbeautiful.
Gertrude
, or
Greta
. For the past few minutes she has been relating the story of a dream she had as a young girl.

“They were angels, I'm sure of it. They came to my bed and talked to me. They explained the difference between right and wrong.” She cocks her head to the side. “I really believe they gave me my first lesson in morality.” She has the faraway look of a woman traveling on three margaritas.

“What did you say your name was again?”

Her gaze spirals back. She moves a piece of hair behind her ear, exposing a cluster of icy gems. “Gretchen Von Mauren.”

“It's been nice talking with you, Gretchen. Will you excuse me?”

Despite the gravitational pull to remain in any woman's orbit, Michael steps away. He is careful not to make eye contact with anyone as he drifts to the periphery of the crowd. But, as if supernaturally attuned to the defection of any of her guests, Carol Christensen appears at his side.

“Lovely party, Carol,” Michael offers, producing a smile. “And you look wonderful.”

She grins like a teenager. “I'm
feeling
wonderful.” Stepping closer, she lowers her tone. “You know, I never mentioned it to you, but I did have some bad headaches right after the surgery. And some very dark moods.”

“No, you didn't mention that.”

“I'm afraid I might even have been clinically depressed for a while.” Carol blinks. “But thankfully that's all gone now. I'm better than ever.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it.”

Carol pauses, gives Michael a long look. “I feel a little bashful telling you this, but I ended up finding a holistic healer. Well, I guess he'd call himself an
indigenous
healer.” She quickly puts a hand to Michael's sleeve. “Honestly, I never thought I'd go in for the New Age stuff. That's not the kind of person I am. But I have to say, I'm so glad I kept an open mind.”

Michael feels he has no choice but to prod further. “So, what kind of healing was this exactly?”

She smiles and draws closer. “He did something called a soul retrieval, which sounds very spacey, I know, but afterward I felt like a completely new person. It seemed like everything was brighter around me. Even my complexion has improved. People have noticed!”

Michael looks sternly at her. “You should have called me about the headaches.”

“That's what Harold said.” Carol tilts her head. “But, anyway, they're gone now. The healer said that sometimes, with some conditions, there's a point where Western medicine can't really help anymore, and you have to address the root cause of the problem. He said that the surgery may have been an effective solution for the epilepsy on a superficial level. But he perceived some deep-seated spiritual issues, too. I'm sure that must sound implausible to you, but whatever he did, it worked for me.” Carol touches Michael's sleeve again, as if in apology, then scans the crowd. “I invited him tonight, actually. I'd love to introduce you, but it seems he's not here yet.”

“That's all right,” Michael says, raising his Scotch glass and disengaging Carol's touch. He has cut open more than one shamanic skull in his career, short-circuited more than one carnival in the temporal lobe. He can predict just the kinds of interictal spikes that would appear on an EEG if Carol's healer were monitored during one of his so-called retrievals. Michael considers the irony here, of one epileptic healing another.

“His name is Apocatequil, in case you meet him. Hard to forget that! It means ‘god of lightning' in the Incan language. He's really a very interesting person.”

At this, Carol summons a nearby crescent of guests to her, and, as they begin to congeal into a ring, Michael lifts his chin as if suddenly remembering something. With a quick backward step, he melts out of the circle toward the edge of the pool. He stands, feeling the cut of Carol's insult. There is an acidic taste in his mouth as he watches the flux of revelers.

He spots Rosalie, mingling happily. She always looks good in her diligent way, but in a social setting like this a kind of nimbus surrounds her. He watches her for a few moments in wonderment. He is aware of her quiet power, the daily feat she performs of parenting his children, of navigating the politics of schools and township, what she refers to as
the community
. He becomes aware of her partnership as a boom to which he clings. She alone has made it possible for him to join gatherings like this, gatherings that to him court all manner of attack—crazed gunmen, terrorist sieges, biological pandemics—and send his imagination reeling.

He knows that this feedback loop is its own biological pandemic, likely caused by deficient serotonin in his amygdala. He has learned not to fight the fear, but to welcome it as an inborn advantage, compelling him to prepare where others might procrastinate. Still, once the panic begins, it takes all his will to push it away. He is seized by the myriad ways he could be killed at any moment. Car accident—blunt trauma to the brain, impalement by the steering wheel column, snapped rib through the heart. Electrical fire—third-degree burns, asphyxiation from smoke inhalation. Brain aneurysm—subarachnoid hemorrhage, intense headache, collapse. Nuclear blast—immediate dismemberment or slow, painful death from radiation poisoning. Just the sound of fireworks out of season makes him jump. The apocalyptic moment is skulking closer all the time. There is a script of actions that he is prepared to take when it finally appears like an ornate rising dragon, breathtakingly hideous. It is almost a feeling of welcome, of feverish anticipation for the beginning of something. He has charted the variables so studiously that there would be a certain disappointment if they did not occur.

Standing beside the pool, he pictures the sky lit up, bleached like a photo negative. The atmosphere would flare white-hot, sending radioactive particles raining down within seconds. Standing there, he does the calculations. It would take several minutes to locate their car in the assemblage on the front lawn. He and Rosalie would have to split up to find it. Being the first into their vehicle would be crucial if they were to avoid the inevitable jam of guests bottling the Christensens' elegant driveway. If they succeeded, they could be back on Whistle Hill Road in twenty minutes, more or less, allowing for detours onto back roads. If those roads were also clogged, they would proceed on foot via wooded shortcuts. Once home, it would take another five minutes or so to get the kids into the dugout under the tool shed. Not fast enough, but better than it could be. And although the underground bunker itself is not yet finished, it would be serviceable—large enough for sardine-tight sleeping pads—and more than what most others would have. When Rosalie sees what he has done for them, how thoroughly he has seen to their safety, she will be dumbstruck.

He has, over the course of a year, reinforced the tool shed walls with concrete blocks. The supplies are hidden behind a false wall: a waste bucket, bins of clothing, a pyramid of water jugs, three months' worth of shelf-stable food, and first aid kits with iodine tablets. He is always adding, little by little, to the survival kit: an assortment of pocket knives, fire starters, flares. The gold—about fifty Good Delivery bars with serial numbers, twenty-seven pounds each—is buried a hundred feet away in a spot marked by a loose triangle of rocks.

And he has done even more with the money from Harold Christensen, who had wanted to attend his own wife's surgery. After months of persuasion, Michael had finally accepted his donation, then put it toward an arsenal to keep roving mobs at bay: a .38 pistol for each of his boys, plus his own Ruger; a .22 rifle, a Remington 700 with Leupold scope; and his newest acquisition, a set of four AR15s, one for each male in the family. He has rubbed the weapons with rust-preventing grease and secreted them in a cache tube made of industrial piping, itself buried in a cavity adjacent to the dugout. With the rest of the cash, he has bulked up his ammunition supply. There is no such thing as too much personal ammo, or too much wampum for barter.

It might take another year of digging, removing buckets of dirt after dark, before the bunker is up to standard. He will need to go down far enough for earth arching to protect against radiation. He will need to install some sort of ventilation and, crucially, create a second exit. Even with two exits, however, there is always the possibility of the shelter collapsing, of being buried alive—a scenario that has already bored its way into his imaginative repertoire.

He breathes deeply. The rise and fall of conversation and laughter, like ocean waves, insist on normalcy, the stubborn continuation of the world as it is.

With an effort, Michael steps back toward the party. As he joins the swarm, a woman brushes past him, a new brunette like a draft of cool air—loose hair, scant makeup—a natural beauty. Tight at her side is a ponytailed freak in some kind of pajama set. This man gives Michael a direct, penetrating look. The jealousy is unsurprising, given the disparity of the pair: the man has a narrow, miserly face, his hair pulled too tight in its choke hold. A cracked leather cord girdles his neck and disappears down the front of his tunic. This can only be Carol's medicine man.

He tracks the strange couple as they navigate through the crowd until, at last, Carol Christensen falls upon them. After her effusions, she pulls away, keeping a hand upon the man's narrow shoulder as if to hold him in place. Michael watches her survey the surrounding guests, alight with her new self-image, burning to display her guru to some benighted soul. Her eyes spark upon Michael, and as she raises a hand to wave him over, he swivels away.

He will be sorry not to meet the brunette, but has no need to engage with Carol's god of lightning. He knows the type. Like all fanatics, they want only to sermonize. Trying to pin them down is like playing racquetball on a buttered court. There is no way to win, no arguing for the validity of medicine or the supremacy of biological systems. There is, for these people, no such thing as brain disease—least of all in themselves. The spirit world is something external, untouchable, a higher order of reality beyond the mundane perception of science. When their own brain scans show unusual electrical patterns, they consider their point proven: their spiritual experience made manifest. It's not a biological flaw; it's a gift.

Before Carol can seize him, Michael circles around to the far side of the pool. From there, he ambles over the grass, away from the party, willing invisibility upon himself. Finally, he takes refuge in a shadowy place near the privet hedges and stands alone with his Scotch glass. Too late, he notices the glass is empty. Still, he feels an intoxicating breeze here, away from the crowd. He breathes deeply of the rich, darkened air and instinctually scans his surroundings. As if in a dream, his eyes catch on a shadowy figure near a hedge several yards away. A dart of adrenaline pierces him, and hot blood slams out to his extremities. Just like that, he is fully, poundingly alive. His right hand goes across his chest, feeling for the pistol at his heart.

The figure turns slightly, and the pool glow illuminates the profile of a teenage boy. Stepping closer, Michael sees a polo shirt and khakis. Their eyes meet, and the boy glances away. Michael lets his right arm drop to his side, but the adrenaline is still circulating and needs a place to go. Without thinking, he walks toward the boy with a little jig in his step. He smiles sociably and nods. The boy hesitantly returns the nod. Michael can see the Adam's apple burrowing in his throat. The boy has obviously come to this spot to be alone, and Michael feels suddenly sorry for having approached. Standing there, he rubs his hands together as if to warm them. He is bristling with the urge to run, to do a lap around the pool, to sprint all the way to the end of this feeble spit of land, to swan dive into the sound. Instead, he turns and adopts a relaxed pose alongside the boy.