David Morrell - The Fifth Profession

The question was so unexpected that Savage blinked.

“Epilepsy? No. Why? What makes you ask?”

“I'm trying to account for something.” Santizo pointed toward a dark speck on a light portion of one of the images. The speck was on the left, near the middle. “This is a view of your brain from the rear. That speck is in your mesial temporal lobe-the amygdala hippocampal area. It's in line with the plug of bone that was taken out and then replaced in your skull.”

Savage felt as if he'd swallowed ice. “Speck? Jesus, what-?”

“A lesion. That's why I asked about epilepsy. An abnormality in this area sometimes causes that condition.”

“You're telling me something's growing in my brain?”

“No.” Santizo turned to Akira, then pointed toward another film. “There's an identical speck in the same area of your brain. The coincidence leads me to conclude that whatever it is, it's not a growth.”

“What is it then?” Akira asked.

“An educated guess? Scar tissue. From whatever was done to your brain.”

Savage listened in shock as Santizo returned to his desk. “More basics,” Santizo said. “First rule. Eliminate the obvious. The purpose for the operation performed on each of you was not to excise a tumor. That type of surgery requires a major invasion of the brain. Hence a major portion of the skull would have to be removed.”

“But not,” Rachel said, “a five-millimeter plug of bone.”

“Correct. The only reason to create so small an access to the brain would be”-Santizo debated-“to allow an electrode to be inserted.”

“Why?” Savage had trouble breathing.

“Assuming familiar but serious circumstances? Many reasons. I mentioned epilepsy. An electrode inserted into the brain can measure electrical impulses from various clusters of neurons. In an epileptic, different levels of the brain transmit normal and nonnormal current. If we can determine the source of the nonnormal current, we can operate in a specific location to try to correct the abnormality.”

“But we're not epileptics,” Savage said.

“I was offering an example,” Santizo said. “I'll give you another. A patient with impairments of sight or hearing or smell-impairments due to the brain and not external receptors-can sometimes have their impairments corrected if internal receptors, those in the brain, are stimulated by electrodes.”

“But we can see and hear and smell,” Akira said.

“And yet you think you saw each other die. You can't find a hotel where you were beaten. Or a hospital where you were treated. Or a doctor who supervised your case. Someone has interfered with your brain functions. Specifically your ability to…”

“Remember,” Savage said.

“Or more interesting, has someone caused you to remember what never happened? Jamais vu. The phrase you invented is fascinating.”

“To remember what never happened? I didn't mean it literally. I never believed…”

“I can take you down to Pathology,” Santizo said. “I can dissect a corpse's brain and show you each component. I can tell you why you see and hear, why you taste, touch, and smell, why you feel pain-though the brain itself cannot feel pain. But what I can't do is show you a thought. And I certainly can't find a specific site in your brain that enables you to remember. I've been doing research on memory for the past ten years, and the more I learn, the more I'm baffled…Describe what happens when you remember a past event.”

Savage and Akira hesitated.

Rachel gestured. “Well, it's sort of like seeing a movie inside my head.”

“That's how most people describe it. We experience an event, and it seems as though our brain works like a camera, retaining a series of images of that event. The more we experience, the more films we store in our brain. When circumstances require, when we need to review the past to understand the present, we select an appropriate reel and view it on a mental screen. Of course, we take for granted that the films are permanent records, as immutable as a movie.”

Rachel nodded.

“But a movie isn't permanent. It cracks. It discolors. Scenes can be eliminated. What's more, we're explaining memory by means of analogy. There aren't films in our brain. There isn't a screen. We merely imagine there are. And memory becomes even harder to explain when we pass from concrete events to learned abstractions. When I think of the mathematical principle of pi, I don't see a film in my head. I somehow, intuitively, understand what pi signifies. And when I think of an abstract word such as ‘honor,’ I don't see a film. I just know what ‘honor’ means. Why am I able to recall and understand these abstractions?”

“Do you have an answer?” Savage's chest ached.

“The prevailing theory is that memories are somehow encoded throughout the brain in the neurons. These billions of I nerves-the theory goes-not only transmit electricity and information but also retain the information they transmit. The analogy of a computer is frequently used to illustrate the process, but again, as with the illusion that we have a movie screen in our heads, an analogy is not an explanation. Our memory system is infinitely more complex than any computer. For one thing, the neurons seem capable of transferring information from one network to another, thus protecting certain memories if a portion of the brain is damaged. For another, there are two types of memory-short term and long term-and their relationship is paradoxical. ‘Short term’ refers to temporary memories of recently acquired but unimportant information. The telephone number of my dentist, for example. If I need to make an appointment, I look up the number, remember it long enough to call his office, and immediately forget it until the next time I need an appointment and repeat the process. ‘Long term’ refers to lasting memories of necessary information: the telephone number for my home. What physical mechanism causes my dentist's number to be easily forgotten but not my own? And why, in certain types of amnesia, is a patient unable to remember any recent event, whether trivial or important, while at the same time he can recall in vivid detail minor long-forgotten events from forty years ago? No one understands the process.”

“What do you believe?” Akira asked.

“A musical by Lerner and Loewe.”

“I don't…”

“Gigi. Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold sing a wonderful song, I Remember It Well.’ Their characters are former lovers recalling when they met. ‘We went here.’ ‘No, we went there.’ ‘You wore this dress.’ ‘No, I wore that.’ ‘Ah, yes, I remember it well.’ But they don't. Sure, the point of the song is that old age has made them forget. The trouble is, I'm not sure the rest of us don't forget also. A lot of specifics. And sooner than we realize. Dr. Weinberg and I have a sentimental tradition. Every Saturday night, when Max and I aren't on call, we and our wives see a movie and then go to dinner. After the stress of the week, we look forward to the distraction. Yesterday, Max fondly remembered a film the four of us had seen together. ‘But Max,’ I said, ‘I saw that movie on cable television, not in a theater.’ ‘No,’ Max insisted, ‘the four of us saw it downtown.’ ‘No,’ I told him, ‘I was at a conference that weekend. You, your wife, and mine went to see the film without me.’ We questioned our wives, who didn't remember the circumstances. We still don't know the truth.”

“Of course,” Savage said. “You just explained short-term memory doesn't last.”