Richard Powers - The Echo Maker

She worked tirelessly for his protection, even as he tortured her. “My sister would have got me out of this place by now.” My sister always got me out of all my jams. I’m in the biggest jam of my life. You’ve failed to get me out. Therefore, you can’t be my sister. The syllogism made a kind of demented sense.

She’d heard the complaint countless times before. But reaching some limit, she melted down. “Stop it, Mark. I’ve had enough. You’re doing this to me for no reason. I know you’re suffering, but this whole denial thing is not helping any. I’m your damn sister, and I’ll prove it to you in a court of law if I have to. So just stop jerking me around and get over it. Now.”

The instant the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d set her cause back by weeks. And the look he flashed her then was like some wild thing, cornered. He looked almost ready to hurt her. She’d read the articles: the rate of violent behavior in Capgras patients was well above average. A young Capgras sufferer from the British Midlands, to prove that his father was a robot, had cut the man open to expose the wires. There were worse things than being called an impostor.

“Never mind,” she said. “Forget I said that.”

His face went from wild to bewildered. “Exactly,” he said, a little tentative. “Now you’re talking my language.”

He was not ready to face the world. She fought to delay Mark’s discharge, and to keep both the HMO and the IBP insurance people at bay. She worked on Dr. Hayes, almost flirting with him, to keep him signing off on the necessary paperwork.

But even with excellent medical coverage, Mark could not stay in rehabilitation much longer. Karin, unemployed now, was tapping her savings. She began to dip into her mother’s life-insurance legacy. Do some good with this. “I’m not sure this is the kind of thing she intended the money for,” she told Daniel. “Not exactly an emergency. Not exactly world-changing.”

“Of course this is good,” Daniel assured her. “And please don’t worry about money.” Almost too polite to say the word. Lilies of the field, etc. The ease of Daniel’s assurance almost angered her. But she started letting Daniel pay all the daily expenses — groceries and gas — and each time he did, she felt stranger. Mark, she insisted, would be more or less back to himself any week now. But time and institutional patience were running out. And her own sense of competence was fading.

Daniel did what he could to stave off her money panic. One afternoon, apropos of nothing, he said, “You could come work for the Refuge.”

“Doing what?” she asked, half hoping this might be an answer.

He looked away, embarrassed. “Office help? We need a congenial, competent set of hands. Maybe do some fund raising.”

She tried to grin, grateful. Of course: fund raising. The core of every job description in the nation, from schoolchildren on up to the president.

“We need people who can make others feel good about themselves. Experience in customer relations would be perfect!”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. Meaning he was too good and she relied on him for too much already. Added to her mother’s money, a little part-time income could stabilize her. But she could not shake the belief that Mark would soon recover fully and she could go reclaim her own job — the she that she had made, out of nothing.

No war chest she might build could stave off the bills she’d face, if the insurance people signed off. When claims anxieties and physician consultations defeated her, Karin sought out Barbara Gillespie. She hit up the aide for pep talks so often that she worried that Barbara would start fleeing her on sight. But the woman had bottomless patience. She listened to Karin’s fears and groaned in sympathy at tales of the medical bureaucracy. “Off the record? It’s a business, as market-driven as a used-car dealership.”

“Only not as up-front. At least you can trust a used-car salesman.”

“I’m with you on that,” Barbara said. “Just don’t tell my boss, or I’ll be selling some fine pre-owned vehicles myself.”

“Never, Barbara. They need you.”

The woman waved off the compliment. “Everyone’s replaceable.” The smallest turn of her wrist had something classic to it — the urban proficiency that Karin had aspired to for fifteen years. “I’m only doing my job.”

“But it’s not just a job for you. I watch you. He tests you.”

“Nonsense. You’re the one being tested here.”

These graceful rebuffs only fed Karin’s admiration. She probed Barbara for anything from her professional experience that gave hope of further improvement. Barbara wouldn’t talk about other patients. She focused on Mark, as if he were the sum of her experience. The extreme tact frustrated Karin. She needed a female confidante, someone to commiserate with. Someone who would remind her that she was who she was. Someone who could reassure her that persistence wasn’t stupid.

But Barbara’s professional care turned all topics back to Mark. “I wish I knew more about things he really cares about. Beef packing. Truck customization. Not my strongest subjects, I’m afraid. But the things he’ll talk about — it’s a surprise a day. Yesterday, he wanted my considered opinion on the war.”

Karin felt a twinge of jealousy. “Which war?”

Barbara grimaced. “The latest one, in fact. He’s fascinated with Afghanistan. How many recent trauma sufferers pay any attention to the outside world?”

“Mark? Afghanistan? ”

“He’s a remarkably alert young man.”

The phrase, its curt insistence, accused Karin. “I wish you could have seen him…before.”

Barbara gave her patent head-tilt, both ready and reserved. “Why do you say that?”

“Mark was a real number. He could be incredibly sensitive. He had his wild moments — mostly getting back at our father and mother. And he ran with the wrong crowd. But he was really a sweet guy. Instinctively kind.”

“But he’s a sweet guy now. The sweetest! When he’s not confused.”

“This isn’t him. Mark wasn’t cruel or stupid. Mark wasn’t so angry all the time.”

“He’s just scared. You must be, too. I’d be a mess, if I were you.”

Karin wanted to melt into the woman, hand over everything, let Barbara take care of her, the way she had tried to take care of Mark. “You would’ve liked him. He cared for everybody.”

“I do like him,” Barbara said. “As he is.” And her words filled Karin with shame.

By May, Karin was beside herself. “They’re not doing anything for him,” she told Daniel.

“You say they work with him all day long.”

“Busy work. Mindless stuff. Daniel? Do you think I should move him?”

He spread his fingers. Where? “You said that Barbara woman was wonderful with him.”

“Barbara, sure. If Barbara were his primary physician, we’d be cured. Okay, so the therapists get him to tie his shoes. That doesn’t help much, does it?”

“It helps a little.”

“You sound just like Dr. Hayes. How did that man ever get certified? He won’t do anything. ‘Wait and watch.’ We need to do something real. Surgery. Drugs.”

“Drugs? You mean mask the symptoms?”

“You think I’m just a symptom? His fake sister?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Daniel said. And for a minute, he turned foreign.

She held out her palms, apologizing and defending all at once. “Look. Please don’t…please just stay with me on this. I just feel so helpless. I’ve done nothing at all for him.” And to his look of utter incredulity, she said, “His real sister would have.”

Trying to make himself useful, Daniel brought her two more paperbacks. The books were written by a Gerald Weber, an apparently well-known cognitive neurologist from New York. Daniel had come across the name in the news, regarding a much-anticipated new book about to appear. He apologized for not finding him sooner. Karin studied the author’s photo, a gentle, gray-haired man in his fifties who looked like a playwright. The contemplative eyes gazed just alongside the lens. They seemed to find her out, already half-suspecting her story.