Richard Powers - The Echo Maker

Karin said, “Mark accepts that there was an accident. But he doesn’t remember any of it. His mind’s a blank. Nothing, for twelve hours before he rolled the truck.”

Weber raked his salt-and-pepper beard. “Yes. That can happen.” Twenty years, and he’d almost mastered it: how to tell people that others had been there before them, without denying their private disaster. “It sounds like what’s called retrograde amnesia. Ribot’s law: older memories are more resilient than newer ones. The new perishes before the old. ”

Her lips mirrored his as he spoke, struggling to stay alongside. She spread a palm on the stack of forms. “Amnesia? But his memory’s fine. He knows who everyone is. He remembers everything about…his sister. He just refuses to…” She pulled her lips against her teeth and bowed her head. The fall of red hair spilled across the papers. He could not imagine where such a refusal must leave her.

“You say he’s talking again without struggling. Does he sound different?”

She studied the air. “Slower. Mark was always a fast talker.”

“Does he search for words? Have you noticed any difference in his vocabulary?”

Her lopsided smile returned. “Aphasia, you mean?”

She botched the pronunciation. Weber just nodded.

“Vocabulary was never his big thing.”

He made a stab. “You’re close to your brother?” Capgras prerequisite. “You always have been?”

Her neck jerked back, defensively. “We’re the only family either of us has left. I’ve tried to look out for him, over the years. I’m a little older than him, but…I always tried to be around, until I absolutely had to go, for my own sanity. Mark’s not quite cut out for the world. He’s always depended on me, a bit. He and I have gone through some pretty strange family times together.” Flustered, she turned back to the file. She extracted two sheets. Her head turned, scanning the lines, lips moving again. “Here. This is what keeps nagging at me. When they first brought him into the emergency room after the accident, he was awake. He wasn’t even…Here: Glasgow Coma Scale. He wasn’t even in the danger area. They let me see him that night, just for a minute. He recognized me then. He was trying to talk to me. I know it. But you see, there’s this spike later in the morning. His intracranial pressure shoots way up.”

She might have been studying to become a surgical nurse. He thumbed his beard from underneath. Over the years, the gesture had managed to calm almost everyone. “Yes, that can happen. The skull is a fixed volume. If delayed swelling causes the brain to expand, it can be worse than the original impact.”

“Sure, I read about that. But shouldn’t his doctors have been monitoring? If I understand right, in the first few hours, they should have…”

Weber looked around the MotoRest lobby. Foolish, talking to her here. She’d been so measured over the phone. In person, she presented all the complications of need that Weber meant to retire from. But true Capgras from an accident: a phenomenon that could crown or crash any theory of consciousness. Something worth seeing.

“Karin? We spoke about this. I’m not a lawyer. I’m a scientist. I value your invitation to come talk to your brother. But I’m not here to second-guess anyone.”

She caught her breath. Her face flamed. She pulled at her shirt collar. She gathered her spray of hair and tied it up like a hank of rope. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I thought you…I should probably just take you to see Mark.”

Dedham Glen Nursing and Rehabilitation Center looked to Weber like an elite suburban high school. Peach, single-story, modular — something you’d never notice, unless a loved one were trapped inside.

“They won’t be keeping him here much longer,” Karin said. “The therapy has been great, but the coverage is topping out and he’s crazy to go home. His muscle strength is pretty much back. He’s dressing and bathing himself, getting along with people, mostly making sense. Compared to a few weeks ago, he’s as good as normal. Except when it comes to ideas about me.”

She piloted the car toward the visitors’ spaces near the front walk. “We put our mother here, when she got ill. She passed, five and a half weeks later. I thought I’d rather die myself than put Mark here. But it was the only choice.”

“Do you think he holds that against you?” Old habit: probing for psychological mechanism.

She reddened again. Her skin was instant litmus. She pointed to a picture window at the building’s corner. A medium-height, thin twenty-seven-year-old in a black sweatshirt and baby-blue knit cap stood stranded in mid-wave, his hand pressed to the glass. “You can ask him yourself, in a minute.”

Mark Schluter met his visitors halfway down the hall of his wing. He walked as if on crutches, pressing a hand to his right thigh. His face still bloomed with half-healed scars. Across his throat ran the tell-tale necklace of a tracheotomy. His black jeans sagged and his long-sleeve sweatshirt — too heavy for June — crept down his arms to his fingers. The shirt sported a card-playing, beer-drinking dog saying, What The Hell Do I Know? Tufts of returning hair stuck out from under the lip of his cap. He swung down the hall, playing at being a pendulum. He pulled up in front of Karin. “Is this the guy who’s going to get me out of this hellhole?”

The woman’s hands fled into the air. Her knot of hair came undone. “Mark. I told you Dr. Weber was coming today. Couldn’t you have put on a decent shirt?”

“Favorite shirt.”

“It isn’t appropriate, when talking to a doctor.”

He raised a stiff arm and pointed at her. “You’re not the boss of me. I don’t even know where you came from. The damn Arab terrorists could have parachuted you in here, special forces, as far as I know.” The storm blew over as fast as it appeared. Righteous indignation collapsed in sighs. He spread his palms, grinning at Weber. “You with the FBI or something?” A finger reached out and flipped Weber’s maroon dress tie. “I talked to you guys already.”

Karin was mortified. “It’s just a suit, Mark. You act like you’ve never seen a suit before.”

“I’m sorry. He looks like ‘The Fuzz.’” His fingers hung quote hooks in the air.

“He’s a neuropsychologist. And a famous writer.”

“Cognitive neurologist,” Weber corrected.

Mark Schluter rocked on his heels. Dank laughter poured out of him. “What’s that? Some kind of shrink?” Weber shook his head. “A shrink ! So, like, who are you supposed to be?”

Weber tilted his head. “Tell me what you mean.”

“I mean: I already know who this lady thinks she is. How about you?”

Karin exhaled. “We discussed him yesterday, Mark. He just wants to talk to you. Let’s go back to your room and sit.”

Mark wheeled on her. “I warned you once. You’re not my damn mother, either.” He turned back to Weber. “I’m sorry. It’s just painful to me. She has these ideas. It’s hard to describe.” But when Karin headed down the hall, he hobbled along beside her, like a puppy on a leash.

The room was a modest version of Weber’s at the MotoRest, although hugely more expensive. Bed, dresser, desk, television set, coffee table, two chairs. A pair of cartoon Get Well cards in loud colors stood on the dresser. Next to them lay an ancient stuffed Curious George, missing one button eye. A boom box sat on the desk, surrounded by a pile of CD jewel boxes. A truck magazine sporting way too much chrome on its cover lay next to it, still shrink-wrapped. Weber flipped on his pocket digital tape recorder. He could ask permission later. “Nice room,” he prompted.

Mark frowned and looked around. “Well, I haven’t done much with it. But I’m not gonna be here long. Sooner torch this place than move in.”