Triggers

Tony Falconi came home drunk. Again.

Janis sat on the couch, afraid to say a word. Anything could trigger his anger, and—

And he was looking around the living room. Janis’s pulse quickened. She knew what he was doing: seeking something—anything—to find fault with. Something that she hadn’t cleaned properly, something that hadn’t been put away, something that hadn’t been done to his satisfaction. It didn’t matter that she’d been locked up at the hospital until late, it didn’t matter how much she’d done right; he’d find the one thing she’d done wrong, and—

“I thought I told you to get rid of that chair,” he said, pointing.

Janis’s stomach was churning. What he’d actually said was he was thinking they should get rid of that chair—it was an old kitchen-table-style chair and had a rip in the vinyl upholstery; it wasn’t worth repairing. But she knew contradicting him would be a mistake.

But so, apparently, was silence. “Didn’t I?” he snapped. And then, without waiting for her answer, he said, “So why the fuck is it still here?”

“I’m sorry,” Janis said softly.

“You’re always sorry,” Tony said. He surged forward, grabbed her arm—the one with the tiger tattoo—and roughly pulled her to her feet. “You stupid bitch,” he said, shoving her now toward the chair, and—

—and Eric Redekop shook his head violently, trying to fling the memory away.

But he couldn’t. This one or ones like it kept coming back to him.

Eric was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, as the morning sun poured in around his blinds. Janis had headed home around 10:00 P.M.—he’d paid for a cab to take her from the pub—and Tony had staggered in an hour later.

He rolled onto his side, drawing in a deep breath, then letting it out slowly.

He couldn’t take this. And she shouldn’t have to.

The old memories of events like this would always be there. But he could at least make sure that no similar new ones were ever laid down.

It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his responsibility. It wasn’t his duty.

But he’d saved the president of the United States. Surely, he could save this woman, too.

And suddenly it came to him. A memory from a month ago, forcing itself into his awareness, and…

No. Not one memory; a series of memories. Memories of…of every month—the…yes: the fourth Saturday morning of every month. Jan went to play Dungeons & Dragons at…

He’d never heard of it, but apparently the Bronze Shield was the largest gaming store in the capital district. It was her one day out a month; Tony almost never came—he preferred to stay home and watch TV. But Jan’s brother Rudy was usually there; in fact—ah, yes—that’s why she was allowed to go at all: keeping up the appearance of freedom in front of her family, lest eyebrows be raised.

And—yes, today was the fourth Saturday. Still, he asked himself if the event had been canceled in light of what had happened yesterday, but it hadn’t been as far as she knew—which meant she would indeed be at the Bronze Shield this morning.

All right then. All right.

Susan Dawson had grabbed some sleep in the conference room downstairs; she figured she got maybe five hours. When she woke up, she went to check with Ranjip Singh, who also hadn’t gone home.

It was odd not having to ask him for an update; she knew what he’d been doing. Before he’d gone to bed, he’d contacted his colleagues back in Toronto, as well as those at the Montreal Neurological Institute, the Center for Cognitive Neuroscience at Penn, and the Center for Consciousness Studies at the University of Arizona, providing copies of his data to them, hoping someone somewhere might have an idea how to break the linkages.

And this morning, the weird happenings here at LT had finally merited some time on the news, after almost continuous coverage of the assassination attempt and the bomb explosion at the White House; Singh and a few of the affected people had been interviewed here in Singh’s lab.

But the TV crew was gone now, and Singh was plugging away at his computer.

“Good morning, Agent Dawson,” he said as Susan entered.

“Ranjip.”

At that moment, a uniformed hospital security guard entered. He had two holsters, one holding a walkie-talkie and the other a gun.

“Professor Singh?” the man said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Ivan Tarasov.” Susan remembered him from yesterday; he had been affected by Singh’s equipment, and had found David January for Susan, and, later on, she’d interviewed him. She glanced at the whiteboard: Tarasov could read Dora Hennessey, the kidney donor, and in turn was read by Orrin Gillett, the lawyer.

“You have to do something about these links,” Tarasov continued. He must be addressing Singh, Susan thought, but he wasn’t actually looking at him, or at her.

Singh gestured at his computer screen. “I am trying.”

“You have to do more than try. This is driving me crazy.”

“How do you mean?” asked Singh.

Tarasov did glance briefly in Susan’s direction, but, again, didn’t actually meet her gaze.

“Every time I look at my daughter, I see images of a little girl being molested.”

“My…God,” said Singh. “You’re linked to Dora Hennessey, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s her memories of being molested?”

“I guess.”

Singh’s mouth fell open. “That’s…horrible.”

“It’s disgusting. That poor little girl.”

“How old was Dora when this happened to her?”

“I think she was the same age my daughter is now. Three.”

Singh consulted a document on his computer. “Miss Hennessey is thirty-seven.” He looked up. “The person abusing her—do you know who it was?”

“I’d never have recognized him today, but yes. It was her father, Josh Latimer.”

“The fellow she’s giving the kidney to?” Singh said, surprised.

“I don’t think she remembers the abuse,” said Tarasov, still not actually looking at Singh. “I can’t recall her ever discussing it with anyone.”

Susan saw Singh’s eyebrows go up. “That’s…fascinating.”

“What is?”

“You remember something from her past that she doesn’t. I wonder why.”

Tarasov frowned. “Maybe the memories are so traumatic, she’s blocked them out.”

“That’s one possibility,” said Singh, “but…”

“Yes?”

“You said you thought she was three when this happened.”

“It had to be,” said Tarasov. “Three, or earlier. Dora’s mother and father split when she was three. She didn’t see him again until this past year, when he tracked her down, hoping she’d be a good tissue match—and that she might agree to the donation.”

“Three…or younger,” said Singh.

“Yes.”

“Most adults remember almost nothing from before they were three and a half or even four. But…”

“Yes?”

Singh said, “I’ve seen you around the hospital—before all this, I mean. You are…a bit of a loner.”

“So?”

“And you tend not to meet people’s gaze. In fact, you avert your eyes.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Singh?”

“No, no. Not at all. But if I may ask: are you on the autism spectrum?”

“I’m an Aspie,” said Tarasov.

“Asperger’s syndrome,” said Singh, nodding. “Do you think in pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Pictures, not words?”

“Most of the time.”

“And do you remember your own very early life?”

“I remember my birth,” Tarasov said. “Lots of people on the spectrum do.”

“Well, there it is,” said Singh, looking at Susan then back at Tarasov. “Everyone starts out life thinking in pictures; they have to, of course—we don’t get language until much later. When we do acquire language, our indexing system for memories changes: words, rather than images, become the principal triggers of recall, and we can no longer recall things from before we had sophisticated linguistic abilities. It’s been argued that the memories are still there, but they’re inaccessible. But you, Mr. Tarasov, can access Miss Hennessey’s original indexing system, the prelinguistic one, because you think in pictures. You can remember things from her past that she herself no longer can. In fact…can you remember her birth?”

He thought about it. “I was born in Russia, at home, years before my family came here. But Dora…she’d been born—yes, I can see it now—in a hospital room with blue walls, and—the details are fuzzy; I guess infants don’t focus well—and the doctor doing the delivery was a woman with short black hair.”

“Incredible,” said Singh, his voice full of awe. “Fascinating.”

“This isn’t an academic point,” said Tarasov, sharply. “I can’t get the memories of her being molested out of my mind. They keep coming to me every time I look at my own daughter. It’s like having horrific child pornography constantly shoved in my face.”

“I’m sorry,” said Singh. “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” said Tarasov, and for once he looked directly at Singh. “This needs to be solved, right away.”