Triggers

Chapter 38

After having the MRI scans, Eric and Jan went by Jan’s locker at the hospital. She kept a change of clothing there—you never knew when a patient was going to vomit on you, she said. She put the clothes in a plastic bag, and they headed back to Eric’s apartment, stopping at a CVS along the way to buy her a toothbrush and a few other things. The sky was cloudy.

Events hadn’t gone the way Eric had intended. He’d wanted to help Jan, yes, but he’d really only planned to get her to a shelter.

But now she was here, in his home.

And he knew more about her than anyone else in his life. More than he knew about his parents, his sisters, his son, his ex-wife.

He thought back to this morning, back to when he’d come to get her at the Bronze Shield, her setting up to play, rolling the characters, and—

No. No, those were her memories, not his; he hadn’t been there at the beginning of the game. God, they came to him just like his own memories now…like she was a part of him.

Like they were a couple.

Huh. Funny phrase that. “A couple.” A singular noun for two individuals. Except…

Except they weren’t quite individuals anymore. He was linked to her, and for events they had shared—the MRI session this afternoon, her collapsing before that, what went down at the gaming store, their interaction yesterday—the memories were hopelessly intertwined. He couldn’t think about any joint experience they’d had without her perspective mixing with his own.

Time was passing. It would be evening in a few hours. And then night, and—

And he did care about her.

And she did like him.

And she was very, very beautiful.

But—

But when they’d come into the living room now, and he’d sat on the long white couch, he’d expected her to sit down beside him. Instead, she took the matching chair that faced the couch and sat with her knees tucked up toward her chin.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Beer?”

She just sat there.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Jan? Did you hear me? Would you like something to drink?”

“I heard you,” she said. “I just figured you’d answer your question.”

“Jan, I can’t read your mind—just your memories. This isn’t a time of crisis.” So far, anyway…

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

He tried to move to more neutral ground. “It’s strange that the linkages can, at least some of the time, connect not just memories but thoughts, too.”

“Why’s that strange?” she asked. “It’s all just brain activity, right?”

“Yeah, but memories involve permanent changes in the brain—an actual physical alteration in its structure. Thoughts are evanescent.”

“I wish I could read your memories,” she said, and she gave him the faintest of smiles. “That would save me the embarrassment of having to ask you what that word means.”

“Evanescent?” said Eric. “Fleeting. Vanishing like vapor. Unlike the laying down of memories, there’s no permanent structural change in the brain associated with having thoughts.” He shifted on the couch and looked across the glass-topped coffee table at her. “You know, it’s funny. If someone attacked you with a knife and scarred you, the courts would assess the physical damage—how long a scar, how many stitches it took to close the wound, whatever—and they’d come up with a figure that you’d be entitled to in compensation. But hurting someone with words that they’ll always remember? With an act they’ll never forget? That’s physical damage, too—it changes you just as permanently as a scar. But instead of tallying up what the compensation should be, we just say, ‘Get over it,’ or ‘You should develop a thicker skin,’ or—and this is ironic, given that it’s the one thing that’s impossible—‘you should just forget about it.’ ” He shook his head, thinking about the things Tony had said to her, had done to her.

She was quiet for a time, then, so softly that he wasn’t sure he’d heard every word correctly, she said, “I can’t take it.”

“Take what?” asked Eric.

“The memory thing.”

He nodded; it was unequal, it was unfair, it was unbalanced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am—I don’t mean to invade your privacy.”

But Jan shook her head. “It’s not that; it’s not you. It’s her.”

“Who?” asked Eric.

“Her. That woman who is linked to you—the one who sells houses. Um, Nikki Van Hausen.”

“What about her?” asked Eric.

“She knows everything that’s happened between us, everything that happened today.” Jan looked away. “And everything that will happen later.”

“But she’s gone from our lives,” Eric said. “She left LT when the lockdown ended. I’ll probably never see her again.”

“She’s not gone,” said Jan. “She’s right here. She’ll recall this conversation, recall what happened with Tony at the Bronze Shield, and if we ever—if we ever make…” She shook her head a bit and fell silent.

Eric looked around his living room—familiar surroundings to him, alien ones to Jan, but, yes, doubtless recallable by Nikki Van Hausen even though she’d never been here. It was easy to forget that the intimate way he knew Jan was echoed by the way Nikki knew him.

But it wasn’t the same, God damn it. It wasn’t. Nikki was a complete stranger to him, just as he was to her. Oh, sure, it was probably interesting to her in an abstract way that she had someone else’s memories, but there was no emotional connection between him and her.

“Sweetheart,” said Eric—and a memory, or rather a lack of a memory, hit him; Tony had never called Jan that, or any other term of endearment. He went on: “It’s okay. We never have to see her again, or even think about her.”

But Jan shook her head once more. “She knows—or will know—what you just said. And she’ll resent it—she’ll think you’re insulting her. Don’t you see? She’s got the same level of access to you that you have to me; she can’t help but be fascinated by your life.”

“I’m sure she just wants to get on with her own,” Eric said.

“Just like you did?” Jan replied, looking at him across the intervening coffee table.

“It’s different,” he said again.

“I don’t know,” Jan said sadly.

“Just don’t think about it,” Eric said. “As one of my favorite writers once said, ‘Learning to ignore things is one of the great paths to inner peace.’ ”

“I don’t think I can ignore this.”

He hesitated for a moment, then got up, crossed over to her, perched himself on the wide padded arm of the chair, and reached to stroke her tattooed shoulder. But she flinched, and he stopped.

After a moment, she rose and walked out of the living room, heading to the second bedroom, the one that was there for when Quentin visited, leaving Eric wondering at what point in the future—the next day, the next week, the next year, the next decade—Nikki Van Hausen would recall what him having his heart broken felt like.