Authors: Robin Cook
"I guess I'm not too hungry tonight," Victor offered. As far as Marsha remembered, it was the first time he'd initiated conversation since she'd gotten home from making her hospital rounds.
"Something troubling you?" Marsha asked. "Want to talk about it?"
"I don't need you to play psychiatrist," Victor said harshly.
Marsha knew that she could have taken offense. She wasn't playing psychiatrist. But she thought that she'd play the adult, and not push things. Victor would tell her soon enough what was on his mind.
"Well, something is troubling me," Marsha said. She decided that at least she'd be honest. Victor looked at her. Knowing him as well as she did, she imagined that he already felt guilty at having spoken so harshly.
"I read a series of articles today," Marsha continued. "They talked about some of the possible effects of parental deprivation on children being reared by nannies and/or spending inordinate amounts of time in day care. Some of the findings may apply to VJ. I'm concerned that maybe I should have taken time off when VJ was an infant to spend more time with him."
Victor's face immediately reflected irritation. "Hold it," he said just as harshly, holding up both hands. "I don't think I want to hear the rest of this. As far as I'm concerned, VJ is just fine and I don't want to listen to a bunch of psychiatric nonsense to the contrary."
"Well, isn't that inappropriate," Marsha stated, losing some of her patience.
"Oh, save me!" Victor intoned, picking up his unfinished dinner and discarding it in the trash. "I'm in no mood for this."
"Well, what are you in the mood for?" Marsha questioned.
Victor took a deep breath, looking out the kitchen window. "I think I'll go for a walk."
"In this weather?" Marsha questioned. "Wet snow, soggy ground. I think something is troubling you and you're unable to talk about it."
Victor turned to his wife. "Am I that obvious?"
Marsha laughed. "It's painful to watch you struggle. Please tell me what's on your mind. I'm your wife."
Victor shrugged and came back to the table. He sat down and intertwined his fingers, resting his elbows on his place mat. "There is something on my mind," he admitted.
"I'm glad my patients don't have this much trouble talking," Marsha said. She reached across to lovingly touch Victor's arm.
Victor got up and went to the bottom of the back stairs. He listened for a moment, then closed the door and returned to the table. He sat down, and he leaned toward Marsha: "I want VJ to have a full neuro-medical work-up just like he did seven years ago when his intelligence fell."
Marsha didn't respond. Worrying about VJ's personality development was one thing, but worrying about his general health was something else entirely. The mere suggestion of such a work-up was a shock, as was the reference to VJ's change in intelligence.
"You remember when his IQ fell so dramatically around age three and a half?" Victor said.
"Of course I remember," Marsha said. She studied Victor intently. Why was he doing this to her? He had to know this would only make her concerns worse.
"I want the same kind of work-up as we did then," Victor repeated.
"You know something that you are keeping from me," Marsha said with alarm. "What is it? Is there something wrong with VJ?"
"No!" Victor said. "VJ is fine, like I said before. I just want to be sure and I'd feel sure if he had a repeat work-up. That's all there is to it."
"I want to know why you suddenly want a work-up now," Marsha demanded.
"I told you why," Victor said, his voice rising with anger.
"You want me to agree to allow our son to have a full neuro-medical work-up without telling me the indications?" Marsha questioned. "No way! I'm not going to let the boy have all those X-rays etcetera without some explanation."
"Damn it, Marsha!" Victor said gritting his teeth.
"Damn it yourself," Marsha returned. "You're keeping something from me, Victor, and I don't like it. You're trying to bulldoze right over my feelings. Unless you tell me what this is all about, VJ is not having any tests, and believe me, I have something to say about it. So either you tell me what's on your mind or we just drop it."
Marsha leaned back in her chair and inhaled deeply, holding her breath for a moment before letting it out. Victor, obviously irritated, stared at Marsha, but her strength began to wear him down. Her position was clear, and by experience he knew she'd not be apt to change her mind. After sixty seconds of silence, his stare began to waver. Finally he looked down at his hands. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed eight times.
"All right," he said finally as if exhausted. "I'll tell you the whole story." He sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. He established eye contact with Marsha for a second, then looked up at the ceiling like a young boy caught in a forbidden act.
Marsha felt a growing sense of impatience and concern about what she was about to hear.
"The trouble is I don't know where to begin," Victor said.
"How about at the beginning," Marsha suggested, her impatience showing again.
Victor's eyes met hers. He'd kept the secret surrounding VJ's conception for over ten years. Looking at Marsha's open, honest face, he wondered if she would ever forgive him when she learned the truth.
"Please," Marsha said. "Why can't you just tell me?"
Victor lowered his eyes. "Lots of reasons," he said. "One is you might not believe me. In fact, for me to tell you we have to go to my lab."
"Right now?" questioned Marsha. "Are you serious?"
"If you want to hear."
There was a pause. Kissa surprised Marsha by jumping up on her lap. She'd forgotten to feed him. "All right," she said. "Let me feed the cat and say something to VJ. I can be ready in fifteen minutes."
VJ heard footsteps coming down the hall toward his bedroom. Without hurrying, he closed the cover of his Scott stamp album and slipped it onto the shelf. His parents knew nothing about philately, so they wouldn't know what they were looking at. But there was no reason to take any chances. He didn't want them to discover just how large and valuable his collection had become. They had thought his request for a bank vault more childish conceit than anything else and VJ saw no reason to make them think otherwise.
"What are you doing, dear?" Marsha asked as she appeared in his doorway.
VJ pursed his lips. "Nothing really." He knew she was upset, but there was nothing he could do about it. Ever since he was a baby he realized there was something she wanted from him, something other mothers got from their children that he couldn't give her. Sometimes, like now, he felt sorry.
"Why don't you invite Richie over one night this week?" she was saying.
"Maybe I will."
"I think it would be nice," Marsha said. "I'd like to meet him."
VJ nodded.
Marsha smiled, shifted her weight. "Your father and I are going out for a little while. Is that okay with you?"
"Sure."
"We won't be gone long."
"I'll be fine."
Five minutes later VJ watched from his bedroom window as Victor's car descended the drive. VJ stood for a while looking out. He wondered if he should be concerned. After all, it was not usual for his parents to go out on a weekday night. He shrugged his shoulders. If there was something to worry about, he'd hear about it soon enough.
Turning back into his room, he took his stamp album from the shelf and went back to putting in the mint set of early American stamps he'd recently received.
The phone rang a long time before he heard it. Finally, remembering that his parents were out, he got up and went down the hall to the study. He picked up the receiver and said hello.
"Dr. Victor Frank, please," the caller said. The voice sounded muffled, as if it was far away from the receiver.
"Dr. Frank is not at home," VJ said politely. "Would you care to leave a message?"
"What time will Dr. Frank be back?"
"In about an hour," VJ answered.
"Are you his son?"
"That's right."
"Maybe it will be more effective if you give him the message. Tell your father that life will be getting progressively unpleasant unless he reconsiders and is reasonable. You got that?"
"Who is this?" VJ demanded.
"Just give your father the message. He'll know."
"Who is this?" VJ repeated, feeling the initial stirrings of fear. But the caller had hung up.
VJ slowly replaced the receiver. All at once he was acutely aware that he was all alone in the house. He stood for a moment listening. He'd never realized all the creaking sounds of an empty house. The radiator in the corner quietly hissed. From somewhere else a dull clunking sounded, probably a heating pipe. Outside the wind blew snow against the window.
Picking up the phone again, VJ made a call of his own. When a man answered he told the person that he was scared. After being reassured that everything would be taken care of, VJ put down the phone. He felt better, but to be on the safe side, he hurried downstairs and methodically checked every window and every door to make sure they were all securely locked. He didn't go down into the basement but bolted the door instead.
Back in his room he turned on the computer. He wished the cat would stay in his room, but he knew better than to bother looking for her. Kissa was afraid of him, though he tried to keep his mother from realizing the fact. There were so many things he had to keep his mother from noticing. It was a strain. But then he hadn't chosen to be what he was, either.
Booting up the computer, VJ loaded Pac-Man and tried to concentrate.
The fluorescent lights blinked, then filled the room with their rude light. Victor stepped aside and let Marsha precede him into the lab. She'd been there on a few occasions, but it had always been during the day. She was surprised how sinister the place looked at night with no people to relieve its sterile appearance. The room was about fifty feet by thirty with lab benches and hoods along each wall. In the center was a large island comprised of scientific equipment, each instrument more exotic than the next. There was a profusion of dials, cathode ray tubes, computers, glass tubing, and mazes of electronic connectors.
A number of doors led from the main room. Victor led Marsha through one to an L-shaped area filled with dissecting tables. Marsha glanced at the scalpels and other horrid instruments and shuddered. Beyond that room and through a glass door with embedded wire was the animal room, and from where Marsha was standing she could see dogs and apes pacing behind the bars of their cages. She looked away. That was a part of research that she preferred not to think about.
"This way," Victor said, guiding her to the very back of the L, where the wall was clear glass.
Flipping a switch, Victor turned on the light behind the glass. Marsha was surprised to see a series of large aquariums, each containing dozens of strange-looking sea creatures. They resembled snails but without their shells.
Victor pulled over a stepladder. After searching through a number of the tanks, he took a dissecting pan from one of the tables and climbed the ladder. With a net, he caught two creatures from separate tanks.
"Is this necessary?" asked Marsha, wondering what these hideous creatures had to do with Victor's concern about VJ's health.
Victor didn't answer. He came down the stepladder, balancing the tray. Marsha took a long look at the creatures. They were about ten inches long, brownish in color, with a slimy, gelatinous skin. She choked down a wave of nausea. She hated this sort of thing. It was one of the reasons she'd gone into psychiatry: therapy was clean, neat, and very human.
"Victor!" Marsha said as she watched him impale the creatures into the wax-bottomed dissecting pan, spreading out their fins, or whatever they were. "Why can't you just tell me?"
"Because you wouldn't believe me," Victor said. "Be patient for a few moments more." He took a scalpel and inserted a fresh, razor-sharp blade.
Marsha looked away as he quickly slit open each of the animals.
"These are Aplasia," Victor said, trying to cover his own nervousness with a strictly scientific approach. "They have been used widely for nerve cell research." He picked up a scissor and began snipping quickly and deliberately.
"There," he said. "I've removed the abdominal ganglion from each of the Aplasia."
Marsha looked. Victor was holding a small flat dish filled with clear fluid. Within, floating on the surface of the liquid, were two minute pieces of tissue.
"Now come over to the microscope," Victor said.
"What about those poor creatures?" Marsha asked, forcing herself to look into the dissecting pan. The animals seemed to be struggling against the pins that held them on the bottom of the tray.
"The techs will clean up in the morning," Victor said, missing her meaning. He turned on the light of the microscope.
With one last look at the Aplasia, Marsha went over to Victor, who was already busily peering down and adjusting the focus on the two-man dissecting scope.
She bent over and looked. The ganglia were in the shape of the letter H with the swollen crosspiece resembling a transparent bag of clear marbles. The arms of the H were undoubtedly transsected nerve fibers. Victor was moving a pointer, and he told Marsha to count the nerve cells or neurons as he indicated them.
Marsha did as she was told.
"Okay," Victor said. "Let's look at the other ganglion."
The visual field rushed by, then stopped. There was another H like the first. "Count again," Victor said.
"This one has more than twice as many neurons as the other."