Spark: A Novel (21 page)

My Spark was pure and permanent, but it existed in a world that was tainted and corrupt. This is why I told the nurses that they could no longer touch me. With great effort, I forced my Shell to wash itself, check temperature and pulse, and inject the necessary medication. Because it was difficult to communicate with the hospital staff, I spent most of my time talking to Edward. I would tell him my vital signs and he would e-mail the information to the nurses’ station.

When I was strong enough to limp up and down the second-floor hallway, I announced that I would no longer eat dead and rotting objects from the corrupt world. From this point on, I would consume only clear liquids such as broth, apple juice, and water. This refusal smashed into a wall of resistance. I was told by several doctors that my Shell would perish without sufficient nourishment. If I continued to say no I would be placed in restraints and a feeding tube would be shoved down my throat.

This conflict was resolved by Sandy Shapiro—the short, plump woman who was a case manager at the hospital. In computer terms, she was programmed to respond in the affirmation mode and was constantly popping into my room to say phrases like “Looking good, Jacob!” or “Getting better!” Mrs. Shapiro covered up all the mirrors in my hospital room with masking tape and newspaper, and then persuaded me to drink ComPlete. The doctors were satisfied with this solution, and I didn’t have to swallow death disguised as a tuna sandwich.

Each act of resistance generated a response from the hospital psychiatrist, Dr. Tollner. He was an energetic man in his thirties who wore jeans under his lab coat and had a gold stud in his left ear. Whenever I said no to anything, Tollner would arrive with a clipboard and ask me how I felt about this new issue.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Is that really true, Mr. Davis? Perhaps you’re feeling anger or fear about being in the hospital.”

“No. It’s okay to be here.”

“There’s nothing wrong with emotions. They’re a natural human reaction.”

“I don’t have those reactions. I’m dead.”

I thought this statement would end the psychiatrist’s questions, but he began to drop by my room during his daily rounds. One afternoon, while I was drawing diagrams on my computer, Tollner walked in with his clipboard and sat down on the chair next to my bed.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Jacob.”

I remained silent and continued designing my Pyramid of Life. Dogs were at the top and I was at the base, but I hadn’t figured out where to put cats.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Did the kitchen run out of ComPlete?”

“No. It’s a bit more serious than that.”

“I don’t want a tube shoved down my throat.”

“This isn’t about you, Jacob. But it is bad news. Nurse Grasso was killed driving home from the hospital last night. A trailer truck skidded on the ice, rolled over, and crushed Eva’s car.”

I continued to work on my drawing.

“So how does that make you
feel
?” Tollner asked.

“Things happen. Last week they put blue sheets on my bed instead of white sheets.”

“But you
knew
Nurse Grasso. She was the first person you saw when you opened your eyes.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“Now she’s dead and you’ll never see her again.”

“That statement could be made about all objects that exist in this room. If they take away the sponge mop in the corner, perhaps I’ll never see it again.”

“Eva Grasso is … was …” Dr. Tollner was speaking loudly. “She wasn’t a sponge mop!”

“Of course not, Dr. Tollner. They’re two different objects. Nurse Grasso wore a top with a floral design and blue cotton pants. She was mobile and could talk.”

Dr. Tollner left the room—which meant there was a chance that I would never see him again. But there was a high probability that he
would
return, so I spent the rest of the day creating a new set of drawings. When Tollner returned the following afternoon, I showed him the computer screen.

“This is your reality, Dr. Tollner. You are a Shell containing a Spark who feels attachments to other Human Units.”

Tollner nodded. “Very good, Jacob. This is an accurate expression of interpersonal relationships.”

“If Nurse Grasso breaks away from your personal cluster, then you are conscious of this loss.”

“And that makes me sad,” Tollner said. “There’s nothing wrong with being sad, Jacob. As humans, we occasionally feel sad … and happy, too.”

“Because I’m dead, I’m not attached to a cluster. When I meet a Human Unit, we occupy the same space for a period of time, and then I bounce off and travel in a different direction.”

The psychiatrist studied the diagrams on my computer screen while he scribbled notes on his clipboard. “Could I get a copy of your illustrations?” he asked.

“They’re not illustrations. They’re explanations.”

“Of course. I understand.
Explanations.
” He wrote down that word in block letters. “Your explanations help me understand you better, Jacob. And that might make your time here at the hospital less confrontational.”

That sounded like a good idea, so I allowed him to return with a flash drive and download all my drawings. A week later, Sandy Shapiro informed me that my medical insurance covered only sixty days of hospital care and that it was necessary for me to continue my recovery as an outpatient back in New York. But first I needed to attend a case review with Tollner and the hospital neurologist, Dr. Rose.

None of the patients at Marian Hospital used the third-floor chapel, and this was where the meeting took place. Tollner and Rose sat at a table with printed copies of my file. There was a large bronze cross behind them that jutted out from a fake stained-glass window lit by fluorescent bulbs. Something was wrong with the fixture and light behind the top portion of the cross kept flickering on and off.

I sat on a folding chair, facing the doctors. Although I still couldn’t interpret the emotions expressed by a human face, I did appreciate the thoughtful placement of Mrs. Shapiro’s chair. As chief mediator and explainer, she sat halfway between the doctors and my Shell. During the conversation, her head went back and forth like a spectator watching a tennis match.

Dr. Rose, the neurologist, was a skinny older man with sandy-colored hair. He always mentioned golf during our examinations, and once I saw him leaving the hospital early in the afternoon with a bag of clubs. “I’m going to lead off here,” he said. “Mr. Davis, your improvement in the last two months has been extraordinary. When you first arrived here, there were indications that you might be brain-dead or permanently disabled. Now you’re conscious, fully ambulatory, and able to interact with the world.”

“But there was brain damage,” Mrs. Shapiro said, motioning to Dr. Rose’s notebook computer.

“Yes. That’s true. You can see it quite clearly.…” Dr. Rose typed a command, then swiveled the computer around so I could see a video of my brain taken by an MRI machine. The image changed every five seconds as the machine peeled back another layer of tissue, going deeper into my brain, burrowing toward the core.

Dr. Rose pointed at bright and dark patches with a pencil. “As you can see, you’ve had some profound damage in the ventromedial area of the cortex—this section integrates signals from other parts of the brain to generate social reactions.”

“And then there’s the amygdala.…” Dr. Tollner said.

“Correct.” Rose pointed his pencil again. “You might not be able to see that. It’s about the size of an almond. But the amygdala helps us recognize threats and generates an emotional response. The sensory pathways to your amygdala have been destroyed. They may heal over time, but you’ve had some profound damage there.”

“But I can talk and walk around the hospital.…”

“Yes, I know. I bet you could play a round of golf, too. But there have been some
problems
caused by your injuries, which Dr. Tollner will discuss.”

Tollner pushed down the computer screen, as if the dark areas of my brain were a distraction. “Mr. Davis, you are suffering from a neuropsychiatric disorder called Cotard’s syndrome. It’s named after a French neurologist who first described the condition in 1880. Patients like you exhibit the delusional belief that they are dead or somehow empty inside.”

Tollner stopped speaking for a moment and all three Human Units stared at me. I realized that there was some significance in this moment, but I couldn’t understand its meaning. Not knowing what to say, I remained quiet. And the two silences contemplated each other.

“Cotard’s syndrome explains your abnormal thoughts and actions. Your brain identified your mother and your girlfriend, but you couldn’t generate emotions with that act of recognition.”

“You know you should feel, but you can’t feel,” Dr. Rose said.

“Correct,” Tollner said. “This disconnect has to be explained by your consciousness—so you’ve come up with the delusional idea that you don’t exist.”

“I’m sure that it must be very frightening,” Mrs. Shapiro said.

“I’m not frightened at all.”

“Yes. You’ve lost your sense of fear,” Dr. Rose said. “The ventromedial area of the cortex reacts to danger and helps us make moral decisions. This is a neurological issue, Mr. Davis. But you’ve come up with a supernatural explanation.”

Once again, there was a moment of silence as the two doctors and Sandy Shapiro glanced at each other.

“So how do you feel about all this?” Mrs. Shapiro asked with a soft voice.

“I have explained my condition to Dr. Tollner. My Spark exists and my Shell reacts to stimuli. The rest is darkness.”

“But that’s
wrong,
” Dr. Tollner said, slapping the word onto the table. “That’s a
delusion.
”

“I’ve been transformed,” I said. “Perhaps you’re frightened of death, Doctor. But it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

Dr. Rose held up one hand like a traffic cop stopping a line of cars. “
Cogito, ergo sum.
Ever hear that phrase? A French philosopher named René Descartes wrote that a long time ago.
Cogito, ergo sum
means ‘I think, therefore I am.’ ”

Dr. Tollner shook his head. “Paul, I don’t know if this is helpful.”

“Let me run with this, Steven.…” Dr. Rose looked back at me. “So this Spark of yours is thinking. Isn’t that right, Mr. Davis?”

I nodded.

“The fact that you’re thinking proves that you’re alive.”

“Cogito—”
I said, trying out the word. KO-gee-toe.

“—ergo sum,”
Dr. Rose answered.

“I am thinking,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean that I exist as a Human Unit.”

Tollner put his hand on Dr. Rose’s shoulder. “There’s no need to continue this discussion, Paul. It’s a waste of time to debate reality
with psychotics.” He turned back to me. “You’re checking out of the hospital tomorrow, Mr. Davis. We’re going to give you ninety-day prescriptions for the drugs you’ve been taking here at the hospital.”

“You should keep taking an antipsychotic medication called Souzan,” Dr. Rose said. “It will dull or lessen the immediacy of your delusions.”

“And we’ve all agreed that you should stay on Taldor,” Mrs. Shapiro explained. “I also take a low dosage of that medication … every day. It’s an antianxiety drug that will make you feel calm and even-tempered.”