COSMOS magazine

Friday, May 9

They had placed Alex's limp body on an air mattress in the front room of the school and sent all the other kids outside. His skin was greyish, the rise and fall of his chest so slight that at first Jill thought in terror that he must be dead.

Some detached part of her seemed to be observing from the outside. She found herself thinking: I'm handling this very well.

Alex's young teacher Dennis hovered, badly worried, over the small, still form. "At least he's breathing."

"Why isn't the ambulance here yet?"

"Uh, I don't think anyone—" Dennis shook his head, took a deep breath. "No one knew what to do. We thought it would be best to wait until you got here."

Best to wait? For the first time in her life, Jill knew how it felt to be angry enough to lash out violently. Trembling, she told herself: Just stay calm. Do what has to be done. In her mind she drew a map of the surrounding area. St. David's on East 32nd would be the closest hospital, no more than a couple of miles away. Probably she could get Alex there herself more quickly than it'd take an ambulance to make the round trip.

Dennis plucked urgently at her arm. "Do you want us to call 911?"

"No. Ride with us to the hospital, Dennis. You can hold Alex on your lap."

Dennis nodded, picked up her son and held him close to his chest.

---

Driving as fast as she dared, halfway hoping a traffic cop would stop her and offer an escort to the hospital, Jill talked constantly to Alex, as if her voice could keep the life force from draining out of him.

"Mommy's here, sweetie. I'm here with you, Alex."

"I don't think he can hear you. He's unconscious."

"I'll keep talking to him, it might help." He's going to die, she thought, wondering why she was still so calm. She should be screaming. Her son was going to die. She found herself praying for the first time in ages. Dear God, please let him be okay. Please give me back my little boy.

She focused on the street, acutely aware of the traffic around her, senses much sharper than usual. The unemotional observant part of her consciousness wondered what it would be like, to be no longer someone's mother. Dear God, please don't take him from me.

---

"I'm here with you, Alex." Jill held her son's limp hand and looked hopefully at his face. It seemed a little pinker than five minutes ago.

A swish of purple entered the room, a blur of motion, slender dark arms outstretched as Jill turned toward the door.

"Jill, oh my God! I came as soon as Clothile called me." Since their first year of law school, Carol Glassman had been Jill's best friend and confidante. Carol now had her own family law practice.

"Thanks for coming, girl."

"How is he?"

"They gave him an anticonvulsant drug. Doctor'll be back in a few minutes to check him again. Says his vital signs are all okay."

"Then... he's gonna be fine?"

"Yes. It's like a... like the most wonderful gift I've ever been given. He's going to be okay. Carol, I was sure he was dying. He was unconscious for almost half an hour. Then he just went to sleep a few minutes after we got here. It's weird how you can tell the difference between being unconscious and sleep just by looking. Alex, sweetie, Auntie Carol's here."

The boy's eyes opened briefly. "Head aches," he said faintly.

Jill gently massaged his scalp with her fingers. "Does that make it better?"

"No. Hurts."

"We'll ask the doctor if he can give you some medicine to make it better."

"Do you have any idea what caused it?"

"Not a clue. His teacher swears he didn't fall and hit his head, nothing like that, and the doctor says there's no sign of a head injury. They want to do an MRI. Don't know how I'll manage. I'm already having trouble paying all the bills, and now I'll have to take unpaid time off from work. Naturally our HMO won't touch the MRI."

"Can't you ask Keith to contribute?"

Lord knows, Jill thought, he's never given us a penny since Alex was a baby. The least he can do is help with Alex's medical bills. But she knew Keith. She sighed. "He's got a new family now, Carol..."

"Yeah, and makes two hundred thousand a year. You're gonna have to ask him, Jill. Alex is his son too."

"I feel so awful. I've been a terrible mother. Alex was having headaches. He complained about one last week, on his birthday, and I didn't listen, I just..." Jill burst into tears.

---

"We're keeping Alex here at the hospital overnight for observation," the doctor explained, already eager to be off to his next patient. "We fully expect him to be fine, Ms. Shannon."

"How soon can we go home?"

"Oh, tomorrow morning, I'd expect."

"Doctor, he had a seizure!"

"Childhood seizures are more common than most people realize," he told her, looking toward the ceiling. "In many cases, no one can say what caused the seizures, but the kids usually outgrow them in a year or two. If they do recur, they can generally be controlled with drugs. Your son should lead a more or less normal life." He looked at her directly. "You should rest, Ms. Shannon. Go home and get some rest. Alex will be just fine with us."

The sun had set by the time Jill drove into the parking space of her home on Fruth Street. Given her long work hours that was not unusual these days, but the house had never seemed as dark and empty as it did tonight. All the way from the hospital, she'd found herself turning toward the passenger seat to comment on an interesting car or building, or a song on the radio. She had taken Alex's presence so much for granted, she hadn't realized how greatly she'd come to rely on his company.

Jill pushed open the kitchen door and was greeted by an irate Miz Kitty and an eye-burning stench of runny cat shit. Locked in again. Never mind. Alex was going to be okay. That was the important thing. Thank you, dear God, thank you for letting Alex live. I promise I'll never take him for granted again.

An hour later, when Jill was convinced she had found and removed every pile and puddle of feline poop and forced down some food, she fell into bed fully clothed and cried herself to sleep.

Friday, May 9

In San Antonio for his scheduled one day a week, an hour and a half fast drive along Interstate 35 from Austin, Paul told Drew Chang about the way his auxosome mice were behaving. He'd anticipated a reaction anywhere from amazement to derision, and wasn't terribly surprised when Drew's response was faintly mocking.

"Gee, Paul, you've made yourself a little colony of Algernons."

"Algernons?" Maybe it was some sort of American thing an Aussie was expected to know without being told?

"Movie. Charly. That's l-y, not l-i-e. Super-intelligent mice. You'd like it. But take a clean handkerchief with you." He made dabbing motions at his eyes.

Paul shook his head ruefully and changed the subject. He considered himself incredibly lucky to be working even a single day a week with Drew Chang in a joint University of Texas-MTJ Labs cancer research project. Dr. Chang was a slight young man with an intelligent face and straight black hair long enough to fall over his eyes, looking more like a studious teenager than an internationally acclaimed molecular biologist. He seemed to have a child-like fascination for his work, and Paul always drove home to Austin, newly inspired and energized after a day in Drew's lab.

On his coffee break, Paul googled on the title. A site directed him to the novel that the movie had been based on (two movies, it turned out, not to mention a musical). A copy was listed in the UTSA library catalogue. What the hell, he thought. Drew wouldn't give me a bum steer.

Two hours later he left the John Pearce Library in a daze, still immersed in the tragic fictional world of Charlie Gordon. He'd intended to check out Flowers For Algernon and read it at home, but made the mistake of opening it, after it had been retrieved from stacks, just to look at the first couple of pages. Somehow he had not been able to stop until he'd reached the end, throat constricted. Daniel Keyes' novel followed a sweet, remarkably motivated mentally retarded adult, Charlie, through experimental brain surgery trialled on a mouse named Algernon. The operation gave both man and mouse exceptional intelligence. Swiftly, Charlie Gordon learned to appreciate music and literature, understand math, read and write in many different languages, create music of his own and add to the science of neurology—but then, as in some terrible Greek myth of fate, his enhanced intelligence began to crumble, even as Algernon sickened and died. In the end, Charlie was worse off than at the beginning, thoughts and feelings blurred and muffled, yet haunted by vague memories of...

Of what?

Of having been different for a while.

Drew Chang had instantly understood the significance of those modified mice in Paul's lab. The results on maze running and manipulation of their environments went far beyond any data recorded previously. Paul was rocked by the implications. Suppose that by manipulating the genes in his own cells, using the same modifications, he himself could become the most brilliant human in history?

He walked in the spring evening, dazzled and appalled. What would it be like, to learn new languages effortlessly, to compose beautifully complex music, to write sublime poetry, see more deeply into nature? Would he find, precisely because of his superior intelligence, that he'd become the most isolated and lonely man in the world? Worse—what if, like Charlie's, his brilliance were not permanent? Reading the novel, Paul had felt sure that he would not hesitate to enhance his intelligence. Now that he was staring the opportunity in the face, he was scared shitless.

I have to find some way to get emergency funding for primate tests, he told himself. Damn, I'll stay here overnight and see if I can talk admin into giving me a grant. Or get hold of some private money, the pharma companies will go ape about this. He started to run, flushed with joyous excitement. Drivers making their way home stared at him disapprovingly. He didn't notice them.

Sunday, May 11

"Looks like he's doing fine now," Keith said. He stood by the kitchen window, watching Alex and his friend Daria play basketball in the back yard. "Unless he has another seizure, I don't really see the point of doing more tests."

You didn't see him lying there unconscious staring at nothing, and wonder if he'd ever wake up again, thought Jill. Her belly cramped. But she forced herself to remain calm. "It could be dangerous to wait, Keith. What if he has a seizure riding a bicycle? He could be badly injured."

"That's easy enough to solve—just don't let him ride a bike or take him swimming for a while."

"Damn it, Keith," Jill said angrily, "the seizure could indicate something like a tumour. The longer we wait the worse it'd get." She didn't for a moment believe it was a tumour, God would not be so cruel, but she wanted to be absolutely sure. "We can't take risks—"

But Keith had stopped listening.

"What is this, Jill? Pre-menstrual syndrome?" He wandered across the room, took a wooden box from the fireplace mantle and opened it, as though he owned the place.

Still the same charming man she'd divorced eight years earlier. It was infuriating, she realized, that he was right; her period was starting. And that fact was utterly irrelevant to anything.

He set the box down on the coffee table and gave her the benefit of his analysis. "Did it ever occur to you that the doctors are recommending all these tests to jack up their bottom line?"

Jill stared, shook her head in disbelief. "You're not serious!"

"This is quite a switch. I believe I've heard you say on more than one occasion that the medical industry is interested in money before health. I expected you to put Alex on some zany remedy prescribed by your local herb lady." At her furious look, he effortlessly changed tack. "Obviously I'll help pay for my son's legitimate medical expenses, even though it could be argued that you should have set aside some money for emergencies such as this. I'm just saying I have no desire to buy some neurologist's Padre Island summer house."

"Keith," Jill said, trying hard to restrain her anger, "I have an appointment with one of the best neurologists in the country. He's at the University of Texas Health Sciences Center in San Antonio. If his goal in life were to make money, do you think he'd be teaching? I've never asked you for help before. You and I both know I could file a Motion to Modify and get a court order for child support. I hope you won't make us go through that." She felt her stomach cramp again. Oh damn, it was. Her period had started a week early.

"Uh, I hate to disillusion you, Jill, but I think GW&B has a little more clout than Miz Jill Shannon. Take me to court and I guarantee you, I'll take Alex away from you and stick you with paying me child support." He glared at her for a moment, then the tight muscles masking his face eased a little. "But look, Jill, there's no need for this to develop into a hostile situation. I'll talk to the doctor, okay? If he can convince me it's in Alex's best interest to have the MRI, of course I'll spring for it. He is my boy."