It’s an idea that seems utterly remarkable, almost totally absurd.
“It has something to do with Biogen—and something called Advanced Development and Memory 1.0. ADAM,” I say. “That sounds like software to me, a program of some kind. What does it have to do with you?”
“Nathaniel.” She wants to say something, but I can’t pause my train of thought to indulge her.
“They were observing you at the fake dentist’s office,” I say. I don’t want to say aloud what I really mean: They were experimenting with you, Grandma. In the radiology clinic below the dental offices, they were scanning your brain, using the MRI to look at images of it. They were studying your hippocampus. Why?
“Grandma, I’m just going to say it.”
“What?”
“They were fiddling with your memory.”
“I can’t remember things the way I used to.”
“Adrianna Pederson was in the middle of it, and she reached out to me. She knows what’s going on. Now she’s missing.”
“I feel like I’m watching Jeopardy,” Grandma says, and laughs. She feels like she’s made a joke.
“I know someone who can help me figure out whether I’m onto something—or losing my mind too.”
I pull my phone from a pocket.
“Grandma, have you heard of Henry Gustav Molaison?”
I dial. Grandma doesn’t answer my trivia question.
“He was the most famous amnesiac.”
He died near the end of 2008 after making a lifelong scientific contribution, all unbeknownst to him.
When he was in his twenties, in the 1950s, he underwent experimental surgery to stop terrible seizures. The surgery destroyed his hippocampi and, inadvertently, his short-term memory. He couldn’t remember a person he’d met minutes earlier.
He was famously nice, willing to participate in endless observation, which he did as a kind of petri-dish-in-residence at MIT. He was lucid, thoughtful, and able to communicate his experiences with researchers, even though he couldn’t register new memories. His brain was a veritable blank slate on which to study the science of memory.
I learned about him in medical school—no med student ever forgets H. M. (how he was known until his death)—and then read his obituary. Researchers learned from H. M. that there are two different kinds of memory: a mental one and a physical one. Intellectually, H. M. could retain no new information. But physically, he could learn tasks. For instance, he learned to draw, and his skills grew over time, suggesting his memory for physical tasks remained intact.
This is partly what prompts me to call Grandma’s neurologist. H. M. showed that such memory bifurcation is possible. But what doesn’t make sense is how markedly Grandma’s physical and intellectual experiences are diverging.
“You not only remember karate. You’re adroit and able,” I say to Grandma as Pete’s cell phone rings.
“Okay.”
Pete finally answers. “Hello.”
“Dr. Laramer. Pete. It’s Nat Idle.”
“Is everything okay with your grandmother?”
“No. I mean, her decline has been so precipitous.”
“Where are you, Nat?”
“Listen. It’s not normal.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Is there evidence in the literature of highly accelerated cases of dementia, unusually rapid deterioration? Memory loss at hyper-speed.”
“As I told you, trauma can exacerbate memory loss.”
“No. Not something so . . . organic,” I say, emphatically. “I’m thinking about drugs, or, I don’t know, maybe some kind of technology that hastens decay of the hippocampus.”
“Whoa. Stop.”
“What?”
“Listen to yourself. You sound like the people who come into my office caring for a loved one who has dementia. This is a difficult time.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nat.”
“Sorry, Pete. Something is not right.”
He sighs. “May I posit a theory?”
“Please.”
“You’re involved in some story, an investigation, not getting enough sleep. I’ve heard how . . . excitable you can be when the muse hits. I respect that. You’re creative. There’s a colloquial word for it: ebullience. You’re not hypo-manic, but just energetic. It’s not bad, but it can color your perspective.”
“Thanks,” just shy of exasperated. I’m not looking for a theory about me. “You’re sure there’s nothing—no deep brain scanning technology, or . . . I don’t know what? Nothing that might speed dementia.”
“Where are you?” His voice sounds grave.
“South San Francisco. In the car.”
“Is Lane with you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you returning her to the assisted-living home?”
“No, we’re . . .” I pause. “Why do you ask?”
“Bluntly, she needs to be getting the proper care.”
“I . . .”
He cuts me off. “You and I both know you’ve got a penchant for the dramatic. You’re a storyteller. Good for you. But whatever you’re doing now—whatever wide-eyed ideas you have about your grandmother, while understandable, should not divert from her care. You must get her someplace safe.”
I sigh. I want to yell at him, get him to address my questions. Earlier he told me to get her out of her environment, now he wants me to put her back in it. Why contradict himself, or change his counsel?
Regardless, part of me knows he’s right—about getting Grandma into a safe setting. The Witch said so too. Is Lane my ward or my pawn?
“If you don’t want to take her to the home, bring her to me and let me examine her,” he says. “Let me make sure she’s okay—and I can suggest where you might take her.”
“Really?”
“You’re a family friend. How about this afternoon?”
“Let me think about it.”
He pauses.
“I’ll come to you,” he says.
“Pardon?”
“I’ll come get your grandmother. I’ll take care of her for a few days if that’s what it takes.”
I want to reach through the phone and strangle the patronizing ape. He must really think me incompetent.
“I’ll call later,” I say. And I hang up.
It’s 1:20 p.m. We’ve got a little more than four hours before I pick up Grandma’s care file from Betty Lou.
We’re still parked at the grocery store. We walk inside and buy macaroni salad from the deli, sharing it while we sit together back in the front seat.
“I’m glad they invented this food. It’s yummy,” she says.
I smile. “Time to visit a farm,” I say between bites.
“With cows?”
“Servers.”