Lake

 

 

My eyes snap open. I’m not dead.

I blink a few times to erase the blur. Two people wearing white lab coats and anxious expressions are focused squarely on me. I squint at the blinding light overhead.

The male scientist says, “Her occipital lobe is functioning properly.”

Good to know. And I can still hear, which means my temporal lobe is also operational. My racing heart begins to decelerate.

“What is your name?” the woman asks me, over-enunciating each word.

I summon the answer, although it takes longer than it should. “Lake Summers.”

She makes a note in her tablet, looking more than a little relieved. Then I remember why. Losing one’s self-awareness was on the long list of risks in the Informed Consent Agreement I’d signed.

My throat constricts, and I blink back tears. My brain hasn’t become inert matter, but I should know the woman’s name. It isn’t coming to me.

“Water,” I croak. “Please.”

The pock-faced male scientist places a straw between my lips, and I suck in the warm, chalk-flavored liquid. I can still taste; my parietal lobe is undamaged. Since I have the capacity to inventory my senses, my reasoning and problem-solving functions must also be intact. The nerves in my face convey to my brain that a tear is sliding down my cheek. It slips between my lips, and I savor its saltiness.

I’m still here.

“Can you move your fingers and toes?” the woman asks.

I wiggle on command and smile in relief. The motor neurons in my spinal cord fired and successfully transmitted a message from my brain to my extremities. I rub my index finger against my thumb. I’m able to feel the scar, which is reassuring. Touch is the first of the five senses to develop in a human embryo, and it plays a crucial role in physical and mental health.

“How old are you?” The woman asks.

This answer comes more easily. “Sixteen.”

“Perfect.”

High praise, considering most two-year-olds can tell you their age.

The woman’s chestnut-brown hair shines in the light. My brain can recognize colors, so the connection between my retinas and brain hasn’t been damaged.

“Will you let my dad know I’m okay?” I ask, surprising myself. The final phase of the procedure—the most intrusive, since it involved the transfer of emotions—must have loosened the nails in the coffin where I normally bury my feelings about him.

The male scientist’s frosty, gray eyes briefly meet mine, and it feels like the temperature dips five degrees. “We’ll contact your father once you’ve merged.”

His clipped English accent unleashes my memory. Cecil is his name, and I distinctly remember not liking him. But he’s correct. I need to merge before anything else. A wave of nerves flutters through me. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I can merge. And once I do, my new life will unfold.

And so will hers.

I shut my eyes and search for some sense of Sophie Weiss. An awareness to let me know she’s in there. A tingling sensation resulting from our compounded thoughts. Something that feels different. But there’s nothing. The pings of my heart monitor betray me. I feel a touch on my shoulder and refocus on the woman’s kind face. She’s from Wisconsin. If I can remember that, why can’t I recall her name?

“You feeling okay?” she asks.

I nod, even though my feelings are as chaotic as an unstable biochemical reactor.

“Why don’t we let you sleep?”

Even though her tone is caring, she’s not saying this just to speed my recovery. The dream state is where Sophie and I will work together. The loss of my own dreams is a small price to pay for what we’ll accomplish.

They wheel me to a subterranean room that feels about as cozy as a gas station bathroom. The woman scientist assured me that once I’m a Nobel, they’ll move me from this square, cinderblock cell to a lovely room with a window.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to sleep. The electrodes stuck to my head don’t exactly help. I tug a few strands of my long, auburn hair from the sticky adhesive, then begin listing the elements in the Periodic Table. My body slowly relaxes into the orderly world of chemistry, where everything reacts as it should.

Deborah. That’s her name. The beaker-sized knot in my stomach loosens a little.

Eventually, I fall asleep. But I don’t dream. The next night, it’s the same. The Darwinians tell me not to worry. They explain that it may take a little time before my mind learns how to process Sophie’s thoughts along with my own.

Despite their assurances, dreams continue to elude me.