Triggers

“One of our surgeons will have a look at your incision; we’d planned to reopen it, of course, so the closure was done to accommodate that. We’ll get you fixed up.”

Her head was spinning. “I—I don’t know if I can take all this,” she said.

Griffin nodded. “I understand. We’re hoping you’ll stay here. We’re advising all those who were affected by the memory linking to stay under our care until we get that sorted out, and, well, with everything you’ve been through…”

Dora looked out the window again, but her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes.

Chapter 38

After having the MRI scans, Eric and Jan went by Jan’s locker at the hospital. She kept a change of clothing there—you never knew when a patient was going to vomit on you, she said. She put the clothes in a plastic bag, and they headed back to Eric’s apartment, stopping at a CVS along the way to buy her a toothbrush and a few other things. The sky was cloudy.

Events hadn’t gone the way Eric had intended. He’d wanted to help Jan, yes, but he’d really only planned to get her to a shelter.

But now she was here, in his home.

And he knew more about her than anyone else in his life. More than he knew about his parents, his sisters, his son, his ex-wife.

He thought back to this morning, back to when he’d come to get her at the Bronze Shield, her setting up to play, rolling the characters, and—

No. No, those were her memories, not his; he hadn’t been there at the beginning of the game. God, they came to him just like his own memories now…like she was a part of him.

Like they were a couple.

Huh. Funny phrase that. “A couple.” A singular noun for two individuals. Except…

Except they weren’t quite individuals anymore. He was linked to her, and for events they had shared—the MRI session this afternoon, her collapsing before that, what went down at the gaming store, their interaction yesterday—the memories were hopelessly intertwined. He couldn’t think about any joint experience they’d had without her perspective mixing with his own.

Time was passing. It would be evening in a few hours. And then night, and—

And he did care about her.

And she did like him.

And she was very, very beautiful.

But—

But when they’d come into the living room now, and he’d sat on the long white couch, he’d expected her to sit down beside him. Instead, she took the matching chair that faced the couch and sat with her knees tucked up toward her chin.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Beer?”

She just sat there.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Jan? Did you hear me? Would you like something to drink?”

“I heard you,” she said. “I just figured you’d answer your question.”

“Jan, I can’t read your mind—just your memories. This isn’t a time of crisis.” So far, anyway…

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

He tried to move to more neutral ground. “It’s strange that the linkages can, at least some of the time, connect not just memories but thoughts, too.”

“Why’s that strange?” she asked. “It’s all just brain activity, right?”

“Yeah, but memories involve permanent changes in the brain—an actual physical alteration in its structure. Thoughts are evanescent.”

“I wish I could read your memories,” she said, and she gave him the faintest of smiles. “That would save me the embarrassment of having to ask you what that word means.”

“Evanescent?” said Eric. “Fleeting. Vanishing like vapor. Unlike the laying down of memories, there’s no permanent structural change in the brain associated with having thoughts.” He shifted on the couch and looked across the glass-topped coffee table at her. “You know, it’s funny. If someone attacked you with a knife and scarred you, the courts would assess the physical damage—how long a scar, how many stitches it took to close the wound, whatever—and they’d come up with a figure that you’d be entitled to in compensation. But hurting someone with words that they’ll always remember? With an act they’ll never forget? That’s physical damage, too—it changes you just as permanently as a scar. But instead of tallying up what the compensation should be, we just say, ‘Get over it,’ or ‘You should develop a thicker skin,’ or—and this is ironic, given that it’s the one thing that’s impossible—‘you should just forget about it.’ ” He shook his head, thinking about the things Tony had said to her, had done to her.

She was quiet for a time, then, so softly that he wasn’t sure he’d heard every word correctly, she said, “I can’t take it.”

“Take what?” asked Eric.

“The memory thing.”

He nodded; it was unequal, it was unfair, it was unbalanced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am—I don’t mean to invade your privacy.”

But Jan shook her head. “It’s not that; it’s not you. It’s her.”

“Who?” asked Eric.

“Her. That woman who is linked to you—the one who sells houses. Um, Nikki Van Hausen.”

“What about her?” asked Eric.

“She knows everything that’s happened between us, everything that happened today.” Jan looked away. “And everything that will happen later.”