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She relaxes a little. I sit up, then stand. The walls are not quite straight, but they are straight enough.
I am Lou enough. Lou-before and Lou-now, Lou-before lending me all his years of experience, experience he could not always understand, and Lou-now assessing, interpreting, reassessing. I have both — am both.
“I need to be alone for a while,” I tell Janis. She looks worried again. I know she’s worried about me; I know she doesn’t approve, for some reason.
“You need the human interaction,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “But I have hours of it a day. Right now I need to be alone and figure out what just happened.”
“Talk to me about it, Lou,” she says. “Tell me what happened.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I need time…” I take a step toward the door. The table changes shape as I walk past it; Janis’s body changes shape; the wall and door lurch toward me like drunken men in a comedy — where did I see that? How do I know? How can I remember that and also cope with the floor that is only flat enough, not flat? With an effort, I make the walls and door flat again; the elastic table springs back to the rectangular shape I should see.
“But, Lou, if you’re having sensory problems, they may need to adjust the dosage—”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, not looking back. “I just need a break.” The final argument: “I need to use the bathroom.”
I know — I remember, from somewhere — that what has happened involves sensory integration and visual processing. Walking is strange. I know I am walking; I can feel my legs moving smoothly. But what I see is jerky, one abrupt position after another. What I hear is footsteps and echoes of footsteps and reechoes of footsteps.
Lou-before tells me this is not how it was, not since he was tiny. Lou-before helps me focus on the door to the men’s toilets and get through it, while Lou-now rummages madly through memories of conversations overheard and books read trying to find something that will help.
The men’s toilet is quieter; no one else is there. Gleams of light race at my eyes from the smooth curving white porcelain fixtures, the shiny metal knobs and pipes. There are two cubicles at the far end; I go into one and close the door.
Lou-before notices the floor tiles and the wall tiles and wants to calculate the volume of the room. Lou-now wants to climb into a soft, dark place and not come out until morning.
It is morning. It is still morning and we — I — have not had lunch. Object permanence. What I need is object permanence. What Lou-before read about it in a book — a book he read, a book I do not quite remember but also do remember — comes back to me. Babies don’t have it; grownups do. People blind from birth, whose sight is restored, can’t learn it: they see a table morphing from one shape to another as they walk by.
I was not blind from birth. Lou-before had object permanence in his visual processing. I can have it, too. I had it, until I tried to read the story…
I can feel the pounding of my heart slow down, sink below awareness. I lean over, looking at the tiles of the floor. I don’t really care what size they are or about calculating the area of the floor or the volume of the room. I might do it if I were trapped here and bored, but at the moment I’m not bored. I’m confused and worried.
I do not know what happened. Brain surgery? I have no scars, no uneven hair growth. Some medical emergency?
Emotion floods me: fear and then anger, and with it a peculiar sensation that I am swelling and then shrinking. When I am angry, I feel taller and other things look smaller. When I am scared, I feel small and other things look bigger. I play with these feelings, and it is very strange to feel that the tiny cubicle around me is changing size. It can’t really be changing size. But how would I know if it were?
Music floods my mind suddenly, piano music. Gentle, flowing, organized sound… I squeeze my eyes shut, relaxing again. The name comes to me: Chopin. An etude. An etude is a study… no, let the music flow; don’t think.
I run my hands up and down my arms, feeling the texture of my skin, the springiness of the hairs. It is soothing, but I do not need to keep doing it.
“Lou! Are you in here? Are you all right?” It is Jim, the orderly who has taken care of me most days. The music fades, but I can feel it rippling under my skin, soothing.
“I’m fine,” I say. I can tell that my voice sounds relaxed. “I just needed a break, is all.”
“Better come out, buddy,” he says. “They’re startin’ to freak out here.”
Sighing, I stand up and unlatch the door. Object permanence retains its shape as I walk out; the walls and floor stay as flat as they should; the gleam of light off shiny surfaces doesn’t bother me. Jim grins at me. “You’re okay then, buddy?”
“Fine,” I say again. Lou-before liked music. Lou-before used music to steady him… I wonder how much of Lou-before’s music I could still remember.
Janis and Dr. Hendricks are waiting in the hall. I smile at them. “I’m fine,” I say. “I really did just need to go to the bathroom.”
“But Janis says you fell,” Dr. Hendricks says.
“Just a glitch,” I say. “Something about the confusion while reading sort of… made a confusion in the senses, but it’s gone now.” I look down the hall both ways to be sure. Everything seems fine. “I want to talk to you about what actually happened,” I say to Dr. Hendricks. “They said brain surgery, but I don’t have any scars that I can see. And I need to understand what’s going on in my brain.”
She purses her lips, then nods. “All right. One of the counselors will explain it to you. I can tell you that the kind of surgery we do now doesn’t involve cutting big holes in your head. Janis, set up an appointment for him.” Then she walks away.
I don’t think I like her very much. I sense that she is a person who keeps secrets.
When my counselor, a cheerful young man with a bright red beard, explains what they did, I am almost in shock. Why did Lou-before agree to this? How could he risk so much? I would like to grab him and shake him, but he is me now. I am his future, as he is my past. I am the light flung out into the universe, and he is the explosion from which I came. I do not say this to the counselor, who is very matter-of-fact and would probably think that is crazy. He keeps assuring me that I am safe and will be taken care of; he wants me to be calm and quiet. I am calm and quiet on the outside. Inside I am split between Lou-before, who is figuring out how that pattern on his tie was woven, and my current self, who wants to shake Lou-before and laugh in the counselor’s face and tell him that I do not want to be safe and taken care of. I am past that now. It is too late to be safe in the way he means safe, and I will take care of myself.
I am lying in bed with my eyes closed, thinking about the day. Suddenly I am suspended in space, in darkness. Far off tiny chips of light, many-colored. I know they are stars and the blurry ones are probably galaxies. Music starts, Chopin again. It is slow, thoughtful, almost sad. Something in E minor. Then some other music comes in, with a different feel: more texture, more strength, rising up under me like a wave on the ocean, only this wave is light.
Colors shift: I know, without analyzing it, that I am racing toward those distant stars, faster and faster, until the wave of light tosses me off and I fly faster yet, a dark perception, toward the center of space and time.
When I wake up, I am happier than I have ever been, and I do not know why.
The next time Tom comes, I recognize him and remember that he has been here before. I have so much to tell him, so much to ask him. Lou-before thinks Tom knew him better than just about anybody. If I could I would let Lou-before greet him, but that doesn’t work anymore. “We’ll be out in a few days,” I say. “I’ve already talked to my apartment manager; she’ll turn the power back on and get things ready.”