The Speed of Dark

“I will always like — love — her,” I say. I had not thought that becoming normal would make that harder or impossible. I do not understand why Tom thinks so. “I do not think she pretended to like me just to do research on me, whatever Emmy says.”

“Good heavens, who thought that up? Who’s Emmy?”

“Someone at the Center,” I say. I do not want to talk about Emmy, so I hurry through it. “Emmy said Marjory was a researcher and just talked to me as a subject, not a friend. Marjory told me that her research was on neuromuscular disorders, so I knew Emmy was wrong.”

Tom stands up, and I scramble up, too. “But for you — it’s a great opportunity.”

“I know,” I say. “I wanted— I thought once— I almost asked her out, but I don’t know how.”

“Do you think the treatment will help?”

“Maybe.” I put on my mask. “But if it does not help with that, it will help with other things, I think. And I will always like her.”

“I’m sure you will, but it won’t be the same. Can’t be. It’s like any system, Lou. If I lost a foot, I might still fence, but my patterns would be different, right?”

I do not like thinking of Tom losing a foot, but I can understand what he means. I nod.

“So if you make a big change in who you are, then you and Marjory will be in a different pattern. You may be closer, or you may be further apart.”

Now I know what I did not know a few minutes ago, that I had had a deep and hidden thought about Marjory and the treatment and me. I did think it would be easier. I did have a hope that if I were normal, we might be normal together, might marry and have children and a normal life.

“It won’t be the same, Lou,” Tom says again from behind his mask. I can see the glitter of his eyes. “It can’t be.”

Fencing is the same and it is not the same. Tom’s patterns are clearer now each time I fence with him, but my pattern slides in and out of focus. My attention wavers. Will Marjory come outside? Will she fence? What are she and Lucia saying about the consent packet? When I concentrate, I can make touches on him, but then I lose track of where he is in his pattern and he makes touches on me. It is three touches to five when Marjory and Lucia come out, and Tom and I have just stopped for breath. Even though it is a cool night, we are sweaty.

“Well,” Lucia says. I wait. She says nothing more.

“It looks dangerous to me,” Marjory says. “Mucking about with neural reabsorption and then regeneration. But I haven’t read the original research.”

“Too many places it can go wrong,” Lucia says. “Viral insertion of genetic material, that’s old hat, a proven technology. Nanotech cartilage repair, blood vessel maintenance, inflammation management, fine. Programmable chips for spinal cord injuries, okay. But tinkering with gene switches — they haven’t got all the bugs out of that yet. That mess with marrow in bone regeneration — of course that’s not nerves and it was in children, but still.”

I do not know what she is talking about, but I do not want another reason to be scared.

“What bothers me most is that it’s all in-house with your employer, an incestuous mess if ever I saw one. Anything goes wrong, you have no patient advocate to speak up for you. Your Legal Aid person doesn’t have the medical expertise… But it’s your decision.”

“Yes,” I say. I look at Marjory. I cannot help it.

“Lou…” Then she shakes her head, and I know she is not going to say what she was going to say. “Want to fence?” she asks.

I do not want to fence. I want to sit with her. I want to touch her. I want to eat dinner with her and lie in bed with her. But that is something I cannot do, not yet. I stand up and put on my mask.

What I feel when her blade touches mine I cannot describe. It is stronger than before. I feel my body tightening, reacting, in a way that is not appropriate but is wonderful. I want this to go on and I want to stop and grab her. I slow down, so that I do not make a touch too quickly, and so that this will last.

I could still ask her if she will have dinner with me. I could do it before or after treatment. Maybe.

Thursday morning. It is chilly, windy, with gray clouds scudding across the sky. I am hearing Beethoven’s Mass in C. The light looks heavy and slow, though the wind is moving fast. Dale, Bailey, and Eric are already here — or their cars are. Linda’s car is not in place yet; neither is Chuy’s. As I walk from the parking lot to the building, the wind blows my slacks against my legs; I can feel the rippling of the fabric against my skin; it feels like many little fingers. I remember begging my mother to cut the tags out of my T-shirts when I was little, until I was old enough to do it myself. Will I still notice that afterward?

I hear a car behind me and turn. It is Linda’s car. She parks in her usual place. She gets out without looking at me.