Triggers

Susan Dawson had an odd feeling as she came into the room on the third floor, and it took her a moment to identify it; it was something she’d heard of but never experienced. The incongruity of having déjà vu for the first time made her head spin.

And it was indeed that: this room, this little office tucked away inside a hospital she hadn’t visited before, seemed familiar. It wasn’t just that many institutional offices looked alike—neutral colors, venetian blinds, tiled floors, fluorescent lights. No, there was more to it. The desk, the top of which seemed to be made of pine and was a distinctive kidney shape, looked…

She shook her head slightly, but…

But there was no denying it: it looked exactly as she remembered it.

And yet she’d never seen it before. She couldn’t have.

Oh. Maybe she’d seen one like it in the IKEA catalog; they sold lots of stuff with pine veneers. But the silver-gray roller chair also looked familiar—as did the blue tennis racquet leaning against the wall, and the trophy, there. She knew what it was for, even though she couldn’t read the engraving on it from this distance: it was the top prize from the recent LT tennis tournament.

And the wide bookcase, with its dark green shelves and rows of journals with identical spines, somehow were familiar, too. A memory came to her, and this one she did recognize as her own: her anger many years ago when National Geographic had done a special issue on oceans and had given the magazine a blue cover and spine instead of the traditional yellow one, breaking up the lovely set she’d been collecting ever since her grandfather had started sending her gift subscriptions when she was a little girl. And here, in this office, one of the journal volumes had a green spine instead of the wine-colored ones all the others had.

She looked at the wall. On it were three diplomas, including one from McGill University; she was pleased with herself for knowing that it was in Montreal. There was also a framed photograph of a brown-skinned woman and three similarly complexioned children, and—

And the woman’s name was Devi, and the children were Harpreet, Amneet, and Gursiman.

But she’d never met them before. She was sure of that. And yet—

And yet memories of them were pouring into her consciousness. Birthday parties, vacations, Harpreet getting in trouble at school for swearing, and—

“Are you Agent Dawson?” The voice was richly accented.

She spun on her heel and found herself facing a Sikh wearing a jade green turban and a pale blue lab coat. “Ranjip,” she said, the name blurting out of her.

His brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Have we met?” He looked to be perhaps fifty; his beard had wisps of gray in it.

“Um,” said Susan, and “ah,” and then, at last, “no—no, I don’t think so. But…but you are Ranjip Singh, right?”

The man smiled, and Susan belatedly realized that he was quite handsome. “As my son would say—”

“ ‘That’s my name; don’t wear it out.’ ” The words had come to Susan in a flash. She found her hand going to her mouth, startled. “I, um—he does say that, doesn’t he?”

Singh smiled again, his friendly eyes crinkling. “So do lots of kids his age. He also likes the one about the chicken going halfway across the road to—”

“To lay it on the line,” said Susan. Her heart was pounding. “What in hell is going on?” She found herself taking a half step backward. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your son. I’ve never been in this room before.”

Singh nodded and gestured at the office’s single chair—the familiar and yet unfamiliar silver-gray roller. “Won’t you have a seat?”

She normally would have stayed standing—it was a stronger position. But she was feeling unsteady, so she took him up on his offer. For his part, Singh leaned against the dark brown bookcase with the green shelves. “As you say,” he said “something is going on. And I do fear it may be my fault.”

Susan felt her eyebrows going up. “You were doing an experiment here,” she said. “Well, not here; down the corridor, in room, um, 324. It’s—damn, it’s too technical; I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

Susan stopped. “No, you haven’t. What in hell is happening?”

Singh blew out air. “I’d initially thought just my patient and I had been affected, but I see you have been affected, too. I didn’t anticipate that. And it seems you can access my memories?”

“ ‘Abso-freakin’-lootely,’ as your son would say.” She paused for a second. “God, it’s strange.” And then it hit her. “So, can you read my memories?”

“No,” said Singh. “Not me. My patient—he’s accessing your memories. That’s how I knew you were here with Dr. Griffin; he told me.”

“What about you? Are you…how did you put it? Are you accessing someone?”

“Yes. I know his name, but it’s no one I’ve ever met.”

“Is it someone here at the hospital?”

“Yes. A surgeon named Lucius Jono.”

“But—but how did this happen?” Susan asked.