Triggers

“I’m Ivan Tarasov.” Susan remembered him from yesterday; he had been affected by Singh’s equipment, and had found David January for Susan, and, later on, she’d interviewed him. She glanced at the whiteboard: Tarasov could read Dora Hennessey, the kidney donor, and in turn was read by Orrin Gillett, the lawyer.

“You have to do something about these links,” Tarasov continued. He must be addressing Singh, Susan thought, but he wasn’t actually looking at him, or at her.

Singh gestured at his computer screen. “I am trying.”

“You have to do more than try. This is driving me crazy.”

“How do you mean?” asked Singh.

Tarasov did glance briefly in Susan’s direction, but, again, didn’t actually meet her gaze.

“Every time I look at my daughter, I see images of a little girl being molested.”

“My…God,” said Singh. “You’re linked to Dora Hennessey, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s her memories of being molested?”

“I guess.”

Singh’s mouth fell open. “That’s…horrible.”

“It’s disgusting. That poor little girl.”

“How old was Dora when this happened to her?”

“I think she was the same age my daughter is now. Three.”

Singh consulted a document on his computer. “Miss Hennessey is thirty-seven.” He looked up. “The person abusing her—do you know who it was?”

“I’d never have recognized him today, but yes. It was her father, Josh Latimer.”

“The fellow she’s giving the kidney to?” Singh said, surprised.

“I don’t think she remembers the abuse,” said Tarasov, still not actually looking at Singh. “I can’t recall her ever discussing it with anyone.”

Susan saw Singh’s eyebrows go up. “That’s…fascinating.”

“What is?”

“You remember something from her past that she doesn’t. I wonder why.”

Tarasov frowned. “Maybe the memories are so traumatic, she’s blocked them out.”

“That’s one possibility,” said Singh, “but…”

“Yes?”

“You said you thought she was three when this happened.”

“It had to be,” said Tarasov. “Three, or earlier. Dora’s mother and father split when she was three. She didn’t see him again until this past year, when he tracked her down, hoping she’d be a good tissue match—and that she might agree to the donation.”

“Three…or younger,” said Singh.

“Yes.”

“Most adults remember almost nothing from before they were three and a half or even four. But…”

“Yes?”

Singh said, “I’ve seen you around the hospital—before all this, I mean. You are…a bit of a loner.”

“So?”

“And you tend not to meet people’s gaze. In fact, you avert your eyes.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Singh?”

“No, no. Not at all. But if I may ask: are you on the autism spectrum?”

“I’m an Aspie,” said Tarasov.

“Asperger’s syndrome,” said Singh, nodding. “Do you think in pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Pictures, not words?”

“Most of the time.”

“And do you remember your own very early life?”

“I remember my birth,” Tarasov said. “Lots of people on the spectrum do.”

“Well, there it is,” said Singh, looking at Susan then back at Tarasov. “Everyone starts out life thinking in pictures; they have to, of course—we don’t get language until much later. When we do acquire language, our indexing system for memories changes: words, rather than images, become the principal triggers of recall, and we can no longer recall things from before we had sophisticated linguistic abilities. It’s been argued that the memories are still there, but they’re inaccessible. But you, Mr. Tarasov, can access Miss Hennessey’s original indexing system, the prelinguistic one, because you think in pictures. You can remember things from her past that she herself no longer can. In fact…can you remember her birth?”

He thought about it. “I was born in Russia, at home, years before my family came here. But Dora…she’d been born—yes, I can see it now—in a hospital room with blue walls, and—the details are fuzzy; I guess infants don’t focus well—and the doctor doing the delivery was a woman with short black hair.”

“Incredible,” said Singh, his voice full of awe. “Fascinating.”

“This isn’t an academic point,” said Tarasov, sharply. “I can’t get the memories of her being molested out of my mind. They keep coming to me every time I look at my own daughter. It’s like having horrific child pornography constantly shoved in my face.”

“I’m sorry,” said Singh. “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” said Tarasov, and for once he looked directly at Singh. “This needs to be solved, right away.”

Chapter 30

Darryl Hudkins had never flown business class, and he’d assumed he never would. But the president had, for some reason, insisted they take a commercial airliner to their destination, and the next flight heading there had nothing but premium seats available.

All of which was fine, except…

Except it was a long flight, and…

And he could read Bessie’s memories.

He swallowed and tried to be calm, tried to ignore them, but…

But she was nervous, damn it all. She was nervous traveling with him because—

Because he was black.

Because she’d heard awful things about black men.