I say.
One of the other men, not Thomas, coughs.
I take the cue. “Patrick, why don’t you get our guests a glass of water, hon? Since you’re right there.”
He does, and neither of us misses the slight shake of Reverend Carl’s head. I’m the wife. I should be the one serving.
“So?” I say. “Sounds like Bobby Myers might have brain damage. Locus?”
Reverend Carl arranges himself on the love seat opposite my chair. “You’re the medical man, Patrick. Show her the reports the hospital faxed over this morning.”
My husband, who is on a first-name basis with the individual who single-handedly put that metal cuff on me, comes into the room with a tray of water glasses and a slim folder. He stops in front of me before passing around the drinks. “I think you’ll be interested in this, Jean.”
And I am. The first page is all text, and on the second line my eyes find the reason for Reverend Carl’s unexpected visit: lesion in posterior section of STG. Superior temporal gyrus. Left hemisphere. Patient is right-handed, therefore left-brain dominant.
“Wernicke’s area,” I say, to no one in particular. As I read on, my left arm feels light, and there’s a band of paler skin around my wrist, as if I’d taken off a watch before diving into a pool. One of the Secret Service men—I’m assuming that’s what they are, given Carl Corbin’s presence—rubs his own wrist. He wears a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. So he knows. What camp he’s in isn’t clear; like Patrick, they’re all trained to follow along, rather like puppies.
Reverend Carl nods. “The president is very concerned.”
Sure he is. I think Mr. President relies on his older brother quite a bit, and he is going to have one hell of a time getting information either to Bobby or from him. Pieces of future conversations play themselves in my mind:
There’s a situation in Afghanistan, Bobby, the president will say.
Bobby’s response will sound something like Nice twinkles for your banana flames. His speech will be precise and fluid, each syllable articulated perfectly and without hesitation. What comes out will be absolute gibberish: not code, not broken speech, but the ramblings of what we once called an idiot—in the clinical sense of the word.
It’s all I can do to keep from smiling. I have to bite the inside of my cheek—hard—to maintain the proper visage of seriousness, of concern, of duty.
I flip through the other pages. The MRIs, or magnetic resonance images, show a substantial lesion exactly where I expect it, in Brodmann area 22. “This was from a skiing accident?” I say. “No indication of prior damage?”
Of course they don’t know. Thirty-four-year-old men aren’t in the habit of having brain scans, not unless there’s cause.
“Did he suffer from headaches?”
Reverend Carl shrugs.
“Is that a yes or a no, Reverend?” I say.
“I don’t have that information.”
Now I turn to Patrick, but he shakes his head. “You have to understand, Jean, we can’t release the president’s family’s medical history.”
“But you want me to help.”
“You’re the country’s leading expert, Dr. McClellan.” Reverend Carl has stepped in, or leaned in across the coffee table. His face, all sharp lines, is inches from my own. There’s something anime about him, but he’s still handsome. He’s still wearing his suit jacket, despite the heat, but under the fabric is a solid frame. I wonder if women like Olivia King are secretly in love with him.
The chance to correct his tense is too good to miss. “Was,” I say. “I don’t need to tell you I haven’t worked for the past year.”
Reverend Carl doesn’t react, only sits back and steeples his hands together, his long fingers forming a perfect isosceles triangle. Maybe he practices this in front of a mirror. “Well, that’s why we’re here today.” He pauses, like he used to do during his televised sermons, a bit of extra razzle-dazzle suspense-building effect.
But I already know what he’s going to say. My eyes wander from his to Patrick’s to the other men in the room.
“Dr. McClellan, we’d like you on our team.”
On our team.
A hundred responses bubble up inside me, ninety-nine of which would mean forced resignation—or worse—for Patrick. But anything approaching agreement or eagerness will never make its way through my brain to my mouth. Instead of excitement, I feel a gut punch of pain, as if Reverend Carl just reached out with a claw instead of words and bored into me. They might need me, but need is different from want. And I don’t trust any of these men.
“Do I have a choice?” I say. It seems safe.
Reverend Carl unsteeples his hands, separating them into a saintlike gesture of prayer. I’ve seen him do this before, on television, when he’s asking for help, for more Pure Women and Pure Men and Pure Families to join his fold, for money. Right now, those hands seem more like the sides of a vise ready to squeeze me until I burst.
“Of course,” he says, his voice overgenerous and falsely kind. “I know how you must feel, how leaving your home and your children to go back into the daily grind must be—” He searches for a word as his eyes search my house. There’s clutter and mess everywhere: three pairs of my shoes where I kicked them off last week, dust on the windowsills, an old coffee spill on the carpet next to his shoes.
I’ve never been an ace at housekeeping.
He continues. “We talked to another scientist, Dr. Kwan, in case we need a backup. You know her, I think.”
“Yes.”
Lin Kwan is the chair of my old department. Or was, until they replaced her with the first man they could find. I don’t need to ask why they haven’t approached him for this project—if Lin had gotten her way, the guy’s funding would have been severed after the first disaster of an experiment. He was that inept.
“So,” Reverend Carl says. His hands are down now, and he’s no longer looking at me, but at the steel cuff Thomas has been holding for the past twenty minutes. “It’s your choice. You can set up a new lab, recommence your research, and move forward. Or—”
“Or?” I say. My eyes find Patrick’s.
“Or everything can go back to normal. I’m sure your family would like that.” He doesn’t look at me while he’s talking, but at Patrick, as if he’s studying my husband’s reaction.
As if anything about our lives in the past year has been normal. Then I get it—Carl Corbin actually believes what he preaches. At first, I’d thought he’d spun the Pure Movement, that his motives for resurrecting the Victorian cult of domesticity and keeping women out of the public sphere were purely misogynistic. In a way, I wish that were true; it’s
