The Man Without a Shadow (27 page)

“But we aren't married yet, Eli. We will be married—soon—after the first of the year—in the Unitarian Church of Philadelphia . . .”

Eli Hoopes's face creases in suspicion. “‘Unitarian Church of
Philadelphia'—that was long ago. I don't know those people now. I don't believe you. I don't even know your name, Doctor.”

Eli Hoopes's face is contorted with rage, and grief. Tears have filled his eyes. Margot is horrified, appalled. It is a relief—if but a mild relief—that two medical workers eating their lunches by the pond haven't noticed them, and don't appear to be, in any case, anyone who knows Elihu Hoopes or Margot Sharpe.

She takes the man's restless hand, she strokes it as you might stroke an agitated animal, to give comfort and to exert control.

She feels a sick, sinking thrill—Eli Hoopes will wrest his hand from her, and strike her with his fist.

In the lowered voice of tenderness, concern, intimacy she assures him—“Yes, you know my name: ‘Margot.' I have come into your life to love you, and take care of you, dear Eli. You know—you've had some trouble with your memory? You've had neurosurgery?”

“I have?”

“You had a virulent infection—your brain swelled with encephalitis, and you had to have emergency surgery in Albany.”

“Really! That would explain a lot, I guess. When the hell was this, Doctor?”

“In late summer 1964.”

E.H. counts on his fingers—(Margot isn't sure what he is counting). “Was that—last year?”

“No. It was some years ago.”

As usual at such perilous times E.H. becomes very still. The amnesiac isn't capable of mental time-travel; Margot envisions him as an individual who has opened a door in preparation to stepping through, but discovers that the door is a brick wall. The shock is both mental and visceral.

Gently Margot encourages him: “If you think for a moment,
Eli, you will remember getting sick. The infection—the fever. You had a fever of a hundred and three point one degrees Fahrenheit when you were sickest. You took your own temperature during those days you were sick at the lake, and kept a record.”

Is this true? Margot can't quite remember.

True in some way, Margot thinks. She is sure of that.

E.H. tries to think. He casts his gaze aside, he frowns, grimaces . . . It is uncanny, Margot can almost feel the man
thinking
.

The effort of the damaged brain to reconnect—to recharge itself. Margot is touched by sympathy, and pity; and a kind of futile hope. But the circuit is broken, the neurons can't properly “fire.” Such effort resembles the effort of a paraplegic trying to walk—the memory of walking, the will to walk, is not enough.

Poor Eli! Margot yearns to embrace him again but dares not in this public place.

Haltingly E.H. says, “I have some problem with my memory—I think. I forget things I used to know—I think that is the problem.” But he seems doubtful, as if hoping he will be contradicted.

“How long do you think you've had this problem, Eli?”

“I think—maybe—six months?” E.H. speaks uncertainly, watching Margot closely. He is sensitive to something in her face for he quickly amends, “Maybe more like eighteen months. I think it must be that long, Doctor. Do you think so, too?”

Margot explains that she is not a doctor, but a neuropsychologist. Margot assures E.H. that she will be with him for the rest of the day.

“Darling Eli, please trust me.
I will never abandon you
.”

It is all that E.H. needs to hear. Though her statement is not literally true, Margot feels that it is true, in a deeper way.
I will never abandon you in my heart.

E.H. seems placated, if guardedly. He is not so very surprised to see the Institute before them and to see that the path they are taking leads to an entrance.

As they enter the Institute E.H. invariably steps aside to allow Margot Sharpe to precede him through the revolving doors. He is gentlemanly, courtly; as he has left the parkland, and approached the luminous high-rise building with its myriad panes of vertical glass, he becomes somewhat formal, his expression neutral and his manner tinged with irony.

His clothing is not disheveled. His hair—(now thinning, silver-gray and somewhat dry)—is not disheveled. Margot wonders if there is any erotic memory in him—in his body. (There is certainly an “erotic memory” in a woman, Margot thinks.) But in E.H., this possibility is not at all evident. He will leave the outdoors without a backward glance; if you saw him, you would assume that this is a man who knows exactly where he is going. He stands tall, his posture is impressive in a man of his age.

In the elevator with Margot Sharpe and several others (strangers) he takes his little notebook out of a pocket and scribbles in it, earnestly. When the elevator door opens on the fourth floor, E.H. is prepared to step out though (Margot knows) if she'd asked him at which floor they would be getting out, he'd have had no idea.

With a sweetly playful little gesture of gallantry E.H. allows any woman in the elevator to precede him out. Margot has wondered on such occasions if he is mimicking an older male relative, or if he is recalling his own, former self.

In the lab with no protest he allows smiling Margot Sharpe to hand him over to younger associates of hers who have prepared a complicated battery of tests involving encoding, storing, and retrieval of information in the amnesiac subject. He seems happy to see these “strangers,” and shakes their hands.

“Are you—medical students? ‘Interns'?”

Margot remains close by, observing. Within seventy seconds Eli Hoopes will have forgotten her, in his concentration upon being tested. It is urgent for Eli Hoopes to be a good testing subject, to evoke praise and affection in these friendly young strangers.

Margot is taking notes for what will be two linked articles— “Memory Deficits and Déjà Vu in the Amnesiac Subject E.H.” and “False Memory and Déjà Vu in Severe Retrograde and Partial Anterograde Amnesia.”

AM I PREGNANT?
I will have his child, if I am.

M
argot Sharpe will become Elihu Hoopes's archivist. She is determined.

Margot Sharpe does not want E.H. to die—of course: she loves him. Yet, Margot Sharpe coolly considers the fact that E.H. will one day die, and she will outlive him—of course: she is younger.

After E.H.'s death hundreds of little notebooks of uniform size will be recovered among the amnesiac's possessions. Hundreds of sketchbooks as well.

(Will E.H. still be living with his aunt, at the time of his death? Or will he be living elsewhere? It is crucial, Margot thinks, that Lucinda Mateson provide for her disabled nephew, in the years to come. She will speak to Mrs. Mateson—soon.)

With a team of assistants Margot Sharpe will one day edit
The Notebooks of “E.H”—The Sketchbooks of “E.H.”
—to be published in numerous volumes by the University of Pennsylvania Press.

Among the vast
Project E.H. Archives
will be audio and video interviews with the subject as well as audio and videorecordings of the subject's many tests. Thousands of tests, since 1965! CDs,
DVDs. The unique (posthumous) brain of Elihu Hoopes will be scanned in an MRI machine for ten hours; preserved, embedded in gelatin, frozen, cut into two thousand thin slices from back to front; these slices will be eventually digitalized and assembled into a three-dimensional image for continued study. How many Ph.D.s in neuropsychology and neuroscience will be spawned out of this treasure-trove, like bacteria out of a petri dish! As Milton Ferris foretold,
The most-studied amnesiac brain in the history of science—and it is ours!

IT IS AN
honor! Professor Sharpe has been assured.

News has come to her by way of her departmental chair. She is being awarded a major, prestigious award from a national science foundation.
Too soon!
she thinks. She is trying not to feel dismay, panic.

She recalls that Milton Ferris received this very award, but not until he was over fifty. It is premature for Margot Sharpe to be given the award.

“Margot? Is something wrong? This is very good news, you know. Good for you, for the department, for the university and the Institute. And for
Project E.H.
”

She thinks
But it is too soon, Milton will resent me.
She is feeling light-headed.

Later, she will wonder if Milton Ferris, one of the advisory trustees of the foundation, had a hand in giving her the award.

They will know that Milton Ferris was my lover. That Milton Ferris cast me off, and this is an acknowledgment of his guilt.

Haltingly Margot tries to explain that it is very good news of course—but it will have the deleterious effect of interesting more scientists and quasi-scientists in their work with E.H.; the Insti
tute will be swamped with proposals, which will be turned over to Margot Sharpe to consider.

“We have to protect E.H. We can't let his identity become known. We can't let him become a—freak of some kind. I'm forced to turn down virtually every proposal that comes to me, hundreds a year . . .”

Margot has been stammering. Not knowing what she means to say.

Her colleagues at the university marvel at Margot Sharpe, and laugh at her—but kindly, with affection. How eccentric Margot is becoming, and she isn't even fifty years old yet!

What would be delightful news to another scientist seems to alarm and frighten her. What would be a public confirmation of the significance of her work seems to threaten her.

For Margot Sharpe is happiest at work. She is a good, devoted, reliable and responsible faculty member at the university, but her relationships with her colleagues and students are likely to be somewhat distracted. Her true life is in the lab, or at the Institute—testing the amnesiac subject E.H.

She has made a lifetime of E.H., has she! A career.

Grinding facts, data. Conflating results.

Composing theories. Designing new tests.

“—I'm very grateful of course. I'm very—honored.”

Enduring congratulations. Enduring praise, flattery.

Her hand shaken. But not
her hand shaken by E.H. who is her only happiness.

She is being told (now by the dean of the faculty) that she must, she absolutely must, accept this award. And she must accept it
in person
. She certainly cannot send a young colleague in her place!

Thinking
But what if I have no “person”—what will I do then?

Often when others speak, even if it is her field of neuropsychology of which they speak, even if they are speaking specifically of “Margot Sharpe,” she has begun to find it difficult to concentrate, and intrusive. She finds it difficult to follow the thread of others' words.

She is distracted by their brains inside their skulls inside their skins. Almost, she can observe the workings of brains, as in a brain-scan.

Energized by thought and by speech, brains are illuminated from within. There is a rapid, involuntary firing of neurons like electric shocks. To what purpose?

Beauty in such illumination, to no other purpose.

She has taken photos of brain cells, many times magnified. The most beautiful hues, shapes and textures. One day, she will pore over the ultra-thin slices of Elihu Hoopes's brain.

Oh my darling. I can't bear to live without you.

She will endure. She will live without him. At all times of the day and the night, when she is not with E.H., she must live without him.

Thinking how with E.H. she never—quite—loses the thread that connects them.

For with E.H., as with no other possible lover, the relationship between them is always shifting back to zero. Always, they are discovering each other for the first time.

“—I am very happy for us all. But the award ceremony comes at a difficult time, when I have so much work to do . . . We are bringing E.H. to the University Hospital, for an fMRI . . .”

Her voice is oddly hollow, nasal. She has left central Michigan so far behind, so many years ago, how is this possible!

Eli, I wish you were here. Wish we could be together.

I miss your hand gripping mine. Your love.

SHE HAS NO
time for anything but work but—after all, and despite her protests—she is being interviewed. The Institute director has insisted on this interview for the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
she has been told.

As if Margot Sharpe is placated by being informed that her interviewer is a
science writer
.

Asked with a fatuous smile/smirk, “Professor Sharpe, as a scientist do you believe that we have ‘souls'?”

A question meant to elicit controversy. Though the (female) journalist is smiling, hers is not a friendly smile.

And so carefully Professor Sharpe replies, “The concept ‘soul' is fundamentally theological, not scientific. So I am really not able to answer.” Carefully smiling, respectful.

“Maybe if I rephrase my question—”

“Well, I'm not sure that I understand your question. Are you asking do I believe
as a scientist
that we have souls; or, do I,
who happens to be a scientist,
believe that we have ‘souls'?”

The interviewer laughs as if Professor Sharpe has meant to be witty and not withering.

“You can answer either, please! I'm sure that our readers will be intrigued.”

“As a scientist, I scarcely believe that we are ‘we.'”

“Excuse me, Professor Sharpe—what does that mean?”

“What does that
mean
? Exactly what the words say.”

“That we are—‘we'?”

“That we have unique and definable and unvarying identities. That, in a manner of speaking, ‘we' exist.”

“But if we are not ourselves, who are we?”

“
Who
are we? You might better say
what
.”

“
What
are we?”

“Exactly. Science has only just begun that exploration. Neuroscience is the way
in
—but only
the way in
.”

The interviewer is perplexed. The interviewer is embarrassed. The interviewer would be insulted except that Professor Sharpe speaks so politely, so earnestly and so gently.

“ELI? MR. HOOPES?
Is—something wrong?”

She has slipped the Celtic ring on the third finger of her right hand. She knows that E.H. will not see it, or, if he sees it, will not identify it, and yet—it gives her pleasure to be wearing it, at the university and at the Institute.

“If you'd rather not begin our tests right now, Eli—we can wait. Would you like to wait? Would you like to sit by the window here, and write in your notebook? Make some drawings? What would you like to do, Eli?”

He does not seem to care for her, this morning. He does not seem to “recognize” her.

His feeling for her, his sexual attraction for her—seems to have vanished. Is this possible?

He is not a youthful man any longer. He is “older”—an
older gentleman
as the medical staff calls him.

Margot is concerned. Margot is frightened. It has not ever occurred to her—not once in more than twenty years—(or if it has, she has forgotten)—that the wonderfully cooperative
amnesiac subject
might one day refuse to cooperate with researchers. Such a possibility had never occurred to Milton Ferris, she is sure.

His eyes on her, neutral. Courteous, yet cool.

He does not know her. He has never seen her before.

No rings on his fingers yet unconsciously he turns an (invisible) ring on the third finger of his left hand.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Doctor
. Why does he call her that! She is not wearing a white lab coat or a stethoscope. By this time he should know the distinction between the research psychologists who are studying him and the medical staff at the Institute . . .

Except of course, Elihu Hoopes can't know.

Margot is undecided how to proceed. She might simply wait—an hour, a few minutes—and see what develops. Certainly, she is not going to give up and go home.

She has planned an important battery of tests for this week, and will be seeing E.H. three days in succession. She is working with several young associates and a colleague, an associate professor at the university, with whom she has designed these new tests based upon classical conditioning—“delay conditioning” and “trace conditioning.” These are complicated tests involving much repetition and overlapping, as they are designed to measure subtle gradations in memory. It will not be helpful if the amnesiac subject isn't fully cooperative, or if he is distracted by a mood.

(Elihu Hoopes, distracted by a mood? Margot wonders what this could mean.)

Margot observes how one of the nurse's aides approaches E.H., with a bright smile. And she sees how E.H. responds. In his face a light like a smoldering fire that flares up at the sight of her.

“Mr. Hoopes, you wantin to take a little walk? Out where you like it, outside? I c'n take you, Mr. Hoopes.”

Caramel-skinned girl, exotic and beautiful, very young. Oily black hair in tight cornrows plaited on her head.

Margot Sharpe sees, and looks away pained. Turning the Celtic ring on her finger.

THE TESTS.
HAND-EYE
coordination. Rapidity of reflexes.

In E.H., these are surprisingly good, for E.H. has been an
athlete for much of his life. But if he is instructed in a new skill, that in some way conflicts with an older skill, he will have difficulty mastering this skill even when it is a “simpler” skill than the original skill.

Margot is experimenting with intervals between repeated tests. She is discovering that motor-learning experiences seem to be consolidated in the amnesiac subject's non-declarative memory if there is an interval of between three and four hours; before this, the memory is incompletely consolidated. And if the interval is too long, the memory fades.

It isn't surprising that E.H.'s “mastery” of a skill is disrupted when he is required to learn a secondary motor skill within several hours; the second skill may be retained, but the first is lost.

However, the first skill can be more readily regained, if the subject is again instructed in it. Though the subject may remember nothing of the original instruction consciously, his eye-hand coordination improves at once, and he will demonstrate an ease with the procedure that suggests that, indeed, he is “remembering.”

Margot Sharpe and her colleagues have the idea of returning to “intact priming” experiments performed with E.H. eight months before, and running them a second time; at another eight-month interval they will run them again. It is gratifying to discover that E.H. can perform virtually as well as a normal individual in recalling words cued with the first several letters of a word, so long as he is not asked to “remember” but only to say the first word that comes to mind—“Just speak, Eli! Don't think.”

When E.H. is asked if he has ever performed one of these priming tests before, or a test in which he identifies a sequence of only partially drawn figures, his answer is invariably: “No! Not me.”

Yet, given a pencil, E.H. completes the sketchy outlines of an octagon, a many-branched tree, a diamond, an orange divided
into quarters, a church with a spire. As the test progresses the figures become less distinct, yet the amnesiac subject can complete most of them, like a sleepwalker making his slow, certain way with his eyes open; eventually, when no more than one-tenth of the outline is provided, that to the normal eye looks like nothing more than isolated, broken lines lacking coherence, the amnesiac subject can complete the figures with his pencil.

E.H. is startled to see a figure materialize beneath his fingertips. “Hey! It's a—what is it?—‘rhomboid.'”

Margot teases him: “You've never done these tests before, Eli? Yet you are doing them so well—how do you explain it?”