“Provided his intelligence doesn’t fall again,” Marsha snapped. “But I’m not worried about his ability to work. I’m worried your unspeakable experiment has interfered with his human qualities.” She turned away to hide new tears as emotion welled up within her. When all this was over she didn’t see how she could stay married to Victor. But would VJ ever be willing to leave his precious lab and live with her?
“You psychiatrists . . .” Victor muttered as he got out the corkscrew.
Marsha gave the rice a stir and checked the artichokes. She struggled to control herself. She didn’t want more tears. She didn’t speak for a few minutes. When she did, she said, “I wish I’d kept a diary of VJ’s development. It would really be helpful.”
“I kept one,” Victor said, pulling out the cork with a resounding pop.
“You did?” Marsha asked. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because it was for the NGF project.”
“Can I see it?” Marsha asked, again swallowing her anger at Victor’s arrogance, using her baby as a guinea pig.
Victor tasted the wine. “It’s in my study. I’ll show it to you later after VJ is in bed.”
Marsha was sitting in Victor’s study. She’d insisted on reading the diary alone because she knew Victor’s presence would only upset her more. Her eyes filled with tears as she relived VJ’s birth. Even though much of the record was no more than a standard laboratory account, she was painfully moved by it. She’d forgotten how VJ’s eyes had followed her from birth, long before an average baby’s had even begun to track.
All the usual milestones had been reached at incredibly early ages, particularly the ability to speak. At seven months, when VJ was supposed to be pronouncing no more than “Mama” and “Dada,” he was already composing sentences. By one year he had a whole vocabulary. By eighteen months, when he was supposed to be able to walk reasonably well, he could ride a small bicycle that Victor had had specially made.
Reading the history made Marsha remember how exciting it had been. Every day had been marked by a mastery of some different task and the uncovering of a new and unexpected ability. She realized she had been guilty too of reveling in VJ’s unique accomplishments. At the time she had given very little thought to the impact of the child’s precociousness on his personal development. As a psychologist, she should have known better.
Victor came in with some flimsy excuse about needing a book as she reached a section labeled “mathematics.” Discomforted by her own shortcomings as a caring parent, she let him stay as she continued reading. Math had always been her bête noire. In college she’d had to be tutored to get through the required calculus course. When VJ began to demonstrate an exceptional facility with numbers, she had been astounded. At three VJ actually explained in terms she could understand the basis for calculus. For the first time in her life, Marsha properly comprehended the principles.
“What amazed me,” Victor was saying, “was his ability to translate mathematical equations into music.”
Marsha remembered, thinking they had another Beethoven on their hands. “And I never thought to worry if the burden of genius was more than a toddler could handle,” she thought with regret. Sadly, she flipped the next few pages and was surprised to see the diary come to an end.
“I hope this isn’t all,” she said.
“I’m afraid so.”
Marsha read the final pages. The last entry was for May 6, 1982. It described the experience in the day-care center at Chimera that Marsha remembered so vividly. It then dispassionately summarized VJ’s sudden diminution in intelligence. The last sentence read: “VJ appears to have suffered an acute alteration in cerebral function that now appears stable.”
“You never made any further entries?” asked Marsha.
“No,” Victor admitted. “I thought the experiment was a failure despite its initial success. There didn’t seem to be any reason to continue the narrative.” Marsha closed the book. She had hoped to find more clues to what she considered the deficiencies in VJ’s personality. “I wish his history pointed to some psychosomatic illness or even a conversion reaction. Then he might be responsive to therapy. I just wish I’d been more sensitive back when all this happened.”
“I think VJ’s problem was the result of some sort of intracellular phenomenon,” Victor offered. “I don’t think the history would make much difference anyway.”
“That’s what terrifies me,” said Marsha. “It makes me afraid that VJ is going to die like the Hobbs and Murray children, or of cancer like his brother, or Janice for that matter. I’ve read enough about your work to know that cancer is a big worry for the future of gene therapy. People are worried that inserted genes might cause proto-onco genes to become oncogenes, turning the involved cell into a cancer.”
She broke off. She could feel her emotions taking over. “How can I go on talking about this as if it were simply a scientific problem? It’s our son—and for all I know you triggered something inside him that will make him die.”
Marsha covered her face with her hands. Despite her attempts to control herself, tears returned. She let herself cry.
Victor tried to put his arm around her, but she leaned away. Frustrated, he stood up. He watched her for a moment, with her shoulders silently shaking. There was nothing he could say in defense. Instead, he left the room and started upstairs. The pain of his own grief was overwhelming. And after what he’d discovered today, he had more reason than his wife to fear for VJ’s safety.
8. Thursday Morning
Wondering how the other people put up with it on a daily basis, Victor suffered the congested traffic of a normal Boston rush hour.
Once he got on Storrow Drive heading west, traffic improved, only to slow down again near the Fenway. It was after nine when he finally entered the busy Children’s Hospital. He went directly to Pathology.
“Dr. Shryack, please?” Victor asked. The secretary glanced up at him and, without removing her dictation headset, pointed down the corridor.
Victor looked at the nameplates as he walked.
“Excuse me. Dr. Shryack?” Victor called as he stepped through the open door. The extraordinarily young-looking man raised his head from a microscope.
“I’m Dr. Frank,” Victor said. “Remember when I stopped in while you were autopsying the Hobbs baby?”
“Of course,” said Dr. Shryack. He stood up and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you under more pleasant circumstances. The name is Stephen.”
Victor shook his hand.
“I’m afraid we haven’t any definitive diagnosis yet,” Stephen said, “if that is what you’ve come for. The slides are still being processed.”
“I’m interested, of course,” Victor said. “But the reason I stopped by was to ask another favor. I was curious if you routinely take fluid samples.”
“Absolutely,” Stephen answered. “We always do toxicology, at least a screen.”
“I was hoping to get some of the fluid myself,” Victor said.
“I’m impressed with your interest,” Stephen said. “Most internists give us a rather wide berth. Come on, let’s see what we have.”
Stephen led Victor out of his office, down the hall, and into the extensive laboratory where he stopped to speak to a severely dressed middle-aged woman. The conversation lasted for a minute before she pointed toward the opposite end of the room. Stephen then led Victor down the length of the lab and into a side room.
“I think we’re in luck.” Stephen opened the doors to a large cooler on the far wall and began searching through the hundreds of stoppered Erlenmeyer flasks. He found one and handed it back to Victor. Soon he found three others.
Victor noticed he had two flasks of blood and two of urine.
“How much do you need?” Stephen asked.