I rolled my eyes and rubbed my forehead like a doctor coming out of surgery to deliver the prognosis. “She’s not exactly going to be named Mother of the Year,” I said, feeling a flush of embarrassment for her. “Anyway, forget her. Adam’s in there muttering that he just wants to remember. I can’t get him to say anything else,” I said. “He’s practically catatonic. I don’t know. If I could just get him to feel something, maybe it’d help.”
“Still nothing?” I shook my head. Owen’s mouth twisted. “And emotionally?”
“Still not much improvement there, either.”
“Well, what’d you expect? If there was ever an excuse for a man to be emotionally stunted, death has to be it.”
“Except he’s not really dead.”
“Vitally challenged? Is that more politically correct? I’d hate to offend here.”
“For your information, he has all of his vital signs.” Another unwelcome reminder of the body found in the field. I was only seventeen and already I’d seen three dead bodies in my life. It was beginning to feel excessive. “Anyway, I’m not sure finding a dead body shortly after his own death helped in the emotional-stunting department.”
Owen sighed. “Can I see him?”
“Okay, but be nice,” I warned, and led him back in. Einstein’s collar jangled after us.
Downstairs, Adam straightened upon seeing Owen. His skin was clear and his eyes were sharp with the fresh dose of energy. “Rough day,” Owen quipped. Adam didn’t flinch. “Right.” Owen pulled up a spare stool and took a seat opposite Adam. “A couple questions of my own, if you don’t mind,” he said. “What’s making you, you know, yell like a banshee when Tor recharges you, Adam? Is it pain?”
Adam stared down at his lap. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“So you’re not feeling physical pain then? You’re screaming about something else.”
“I don’t feel anything. Except sometimes. Right after. My fingers.” He waggled them. “They get … tingly.”
At this, Owen glanced at me. “That’s improvement. And what about happy or sad? Do you feel any of that?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell. Mostly, I feel blank.”
Owen nodded. “That’s what I thought. There’s a technique I’ve been studying since … since you came along called emotion and memory retrieval. See, the amygdala, along with the hippocampus and prefrontal cortex”—he pointed to different spots along his own skull—“store emotional memories even if you don’t know it. Emotional stimuli are used to retrieve buried feelings along with any associated memory. Since we’re working with a blank slate, so to speak, I think we’ll have to prompt the resurfacing of those feelings. We’ve got to create the memories rather than just rely on a mood-dependent memory retrieval system.”
“Somebody’s been doing extra credit,” I said. We’d been taking turns researching Freudian studies of psychosocial development at night, but this was beyond textbook psychology. “So you’re saying we’re going to unbury what’s already in there.”
Owen blushed. “It’s simple cognitive neuroscience, really.”
Adam rose to his feet. His height cleared Owen by nearly an entire head. He peered around the room and then his gaze landed on a small hand shovel. He crossed the room and picked it up. “Here,” he said to Owen, eyes wide. “Unbury them.”
*
BRIGHT, COLORED LIGHTS twinkled off the fairground tents. Our shoes kicked through dust. The crowd was thin for a Sunday night. We were arriving on the tail end of park hours. A country song blared through the loudspeakers as we snaked between booths.
Much to Adam’s relief, we’d explained that we wouldn’t be using an actual shovel to create memories and uncover repressed emotion and physical sensation. Owen suggested that we start by getting Adam out of the laboratory more, and the fairgrounds were his first thought. I stared wide-eyed at the flashing lights of the Milky Way, the main stretch of carnival games, at the entrance of which a man with a handlebar mustache was advertising goldfish as prizes.
“If we’re going to make you memories, we better start from the beginning,” Owen declared, throwing his arms out wide to welcome us. “Childhood ones.” I plugged my ears to block out the sound of a twangy guitar. Owen pushed my hands down. “Stop it. I made some of my best memories here.” He reminded me of Willy Wonka, and this was his chocolate factory.
It had been at least ten years since I’d gone to a fair, and even then it was hard to imagine a miniature Tor dying to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl.
Adam sniffed the air. “I’m starving, Victoria.”
“Adam, we’re here for a reason.” I pulled a pen and notebook from my purse. “Now, where to go for maximum impact…” I bit the cap of my pen.