The Memory Painter

“To understand the brain’s mechanisms, we need to identify genes, their functions, and the proteins they encode. Our ultimate goal is to decode all three hundred sixty-two genes and their receptors, which control the brain’s ability to create and retain memories. Once we identify the function of each gene—its characteristics—then we can define it. For example, a candidate plasticity gene I’ve just targeted has been shown to slow a cell’s apoptosis. We need to figure out what triggers it, what causes it to construct and deconstruct, and how these events can be controlled. We’re also looking at synaptic structures and their dynamics using several methods.”


Linz knew she sounded like she was on automatic pilot, but she couldn’t summon the energy necessary to engage the room. She decided to wrap things up more quickly than she’d planned to spare everyone, including herself, the pain.

“Once we have that knowledge in hand, our ability to heal any brain disorder will be unlimited. We have a long road ahead of us, but I am confident we will achieve success. Thank you.”

She sat back down. Her father shot her a questioning look. She was rarely ever off her game.

*

The meeting adjourned and when the last suit had left, Linz stayed behind to face the music. Her father shook his head. “What happened? You made Dr. Parker seem downright entertaining. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Sorry, I know I underwhelmed,” she admitted. “But don’t think I didn’t notice that you called me Lindsey. What happened to Dr.? Or even Linz? That introduction was beyond embarrassing. We talked about this. I don’t want anyone to think I’m program director because of you.”

“No one thinks that. Hell, they’ve all seen your résumé.”

She shot him a warning look.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. From now on it’s Dr. Linz, no relation. I promise.”

Linz rolled her eyes at his attempt at a joke. He pressed a button and the conference room wall slid open to reveal his private office. It was the size of a large hotel suite. In the far corner, nine flat-screen TVs were mounted on the wall, each continuously broadcasting news from a different country. A sleek leather sofa sat just far enough away to allow perfect viewing, and behind that there was a bar fully stocked with every fine liquor imaginable to accommodate international visitors.

The most dramatic aspect of the room was a magnificent life-sized sculpture of Atlas holding up the world on the back of his shoulders. The sculptor had captured every strained muscle of Atlas struggling to lift a spiraling strand of DNA toward the heavens with his free hand. Linz remembered when her father had commissioned that sculpture. She was sixteen and it had been the inspiration behind her tattoo.

Her father headed to his desk, walking past a wall of windows that offered an all-encompassing view of Boston. Linz took a seat, admiring an unusual antique chair from sixteenth-century France for the umpteenth time. She was always struck by how palatial his office seemed. Her father definitely knew how to make an impression, and the same could be said of the way he presented himself. If anything, he had grown more handsome and commanding over time. Linz remembered seeing old photos of him that had been taken before she’d been born and giggling at the scruffy nerd who had been captured on film.

She watched him sift through the paperwork on his desk and asked him, “Did you have your checkup with Dr. Alban?”

He playfully tapped his chest. “Ticking just fine. The pacemaker got a new battery and an oil change.”

“Oh you’re funny.”

“I heard you turned your office into a rec room,” he said while signing several letters. “No doubt a maneuver to instill camaraderie among your troops.”

“We needed a lounge.”

“Give it time. This isn’t a university. You will get special treatment.”

“I know.” Linz rubbed her forehead. The past few nights of restless sleep were beginning to take their toll.

Her father looked up and put down his pen. “Okay out with it, Stormy Weather.”

She gave him a weak smile. Stormy Weather had been her nickname since childhood—it was what her father called her whenever she had something on her mind. She resisted the urge to share everything with him and asked, “Do you think two people can have the same dream?”

“The same dream?”

“I went to Penelope and Derek’s gallery and saw a painting identical to my dream.”

He looked speechless for a moment. “Of the woman and the priest?”

Linz saw his alarm and immediately regretted bringing it up. She loved her father, but he had a tendency to be overprotective. She tried to play it down. “He signed the painting with the priest’s name and it turns out the guy actually existed. It was just interesting, that’s all.”

“Really.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That is something.”

“I know. It was all kind of weird. But it’s not a big deal.” Hopefully he would let it drop and not get all worked up. What had she been thinking, telling him? Now he’d fixate on it.