I had never seen Jack Belicec drink, not once in the years I'd known him. He once told me that he'd been bitten by the booze bug -- bitten to the bone -- and consequently, the hardest drink Jack ever swallowed was strong iced tea.
But here he was in the basement of his day-spa business, one hand firmly wrapped around what looked suspiciously like a tumbler full of ice and scotch. When I was within three steps of him I could smell the alcohol, and all suspicion was removed.
He was standing next to the body of his wife, Elizabeth.
No, that's not right. He was standing next to a body that looked very much like his wife, Elizabeth. Only this corpse was vague, almost immature in appearance. No lines, no wrinkles, no "I want" line stamped in her forehead between the eyes. It looked like Elizabeth if she had never experienced a care, a worry, a joy in her life.
"It doesn't have any fingerprints, Miles," Jack said, and now I could see why he had a death grip on the tumbler -- his hands were trembling. He drank deeply, looked at me with eyes that were trying to retain a grip on reality.
"No fingerprints, Miles. Look for yourself."
I did. He was half right. You couldn't lift a print from any of the body's fingers, but you could see the whorls, obscured by a layer or two of smooth skin. It was as if the prints were simply waiting to rise to the surface, waiting to be born in full form. And was I actually seeing them come into sharper focus?
Before I could put any words in my brain, much less like mouth, Jack continued: "It's not Lizzie, you know. I don't know what in hell it is, my friend, but it isn't Lizzie. She's upstairs, asleep."
That's when the body at Jack's feet opened its eyes.
Jack's astonished gaze met mine and I could hear his voice behind my eyes, shouting: "Jesus Christ! This can't be happening!" And right beneath his voice, my own inner scream: "We've got to wake Elizabeth!"
The body looked first at me, then Jack. Its lips cracked open with an audible pop as it prepared to speak its first words, and I knew it would sound like Elizabeth, the same way I knew that if I inked those fingers, I would now be able to lift fingerprints.
It was maturing, it was aging, it was becoming Elizabeth Belicec with every passing second. I had no doubt that once it spoke, the real Elizabeth would stop speaking, stop breathing, stop being.
Bill apparently had the same thought. He brought the tumbler down with a fury onto the impostor's face, drawing what looked like blood, and as it uttered a whistle of a scream, Bill ran to a pegboard on the wall, yanked a large spanner from its hook and continued his assault.
It took 22 blows before Bill was spent, and long before then the downward swings of the wrench had already worked their way through to the floor beneath the duplicate's head.
The only noises in the basement were Bill's sobs of angry agony and my own ragged attempts at breathing. I had just witnessed a killing -- not a homicide, because I don't think Bill killed a human -- but the gore looked the same.
Bill's sobs finally abated enough for him to raise his head and find his voice.
"Miles," he asked, "what the fuck?"
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Judy's Elbow
When Jack Belicec summoned me to the basement of his downtown business I was just completing an examination of Judy Hinkell, the mayor's special assistant. I had known Judy for years, dating back to when she was a college student eager to change the world. No one who knew Judy could ever accuse her of lacking a personality.
The woman I examined was a stranger.
She was identical to Judy in every way, right down to a crescent-shaped scar on the inside of her left elbow. Ten years ago she had tripped on a stairwell at City Hall and caught herself on a loose nail in the bannister. I stitched the wound. I knew the scar because I helped minimize it. Now I was looking at its doppelganger.
"Is something wrong, Dr. Bennell?" she asked, her tone somewhere between smoke and a murmur.
"Hmm?"
"I asked if something was wrong," she repeated. "With my elbow, that is. You keep staring at it."
Before I could answer -- before I could catch air to alleviate the pounding of my heart -- the phone rang. Sally called in from the reception desk: "It's Jack Belicec, doctor. Says it's urgent."
I mumbled an excuse to the bland imitation of Judy Hinkell, who looked at me without blinking. "I understand, Dr. Bennell," she said. "Jack Belicec has an emergency. You should find out what happened." There was no lilt in her voice, no cadence. If there was a trace of emotional individuality inside this breathing being, it was well hidden.
"Thank you, Judy," I replied, trying to match the calm in her voice. "And I'm sorry for staring at your elbow. I must have -- "
"Don't worry, Dr. Bennell." She was already moving to the exam room door. "You're probably just tired. Everything will be much better once you get a good night's sleep."
Stop with the sleep talk! I wanted to scream at her slack features. But instead I remained silent, only nodded, and once she was out the door I threw on my own coat and sped over to Jack's business, Belicec Spas.
The woman I examined was a stranger.
She was identical to Judy in every way, right down to a crescent-shaped scar on the inside of her left elbow. Ten years ago she had tripped on a stairwell at City Hall and caught herself on a loose nail in the bannister. I stitched the wound. I knew the scar because I helped minimize it. Now I was looking at its doppelganger.
"Is something wrong, Dr. Bennell?" she asked, her tone somewhere between smoke and a murmur.
"Hmm?"
"I asked if something was wrong," she repeated. "With my elbow, that is. You keep staring at it."
Before I could answer -- before I could catch air to alleviate the pounding of my heart -- the phone rang. Sally called in from the reception desk: "It's Jack Belicec, doctor. Says it's urgent."
I mumbled an excuse to the bland imitation of Judy Hinkell, who looked at me without blinking. "I understand, Dr. Bennell," she said. "Jack Belicec has an emergency. You should find out what happened." There was no lilt in her voice, no cadence. If there was a trace of emotional individuality inside this breathing being, it was well hidden.
"Thank you, Judy," I replied, trying to match the calm in her voice. "And I'm sorry for staring at your elbow. I must have -- "
"Don't worry, Dr. Bennell." She was already moving to the exam room door. "You're probably just tired. Everything will be much better once you get a good night's sleep."
Stop with the sleep talk! I wanted to scream at her slack features. But instead I remained silent, only nodded, and once she was out the door I threw on my own coat and sped over to Jack's business, Belicec Spas.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Allow Me To Explain
I understand how you might read this and dismiss it as the ramblings of an insane man. I do understand. As a physician it is my job to examine the physical. If what I examine is free from disease or deformity, I must pronounce it fit, and any diagnosis to the contrary must be viewed with suspicion.
I examined more than two dozen people in Santa Mira, after receiving complaints from their relatives. Odd complaints, most of them centered on a belief that an impostor was now serving in place of their aunt, their uncle, their mother.
But upon examination, every one of the two dozen "impostors" proved to be quite real. Their hearts pumped blood. Their lungs drew air. Their only shared "illness" was a slight, almost lackluster look of puzzlement. But then again, these people had been accused by their loved ones of being counterfeit humans. I doubt I could maintain my equanimity if faced with such an absurd accusation.
So yes, I viewed the complainants with suspicion. Dan Kauffman, the only psychiatrist in town, said it was a strange neurosis, and though I am not extensively schooled in psychiatry, the diagnosis seemed plausible.
"It's mass hysteria, basically," Dan said. "One person becomes afraid and tells her best friend, who 'catches' the fear and falls ill from it. Santa Mira isn't a big town, Miles. I'm surprised you haven't seen more than two dozen cases."
But if this was mass hysteria, it was extremely short-lived. Within 72 hours, every one of the original "hysterics" had dramatically calmed. Every one of them. Each called my office and told Sally that everything was back to normal. Jimmy Grimaldi and his mother even made a point of coming in to show me that Jimmy's fit from the day before was ancient history.
But how? Why? Questions without answers. I had done nothing to "cure" Jimmy, whose screaming fit had not seemed an act. Yet Jimmy and his mother felt compelled to assure me in person. Did they want to lull me into complacency? If so, why?
And why were the complainants now wearing the same bland expression as the loved ones they so recently called fake? Why was the downtown diner now empty during the breakfast rush? Why was Santa Mira increasingly quiet, even during the height of the afternoon drive home? Why didn't I hear the din of car horns on the expressway, raised voices in the mall? Why was I greeted by more and more people with the same quiet -- disquieting -- tone in their voice?
At that point I mentally slapped myself, hard. Such talk should be exclusive to the paranoids of our world, a club that excludes me from its membership rolls, thank God. My life is firmly rooted in reality. There are no impostors, no replacement humans. Medicine has advanced remarkably in my 20 years of practice, but we are not to a point where humans can be replicated overnight. Even Kinko's can't do that.
I was left with facts in direct competition. Mankind and science cannot create bland clones, devoid of any sort of passion or extremes. Yet I see them on the streets of my town. More and more with every new morning.
And then Jack Belicec showed me the most impossible thing of all.
I examined more than two dozen people in Santa Mira, after receiving complaints from their relatives. Odd complaints, most of them centered on a belief that an impostor was now serving in place of their aunt, their uncle, their mother.
But upon examination, every one of the two dozen "impostors" proved to be quite real. Their hearts pumped blood. Their lungs drew air. Their only shared "illness" was a slight, almost lackluster look of puzzlement. But then again, these people had been accused by their loved ones of being counterfeit humans. I doubt I could maintain my equanimity if faced with such an absurd accusation.
So yes, I viewed the complainants with suspicion. Dan Kauffman, the only psychiatrist in town, said it was a strange neurosis, and though I am not extensively schooled in psychiatry, the diagnosis seemed plausible.
"It's mass hysteria, basically," Dan said. "One person becomes afraid and tells her best friend, who 'catches' the fear and falls ill from it. Santa Mira isn't a big town, Miles. I'm surprised you haven't seen more than two dozen cases."
But if this was mass hysteria, it was extremely short-lived. Within 72 hours, every one of the original "hysterics" had dramatically calmed. Every one of them. Each called my office and told Sally that everything was back to normal. Jimmy Grimaldi and his mother even made a point of coming in to show me that Jimmy's fit from the day before was ancient history.
But how? Why? Questions without answers. I had done nothing to "cure" Jimmy, whose screaming fit had not seemed an act. Yet Jimmy and his mother felt compelled to assure me in person. Did they want to lull me into complacency? If so, why?
And why were the complainants now wearing the same bland expression as the loved ones they so recently called fake? Why was the downtown diner now empty during the breakfast rush? Why was Santa Mira increasingly quiet, even during the height of the afternoon drive home? Why didn't I hear the din of car horns on the expressway, raised voices in the mall? Why was I greeted by more and more people with the same quiet -- disquieting -- tone in their voice?
At that point I mentally slapped myself, hard. Such talk should be exclusive to the paranoids of our world, a club that excludes me from its membership rolls, thank God. My life is firmly rooted in reality. There are no impostors, no replacement humans. Medicine has advanced remarkably in my 20 years of practice, but we are not to a point where humans can be replicated overnight. Even Kinko's can't do that.
I was left with facts in direct competition. Mankind and science cannot create bland clones, devoid of any sort of passion or extremes. Yet I see them on the streets of my town. More and more with every new morning.
And then Jack Belicec showed me the most impossible thing of all.
A Strange Neurosis
Dan Kauffman called it that.
"A strange neurosis," he told me, "evidently contagious -- an epidemic of mass hysteria."
Jimmy Grimaldi was suffering from it, he continued. So was Becky Driscoll's aunt, Wilma. She thought her husband, Ira, wasn't Ira anymore.
A strange neurosis. By noon, a dozen people had "caught" it. They were sure their loved ones were imposters. "The oddest thing I've ever heard of," Kauffman said. I agreed.
The "new" loved ones looked no different from their old selves. They retained all the memories they were supposed to have. They sounded exactly the same as they always had, as far as I could tell. The same structural likeness.
Yet they were indistinct ... vague. Like the first impression that's stamped on a coin, they had no rough edges, no lines of character in their voices. They were, to a one, calm and rational and logical. They clucked with minor reproach when told their relatives thought they were fakes. But every expression was bland. Nothing bothered them.
Ask about the war and they shrugged. Ask how they felt about the country's enemies and they merely murmured something about how everything was going to be all right once everybody got a good night's sleep.
That sort of detachment isn't unusual. In my practice I've seen people who allowed their humanity to drain away. Only it happens slowly instead of all at once. We harden our hearts and grow callous. Only when we have to fight to stay human do we realize how precious it is to us. How dear.
What was happening in Santa Mira, however -- it was all at once, and the people didn't seem to mind. If anything they acted happy, without any cares in the world. You could have told them that the president was going to drop nuclear weapons in the Middle East and most of them would have simply nodded in approval and gone off with their faint smiles.
Wait. That's not quite right. There was anger lurking beneath the placid surface. Becky's uncle, Ira, clenched his jaw when I suggested that there were plenty of worries in the world -- that war and arrogance and hate were going to be the death of us all.
"Death?" Ira snorted, and I saw his jawbone working. "The only ones dying are the ones who can't see the better way of living." He smiled, but only a little, and his jawbone kept working, grinding, clenching.
"Once you get that through that head of yours, Doc, you'll know what I'm talking about," Ira said. "Once you get a good night's sleep you'll see that as clearly as I do. As clearly as the rest of us see it."
"A strange neurosis," he told me, "evidently contagious -- an epidemic of mass hysteria."
Jimmy Grimaldi was suffering from it, he continued. So was Becky Driscoll's aunt, Wilma. She thought her husband, Ira, wasn't Ira anymore.
A strange neurosis. By noon, a dozen people had "caught" it. They were sure their loved ones were imposters. "The oddest thing I've ever heard of," Kauffman said. I agreed.
The "new" loved ones looked no different from their old selves. They retained all the memories they were supposed to have. They sounded exactly the same as they always had, as far as I could tell. The same structural likeness.
Yet they were indistinct ... vague. Like the first impression that's stamped on a coin, they had no rough edges, no lines of character in their voices. They were, to a one, calm and rational and logical. They clucked with minor reproach when told their relatives thought they were fakes. But every expression was bland. Nothing bothered them.
Ask about the war and they shrugged. Ask how they felt about the country's enemies and they merely murmured something about how everything was going to be all right once everybody got a good night's sleep.
That sort of detachment isn't unusual. In my practice I've seen people who allowed their humanity to drain away. Only it happens slowly instead of all at once. We harden our hearts and grow callous. Only when we have to fight to stay human do we realize how precious it is to us. How dear.
What was happening in Santa Mira, however -- it was all at once, and the people didn't seem to mind. If anything they acted happy, without any cares in the world. You could have told them that the president was going to drop nuclear weapons in the Middle East and most of them would have simply nodded in approval and gone off with their faint smiles.
Wait. That's not quite right. There was anger lurking beneath the placid surface. Becky's uncle, Ira, clenched his jaw when I suggested that there were plenty of worries in the world -- that war and arrogance and hate were going to be the death of us all.
"Death?" Ira snorted, and I saw his jawbone working. "The only ones dying are the ones who can't see the better way of living." He smiled, but only a little, and his jawbone kept working, grinding, clenching.
"Once you get that through that head of yours, Doc, you'll know what I'm talking about," Ira said. "Once you get a good night's sleep you'll see that as clearly as I do. As clearly as the rest of us see it."
Jimmy Grimaldi Was Right
Well, it started -- for me, it started last Thursday ... I returned home to Santa Mira from a medical convention. At first glance everything looked the same. It wasn't.
Jimmy Grimaldi knew all along what it took me until now to realize. Little Jimmy Grimaldi -- just a kid whose parents ran a fruit stand on the edge of town. Little Jimmy Grimaldi, who was found cowering in the cellar of his parents' home, shaking like the leaves on the orange trees in the back yard.
His folks thought it was nerves from school. Jimmy agreed that it was nerves, but school had nothing to do with it. He was afraid of his mother, Anna. No, more than afraid. He was terrified.
"Don't let her get me!" Jimmy kept screaming. "She's not my mother!" It took two nurses to keep Jimmy on the table until I could give him a sedative. Even after that his eyes were violently jerking in his head, and though he soon fell asleep, when his mother came to get him, Jimmy moaned when her hand touched his forehead -- moaned in true agony, as if he knew that no comfort would ever come from that hand again.
The next day Jimmy was fine. He smiled, even laughed as he apologized for the previous day's upset. It was a fine follow-up. The words, gestures, the tone of his voice ... he was Jimmy, but he wasn't. We shook hands, man to man. I looked into his calm, emotionless eyes and felt the hair on my arms stand up.
God, I need a drink. God, I wish Becky was here.
Jimmy Grimaldi knew all along what it took me until now to realize. Little Jimmy Grimaldi -- just a kid whose parents ran a fruit stand on the edge of town. Little Jimmy Grimaldi, who was found cowering in the cellar of his parents' home, shaking like the leaves on the orange trees in the back yard.
His folks thought it was nerves from school. Jimmy agreed that it was nerves, but school had nothing to do with it. He was afraid of his mother, Anna. No, more than afraid. He was terrified.
"Don't let her get me!" Jimmy kept screaming. "She's not my mother!" It took two nurses to keep Jimmy on the table until I could give him a sedative. Even after that his eyes were violently jerking in his head, and though he soon fell asleep, when his mother came to get him, Jimmy moaned when her hand touched his forehead -- moaned in true agony, as if he knew that no comfort would ever come from that hand again.
The next day Jimmy was fine. He smiled, even laughed as he apologized for the previous day's upset. It was a fine follow-up. The words, gestures, the tone of his voice ... he was Jimmy, but he wasn't. We shook hands, man to man. I looked into his calm, emotionless eyes and felt the hair on my arms stand up.
God, I need a drink. God, I wish Becky was here.
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