A Five-Minute Life

Under the table, my fists clenched.

Sure, tell them about the word chains. Doris sneered. I’m sure they’ll come as a huge shock to everyone who’s been working with Thea for years.

“The actual neuropsychologist has been all over this case a hundred times,” Anna said. “And in any case, Miss Hughes is regurgitating what her brain picked up. That’s all.”

“Isn’t that memory?” I asked.

“No, Jim,” Anna said slowly, as if I were a child. “It’s a groove of routine. She cannot bring anything to mind, therefore she has no awareness of her quality of life, so long as we keep her calm.”

Rita put her hand on my arm. “Is that what you’re worried about? That Miss Hughes is suffering?”

“How could she not be?”

“Because she can’t remember,” Anna said, shooting Rita a hard look. “Without conscious awareness of her situation, how can there be suffering?”

It sounded plausible, but the itch in the back of my mind wouldn’t leave me alone.

“Why is she so accepting of her situation—wherever she is and whoever she’s with—when a reset hits?” I asked.

“Didn’t Alonzo give you the rundown?” Joaquin asked.

I crossed my arms. “I want to hear it again.”

“Miss Hughes didn’t accept anything after her accident,” Anna said. “It took months before she stopped becoming hysterical with every reset. She’s calm now because underneath the bells and whistles, the brain’s most basic function is survival.” Lips pursed, she stood up, checking her small gold watch. “Time to clock in. Are we satisfied, Dr. Whelan?”

I shrugged. Not fucking remotely.

Joaquin clapped his hand on my shoulder. “If there was something more to do for Miss Hughes, one of them smart neuro-psychs would have put it together by now.”

“Are they still looking?” I asked. “What about that new doctor? Christina Chen?”

He shrugged. “I don’t get involved in resident care and neither should you. If Delia Hughes finds out you’re messing around with her sister, she’ll have you canned.”

Because Thea should have paint instead of goddamn Magic Markers? Or some music? A better quality of life?

After the others left, I turned to Rita. “Why would it bother Delia to know we give a shit about her sister?”

“Delia has her reasons,” she said gently. “She’s protective. Afraid of upsetting her, afraid of any publicity. And she’s also watching the money.”

“What money?”

“Their parents had a life insurance policy that left them a million dollars each. Blue Ridge’s funding isn’t consistent. Some years, we have cutbacks. Most years. Delia wants to save every penny if Thea needs care somewhere else. She’s cautious.”

She’s got a million bucks in the bank and won’t buy her sister some fucking paint?

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

Rita checked her own watch and stood to go. “It’s sweet you want to make things better for Miss Hughes,” she said. “But if you bought her a canvas and paint, she’d forget all about it the second they were out of sight.”

But she’d have it in the moment. Doesn’t that count?

“Rita.”

She stopped at the door and looked back at me.

“I think she knows,” I said.

“I don’t know, honey, but she isn’t hurting.”