Frameshift

  “You say ‘hear.’ You don’t see my thoughts? Don’t pick up mental pictures?”

  “That’s right. If all you’d done was conjure up an image of an aardvark, I couldn’t have detected it. But when you concentrated on the word ‘aardvark’ I—well, ‘heard’ is as good a word as any—I heard it as clearly as if you’d whispered it in my ear.”

  “That’s—incredible.”

  “You thought about saying ‘amazing,’ but changed your mind as the words were coming out.”

  Pierre leaned back into the couch, stunned.

  “I can detect what I call ‘articulated thoughts’—words your brain is using,” said Molly. “I can’t detect images. And emotions—thank God, I can’t pick up emotions.”

  Pierre was looking at her with a mixture of astonishment and fascination. “It must be overwhelming.”

  Molly nodded. “It can be. But I make a conscious effort not to invade people’s privacy. I’ve been called ‘standoffish’ more than a few times in my life, but it’s quite literally true. I do tend to stand off—to not be too close to people physically, keeping them out of my zone.”

  “Reading minds,” said Pierre again, as if repetition would somehow make the idea more palatable. “Incroyable.” He shook his head. “Do other members of your family have this—this ability?”

  “No. I questioned my sister Jessica about it once, and she thought I was crazy. And my mom—well, there are nights my mom never would have let me go out if she could have read my mind.”

  “Why keep it a secret?”

  Molly looked at him for a moment, as if she couldn’t believe the question. “I want to live a normal life—as normal as possible, anyway. I don’t want to be studied, or turned into a sideshow attraction, or God forbid, asked to work for the CIA or anything like that.”

  “And you say you’ve never told anyone before?”

  She shook her head. “Never.”

  “But you’re telling me?”

  She sought out his eyes. “Yes.”

  Pierre understood the significance. “Thank you,” he said. He smiled at her—but the smile soon faded, and he looked away. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if I could live with the idea that my thoughts aren’t private.”

  She shifted on the couch, tucking one bent leg under her body and taking his other hand. “But that’s just it,” Molly said earnestly. “I can’t read your thoughts—because you think them in French.”

  “I do?” said Pierre, surprised. “I didn’t really know that I thought in any language. I mean, thoughts are, well, thoughts.”

  “Most complex thought is articulated,” said Molly. “It is formulated in words. Trust me on this; this is my field. You think in French exclusively.”

  “So you can hear the words of my thoughts, but not understand them?”

  “Yes. I mean, I know a few French words—everyone does. Bonjour, au revoir, oui, non, stuff like that. But as long as you continue thinking in French, I won’t be able to read your mind.”

  “I don’t know. It’s such an invasion of privacy.”

  Molly squeezed his hands tightly. “Look, you’ll always know that your thoughts are private when you’re outside my zone—more than three or so feet away.”

  Pierre was shaking his head. “It’s like—mon Dieu, I don’t know; it’s like discovering your girlfriend is really Wonder Woman.”

  Molly laughed. “She has much bigger boobs than me.”

  Pierre smiled, then leaned in and gave her a kiss. But after a few seconds, he pulled away. “Did you know I was going to do that?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Maybe a half second before it was obvious.”

  Pierre leaned back against the couch again. “It changes things,” he said.

  “It doesn’t have to, Pierre. It only changes them if you let it.”

  Pierre nodded. “I—”

  And Molly heard the words in his mind, the words she had been longing to hear but that had yet to be spoken aloud, the words that meant so much.

  She snuggled against Pierre. “I love you, too,” she said.

  Pierre held her tight.

  After several moments, he said, “So what happens now?”

  “We go on,” said Molly. “We try to build a future together.”

  Pierre exhaled noisily.

  “I’m sorry,” said Molly at once, sitting up again and looking at Pierre. “I’m pushing again, aren’t I?”

  “No,” said Pierre. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He fell silent, but then thought about what Shari Cohen had said to him that afternoon. Howard never told me. You shouldn’t keep secrets from someone you love. Pierre took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Damn,” he said at last, “this is a night for great revelations, isn’t it? You’re not pushing, Molly. I do want to build a future with you. But, well, it’s just that I may not have much of a future.”

  Molly looked at him and blinked. “Pardon?”

  Pierre kept his eyes on hers, watching for her reaction. “I may have Huntington’s disease.”

  Molly sagged backward a bit. “Really?”

  “You know it?”

  “Sort of. A man who lived down the street from my mother’s house had it. My God, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”

  Pierre bristled slightly. Molly, although dazed, had enough presence of mind to recognize the reaction. Pierre wanted no pity. She squeezed his hand. “I saw what happened to Mr. DeWitt—my mother’s neighbor. But I don’t really know the details. Huntington’s is inherited, right? One of your parents must have had it, too, no?”

  Pierre nodded. “My father.”

  “I know it causes muscular difficulties.”

  “It’s more than that. It also causes mental deterioration.”

  Molly looked away. “Oh.”

  “Symptoms can appear anytime—in one’s thirties, or forties, or even later. I could have another twenty good years, or I might start to show signs tomorrow. Or, if I’m lucky, I don’t have the gene and won’t get the disease at all.”

  Molly felt a stinging in her eyes. The polite thing to do might have been to turn away, to not let Pierre know that she was crying—but it would not have been the honest thing. It wasn’t pity, after all. She looked him full in the face, then leaned in and kissed him.

  Once she’d pulled away, there was an extended silence between them. Finally, Molly reached a hand up to wipe her own cheek, and then used the back of her hand to gently wipe Pierre’s cheek, which was also damp. “My parents,” said Molly slowly, “divorced when I was five.” She blew air out, as if ancient pain were being expelled with it. “These days, five or ten good years together is as much as most people get.”

  “You deserve more,” said Pierre. “You deserve better.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’ve never had better than this. I—I haven’t had much success with men. Being able to read their thoughts…You’re different.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Pierre. “I could be just as bad as the rest of them.”

  Molly smiled. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen the way you listen to me, the way you care about my opinions. You’re not a macho ape.”

  Pierre smiled slightly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  Molly laughed, but then immediately sobered. “Look, I know this sounds like I’m full of myself, but I know I’m pretty—”

  “In point of fact, you are drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “I’m not fishing for compliments here. Let me finish. I know I’m pretty—people have told me that ever since I was a little girl. My sister Jessica has done a lot of modeling; my mother still turns heads, too. She used to say the biggest problem with her first marriage was that her husband had only been interested in her looks. Dad is an executive; he’d—wanted a trophy wife—and Mom was not content to be just that. You’re the only man I’ve ever known who has looked beyond my outer appearance to what’s inside. You like me for my mind, for…for…”

/>   “For the content of your character,” said Pierre.

  “What?”

  “Martin Luther King. Nobel laureates are a hobby of mine, and I’ve always had a fondness for great oratory—even when it’s in English.” Pierre closed his eyes, remembering. ‘“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.’” He looked at Molly, then shrugged slightly. “Maybe it’s because I might have Huntington’s, but I do try to look beyond simple genetic traits, such as beauty.” He smiled. “Not to say that your beauty doesn’t move me.”

  Molly smiled back at him. “I have to ask. What does ‘joli petit cul’ mean?”

  Pierre cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, a bit crude. ‘Nice ass’ is a close approximation. Where did you hear that?”

  “In Doe Library, the night we met. It was the first thought of yours I picked up.”

  “Oh.”

  Molly laughed. “Don’t worry.” She smiled mischievously. “I’m glad you find me physically attractive, so long as it’s not the only thing you care about.”

  Pierre smiled. “It’s not.” But then his face grew sad. “But I still don’t see what kind of future we can have.”

  “I have no idea, either,” said Molly. “But let’s find out together. I do love you, Pierre Tardivel.” She hugged him.

  “I love you, too,” he said, at last giving the words voice.

  Still embracing each other, with her head resting on his shoulder, Molly said, “I think we should get married.”

  “What? Molly, we’ve only known each other a few months.”

  “I know that. But I love you, and you love me. And we may not have a lot of time to waste.”

  “I can’t marry you,” said Pierre.

  “Why not? Is it because I’m not Catholic?”

  Pierre laughed out loud. “No, sweetheart, no.” He hugged her again. “God, I do love you. But I can’t ask you to get into a relationship with me.”

  “You’re not asking me. I’m asking you.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open.”

  “But surely—”

  “That argument won’t work.”

  “What about—”

  “I don’t care about that, either.”

  “Still, I’d—”

  “Oh, come on! You don’t believe that yourself.”

  Pierre laughed. “Are all our arguments going to be like this?”

  “Of course. We don’t have time to waste on fighting.”

  He was silent for several moments, chewing on his lower lip. “There is a test,” he said at last.

  “Whatever it is, I’ll try,” said Molly.

  Pierre laughed. “No, no, no. I mean, there’s a test for Huntington’s disease. There’s been one for a while now; they discovered the Huntington’s gene in March 1993.”

  “And you haven’t taken the test?”

  “No…I—no.”

  “Why not?” Her tone was one of curiosity, not confrontation.

  Pierre exhaled and looked at the ceiling. “There’s no cure for Huntington’s. It’s not like anything could be done to help me if I knew. And—and—” He sighed. “I don’t know how to explain this. My assistant Shari said something to me today—she said, ‘You’re not Jewish,’ meaning there were parts of her that I could never understand because I hadn’t walked in her shoes. Most people at risk for Huntington’s haven’t had the test.”

  “Why? Is it painful?”

  “No. All that’s needed is a drop of blood.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “No. Hell, I could do it myself, using the equipment in my lab.”

  “Then why?”

  “Do you know who Arlo Guthrie is?”

  “Sure.”

  Pierre lifted his eyebrows; he’d expected her ignorance to be the same as his had been all those years ago. “Well,” he went on, “his father Woody died of Huntington’s, but Arlo still hasn’t had the test.” A pause. “Do you know who Nancy Wexler is?”

  “No.”

  “Everyone with Huntington’s knows her name. She’s the president of the Hereditary Disease Foundation, which spearheaded the search for the Huntington’s gene. Like Arlo, she’s got a fifty-fifty chance of having Huntington’s—her mother died of the disease—and she’s never taken the test, either.”

  “I don’t understand why people don’t take it. I’d want to know.”

  Pierre sighed, thinking again of what Shari had said to him. “That’s what everyone who isn’t at risk says. But it’s not that simple. If you find out you’ve got the disease, you lose all hope. It’s inescapable. At least now, I have some hope…”

  Molly nodded slightly.

  “And—and, well, I sometimes have trouble getting through the night, Molly. I’ve…contemplated suicide. Lots of Huntington’s at-risks have. I’ve…come close a couple of times. What’s kept me from doing it is the chance that maybe I don’t have the disease.” He sighed, trying to decide what to say next. “One study showed that twenty-five percent of those who do take the test and are found to have the defective gene actually attempt suicide—and one in four of those succeeds. I’m…I’m not sure I could make it through all the dark nights if I knew for sure I had it.”

  “But the flip side is that if you found you didn’t have it, you could relax.”

  “Flip side is almost exactly right. It is a flip of the coin; the chances are exactly fifty-fifty. But I’m afraid you’re wrong when you say I could relax. Fully ten percent of those who take the test and find they don’t have the disease still end up with severe emotional problems.”

  “Why on earth would that be true?”

  Pierre looked away. “Those of us who are at risk for Huntington’s live our lives based on the presumption that they might be cut short. We often give up things because of that. I—before you, I hadn’t been involved with a woman for nine years, and, to be honest, I didn’t think I ever would be again.”

  Molly nodded, as if a mystery had finally been explained. “This is why you’re so driven,” she said, her blue eyes wide. “Why you work so hard.”

  Pierre returned the nod. “But when you’ve made sacrifices and then discover they were unnecessary, the regret can be too much to bear. That’s why even some of those who discover they don’t have the disease end up killing themselves.” He was quiet for a long time. “But now—now, it isn’t just me. I guess I should have the test.”

  Molly reached out and stroked his cheek. “No,” she said. “No. Don’t do it for me. If you ever want to take it, do it for yourself. I was serious: I want to marry you and, if you do turn out to have the disease, we’ll deal with that at the time. My proposal wasn’t contingent on your taking the test.”

  Pierre blinked. He was close to tears. “I’m so lucky to have found you.”

  She smiled. “I feel the same way about you.”

  They held each other tightly. When their embrace ended, Pierre said, “But I don’t know—maybe I should take the test anyway. I did do what you asked, you know: I met with someone from Condor Health a couple of weeks ago. But I couldn’t get a policy.”

  “You still don’t have health insurance?”

  Pierre shook his head. “See, right now, they’d reject me based on my family history. But in two months, on New Year’s Day, a new California law comes into effect. It doesn’t bar the use by insurance companies of family-history information, but it does bar the use of genetic info, and the latter takes precedence over the former. If I take the test for Huntington’s, regardless of the results, then they have to insure me; they can’t even charge me a higher premium, so long as I have no symptoms.”

  Molly was quiet for a moment, digesting this. “I meant what I
said: I don’t want you to take the test for me, and, well—if you can’t get insurance down here, we could move to Canada, no?”

  “I—I suppose. But I don’t want to leave LBL; being here is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “Well, there are thirty million Americans without health insurance. But they mostly manage—”

  “No. No, it’s one thing to let you risk being married to someone who might become very sick; it’s quite another to ask you to additionally risk financial ruin. I should have the test.”

  “If you think it’s best,” said Molly. “But I’ll marry you either way.”

  “Don’t say that now. Wait till we have the test results.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Well, normally a lab requires you to go through months of counseling before they’ll administer the test, to make sure you really want to take it and are going to be able to deal with the results. But…”

  “Yes?”

  Pierre shrugged. “It’s not a hard test—no harder than any other genetic test. As I said, I could do it myself in my lab at LBL”

  “I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing this.”

  Pierre shrugged. “It’s not you doing the pressuring; it’s the insurance company.” He was quiet for a while. “It’s all right,” he said finally. “It’s time I found out.”

  C h a p t e r

  13

  “Explain what’s going on to me,” said Molly, sitting on a stool in Pierre’s lab. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. “I want to understand exactly what’s happening.”

  Pierre nodded. “Okay,” he said. “On Thursday, I extracted samples of my DNA from a drop of my own blood. I separated out my two copies of chromosome four, snipped off particular segments using special enzymes, and set about making radioactive images of those segments. It takes a while to develop those images, but they should be ready now, so we can actually check what my genetic code says in the specific gene associated with Huntington’s disease. That gene contains an area called IT15—‘interesting transcript number fifteen,’ a name given to it back when people didn’t know what it was for.”