The Echo Maker

  “Why do you suppose this is happening?”

  Mark straightened and gazed at Weber. “Now, that’s a damn good question. Best question I’ve heard in a long time.” He stared off into the middle distance. “It’s got to have something to do with…what you were talking about. Rolling the rig.” For a minute, he was gone, wrestling with something too big for him. Then Mark came back. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Something happened to me, after…whatever happened.” He held his palm out, not even glancing at Weber. “My sister—my real sister—and Rupp, maybe, took the Ram somewhere where I wouldn’t be able to see it. Where it wouldn’t upset me. Then they got this other woman who looked like Karin, so I wouldn’t notice she was gone.” He looked up at Weber, hopeful.

  Weber tilted one shoulder. “And how long has she been gone?”

  Mark threw two hands above his head, then brought them back down across his chest. “For as long as this other one’s been here.” His face clouded in pain. “She’s not at her old place. I’ve tried her number. And it sounds like that job of hers canned her.”

  “What do you suppose your sister might be doing?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Getting the truck fixed up, like I said? Maybe she’s holding off contact until it’s ready. To surprise me?”

  “For months?”

  Mark curled his lip, sarcastically. “Have you ever repaired a truck? Takes some time, you know. To get it like new.”

  “Your sister knows how to work on trucks?”

  Mark snorted. “Does the pope shit on Catholics? She could probably strip that cheap Jap four-cylinder of hers down to washers and put it back together into something halfway decent, if she wanted to.”

  “What kind of car does the other woman drive?”

  “Ah!” Mark glanced sidelong at Weber, refusing to surrender. “You’ve noticed. Yes, she’s been pretty complete at copying the details. That’s what’s so scary.”

  “Do you remember anything about the accident?”

  Mark’s head spun through half a circle, cornered. “Shrink, let’s just relax and regroup for a minute, shall we?”

  “Sure. I’m with you.” Weber leaned back and tucked his hands behind his head.

  Mark regarded him, his mouth open. Slowly, the jaw firmed into a chuckle. “Serious? You for real?” A series of low, clunking thuds came out of him, the laughter of someone stuck in puberty. He kicked out his legs and folded his own hands behind his head, like a toddler imitating his father. “This is more like it! The good life.” He smiled and flashed Weber a thumbs-up. “You hear that Antarctica is breaking up?”

  “I heard something like that,” Weber said. “Did you read that in the paper?”

  “Naw. The tube. Newspapers are too full of conspiracy theories these days.” After a moment, he grew troubled again. “Listen. You’re a shrink. Let me ask you something. How easy would it be for a really good actress to…”

  Karin returned, distressed to find the two of them stretched out as if on some vacation cruise. Mark jackknifed up. “Speak of the devil. Eavesdropping. I might’ve known.” He looked at Weber. “You want to get something to drink? Nice cold brew or something?”

  “They let you have beer here?”

  “Ha! Gotcha. Well, there’s a Coke machine out there, anyway.”

  “Would you like to try some puzzles, first?”

  “Beats a pig in a poke with a sharp stick.”

  Mark seemed eager to play. The puzzles were timed. Weber had Mark cancel out lines scattered on a sheet of paper. He showed Mark a cartoon and asked him to circle as many objects whose names started with the letter O as he could find. “Can I just circle the whole thing and call it ‘obnoxious’?” Weber asked him to trace routes on a street map, following simple directions. He asked him to name all the two-legged animals he could think of. Mark rubbed his head, infuriated. “Pretty tricky of you. When you put it that way, you’re forcing me to think of only four-legged ones.”

  Weber had Mark strike out all the numerals from a sheet of paper filled with letters. When Weber called time, Mark threw his pencil across the room in disgust, almost hitting Karin, who cowered by one wall. “You call these games? These are more screwed up than the stuff the therapists make me do.”

  “How do you mean?” Weber asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘How do you mean?’ Who the hell says, ‘How do you mean?’ Here. Look at this. See how you made everything so small? Deliberately trying to mess me up. And look at this ‘three.’ It looks exactly like a capital B. B for bastard. Then you try to distract me, by telling me I only have two minutes left.” His lip twisted and his eyes shut against their dampening.

  Weber touched his shoulder. “Want to try another? Here’s one with shapes…”

  “You do them, Shrink. You’re an educated man. I’m sure you can figure it out by yourself.” He swung his head, opened his mouth, and groaned.

  Summoned by the sound, a woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a russet pleated skirt and a cream silk blouse. Weber felt he’d met her in some other capacity—the airport, the car rental, or the hotel front desk. A youthful forty, medium build, five foot nine, round cheekbones, cautious, inquiring eyes, a blue-black shoulder-length cowl of hair: the kind of face that imitated a minor celebrity. The woman seemed briefly to recognize Weber, as well. Not unheard of: his face got around. People who knew nothing about brain research sometimes remembered him from talk shows or magazines. But as quickly as she noticed, she looked away. She cocked an eyebrow at Karin, who beamed. “Oh, Barbara! Just in time, as always.”

  “Any difficulties, here?” Her voice was wry, a little self-mocking. Difficulties Are Us. At the sound of his attendant, Mark’s twisting anger dissolved. He sat up, beaming. The aide beamed back. “Problems, friend?”

  “I got no problems! That’s the guy with all the problems.”

  The caretaker wheeled on Weber. She studied him, her face a nurse’s mask, the barest curl to her lips. “New admit?”

  “The man is nothing but problems,” Mark shouted. “Check out his so-called puzzles, if you want to make yourself nuts.”

  The woman stepped toward him and held out her hand. Stupidly, Weber handed over his battery of tests as if she were the chairman of a human subjects review board. She studied the documents. She riffled the pages, then looked him in the eye. “How much are the answers worth to you?” She glanced at Mark, her audience, now a ball of glee. Weber felt grateful for her defusing. Karin made the introductions. Barbara Gillespie returned Weber’s tests, a little sheepish.

  “Ask her anything, Doc. She’s the only reliable thing around here. Best thing I’ve currently got on my side.”

  Barbara crossed toward Mark, clucking in objection at the compliment. Weber watched the graceful woman bond with her charge. The pair reminded him of something—bonobos grooming each other, chattering in easy and instinctual reassurance. He felt a twinge of envy. Her rapport was natural and unstudied, more than Weber had felt with any of his patients for a long time, if ever. She embodied that open fellow feeling his books preached.

  The two whispered to each other, one anxious and the other soothing. “Do you think I can ask him?” Mark asked.

  Barbara patted Mark’s folder, suddenly all registered professional. “Absolutely. He’s a distinguished man. If you can talk to anyone, it’s him. I’ll come back later, for your workup.”

  “Can I get that in writing?” Mark called after her.

  Ms. Gillespie waved goodbye to Karin. Karin grazed the attendant’s forearm. Barbara curled her fingers at Weber as she left. Distinguished. So she had placed him. He turned to Karin, who shook her head in admiration. “My brother’s keeper.”

  “I wish,” Mark snapped. “I wish she’d keep me. From you. Would you mind if I talked with the doctor here for a moment, in private? Person to person?”

  Karin folded her hands together in front of her and left the room again. Weber stood, one hand holding the briefcase, the other pumping his milky
beard. Question time had turned. Mark swung to face him.

  “Look. You’re not working for her or anything? You’re not, like, involved with her or anything? Physically? Then would you mind getting in touch with my real sister? I can give you all the info I have for her. I’m starting to really worry. She may have no idea what’s happened to me. They may be feeding her a bunch of lies. If you could just make contact, it would help a lot.”

  “Tell me a little bit more about her. Her character.” How did a Capgras patient see character? Could logic, stripped of feeling, see past the performance of personality? Could anyone?

  Mark waved him off, squeezing his head. “How about tomorrow? My brain is bleeding. Come back tomorrow, if you feel like it. Just lose the suit and briefcase, all right? We’re all good people here.”

  “You’ve got it,” Weber said.

  “My kind of shrink.” Mark thrust out his hand, and Weber shook it.

  Weber found Karin in the reception area, seated on a hard green vinyl sofa, the kind that could be sponged off in an emergency. Her eyes looked allergic to air. Two papery women with walkers slid past her, a foot race in suspended animation. One greeted Weber as if he were her son. Karin was explaining before he could sit down. “I’m sorry. It kills me to see him like that. The more he says he doesn’t know me, the less I know how to be toward him.”

  “What does he think is different about you?”

  She pulled herself together. “It’s strange. He glorifies me now. I mean her. In fact, he and I—I mean this me—struggle pretty much the same way we always did. We had kind of a rough time, growing up. I’ve tried to keep him from doing all the stupid things I’ve done, over the years. He needs me to be the voice of reason; he’s never had anyone else for that. Used to resent it like crazy, the straighter I kept him. But now he just resents me, and thinks she was some kind of saint.”

  She stopped and smiled in apology, her mouth pumping like a trout’s. Weber offered his arm—clumsy, archaic, something he never did. He blamed Nebraska, the level, dry, buzz-filled June. The flat accents, the broad, stolid, agrarian faces—so chalky and secret—disoriented him, after decades in the loud, brown turmoil of New York. The faces out here shared a furtive knowledge—of land, weather, impending crisis—that sealed them off from interlopers. Half a day in this place, and already he felt how reticent a person might get, surrounded by so much grain.

  She took his arm and stood. He led her out the main doors, down the sidewalk to the parking lot. He felt unsettled, the hamstrung sense that had plagued him throughout his neurology residency. He’d curtailed medical practice years ago, in favor of research and writing, in part, perhaps, to protect himself. In the last eighteen months, he’d grown worse. Just watching someone wire a macaque would soon prove crippling.

  Karin Schluter hung on his arm, heading toward the parking lot. “You have a nice way with him,” she conceded. “I think he liked you.” She stared straight ahead as she spoke. She’d wanted more. Not even finished with the screening, and already Weber had let her down.

  “Your brother is a lively personality. I like him very much.”

  She stopped on the sidewalk. Her face turned raw. “What do you mean, ‘lively’? He’s not going to stay this way, is he? You can help him, right? Like the things you try, in your books…”

  The real work was never with the injured. “Karin? Think back to the night of Mark’s accident. Do you remember imagining what might happen to him?”

  She stood clasping herself, her face aflame. He kept a distance now. The June wind whipped her hair into a dozen tow lines. She pinched her eyes. “This isn’t what he’s like. He was quick. Sharp. A little crude. But he cared for everyone…”

  Her hands were folded across her breasts, her face a ruddy mess, her eyes welling. He cupped her elbow and urged her down the walk toward the car. A casual observer might have seen a lovers’ quarrel. Weber turned and saw Mark, standing at his window. You’re not, like, involved with her? He swung back to the sister. “No,” Weber said. “This is not who he was. And he’ll be someone else a year from now.” As soon as he said it, he regretted even that harmless truism. Too easily turned into a promise.

  The color in her face deepened. “I’m sure whatever you can do for him will help.”

  More sure than he was. He could still make it back to Lincoln in time for an evening flight. Weber pressed his thumbnail into his palm and mastered himself. “To do anything for him, we have to learn who he has become. And to do that, we have to win his trust.”

  “Trust me? He hates the sight of me. He thinks I’ve abducted his real sister. He thinks I’m a government robot spy.”

  They reached her car. She stood still, keys in hand, waiting for him to work a miracle. “Tell me something,” he said. “Have you lost weight recently?”

  Her mouth made a shocked O. “What—?”

  He tried to smile. “Forgive me. Mark said that his real sister was considerably heavier.”

  “Not considerably.” She straightened her belt. “I’ve lost a few pounds. Since our mother passed. I’ve been…working on myself. Starting over.”

  “Do you know much about cars?”

  She stared at him as if brain damage were endemic. Then guilty understanding stole into her eyes. “Unbelievable. I tried to get him to teach me, one summer, a few years ago. I was trying to impress…someone. Mark wouldn’t let me do anything but hand him wrenches. It was just a few days. But ever since, he’s been convinced that I have this secret love for camshafts, or what have you.”

  She pressed the key fob and the car unlocked. He walked around to the passenger side and slid in. “And the way he was with the nurse, with Ms….?” He knew the name, but let her say it.

  “Barbara. She does have a way with him, doesn’t she?”

  “Would you say the way he talks to her is different from how he would have, before?”

  She stared out the window at the open fields. The lime blush of the June prairie. She shook her head. “Hard to say. He didn’t know her before.”

  He called Sylvie that night, from the MotoRest. He actually felt nervous dialing. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Man! I was hoping it might be you.”

  “As opposed to the telemarketers?”

  “Don’t shout, sweetie. I can hear you.”

  “You know, I truly hate talking into this ridiculous thing. It’s like holding a saltine up to your face.”

  “They’re supposed to be small, my love. That’s what makes them mobile. I take it this case isn’t going so great?”

  “On the contrary, Woman. It’s staggering.”

  “That’s good. Staggering is good, right? I’m glad for you. So tell me about it. I could use a good story right now.”

  “Rough day?”

  “That probation kid from Poquott who we were getting employment letters for mistook the UPS man for a SWAT team.”

  Her voice still caught, even after years of such disasters. He searched for something useful, or just kind. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Everyone will live. Including me. So tell me about your Capgras. Impaired recognition?”

  “It feels like the opposite, in fact. Too attentive to small difference.”

  Aside from the absurd makeup compact passing itself off as a phone, they might have been back in college, trading appraisals late into the night, long after curfew had sealed each of them in their separate dorms. He’d first fallen in love with Sylvie over the phone. Every time he traveled, the fact came back to him. They fell into a cadence, talking as they had almost every evening of their lives for a third of a century.

  He described the bewildered man, his terrified sister, the antiseptic nursing facility, the oddly familiar attendant, the desolate town of twenty-five thousand, the dry June, the vacant, floating terrain in the dead center of nowhere. He wasn’t violating professional ethics; his wife was his colleague in these matters, in every way except the payroll. He described how bottomless it felt, watching reco
gnition atomize into ever more exacting, distinct pieces. That woman laughed; this one’s scared. This one’s facial expressions are wrong. Doubles, aliens: splitting individuality into a hundred parts, preserving distinctions too subtle for normality to see.

  “I’m telling you, Woman. No matter how often I see it, it chills me.”

  “I thought you’d never seen this before.”

  “Not Capgras. I mean the naked brain. Scrambling to fit everything together. Unable to recognize that it’s suffering from any disorder.”

  “That’s only reasonable. Can’t afford to admit what’s happened. Sounds like a lot of my clients. Like me, in fact, sometimes.”

  He hadn’t realized how much he needed to talk. The afternoon’s interview had excited him in a way that no one but Sylvie would understand. She asked for more details about Mark Schluter. He read her some notes. She asked, “Does he look her in the eyes when he talks to her?”

  “I didn’t really notice.”

  “Hm. That’s the kind of thing we here on Venus look for first.”

  They wandered onto current events: the wildfires out west, the guilty verdict against the crooked giant accounting firm, and at last the indigo bunting she saw that morning at the feeder.

  “Remember to renew your passport,” he said. “September’ll be here any minute.”

  “Viva Italia. La dolce vita! Hey. By the way. When is your return flight? I jotted it down and stuck it on the refrigerator. I just seem to have misplaced the refrigerator.”

  “Hang on. Let me get my briefcase.”

  When he came back and picked up the phone, she was laughing. “Did you just put down your cell so that you could walk across the room?”

  “What about it?”

  “My sage. My sage at the height of his powers.”

  “I can barely force myself to use one of these shoehorns. I absolutely refuse to walk around with one clamped to my face. It’s schizophrenia.”