The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [70]
To Noel the word “crush” was like a blast from a stun gun, or the tremor of an earthquake. He was stupended. Impossible, he thought, JJ’s got things totally backwards. But what if. Yes, what if …
“Can I ask you a question, Noel? Why does your mom have such a huge house?” JJ scrutinised his new best friend, his facial transformations. “Noel? You with me? Noel?” He was headed for another upper thunder point, but Noel saw it coming.
“Sorry, I …” Noel struggled to tear his thoughts from Samira. “The house … it’s a long story.” Impossible, I couldn’t have heard him right ... “My dad … he’s the one who wanted it. He used to drive by it all the time. And then my mom inherited some money and they decided they wanted a big house. ‘To fill it up with children,’ Mom said. But it didn’t work out that way. And then after my father died she wanted to ‘fill it up with orphans.’ But it was too late. The adoption agencies were looking for couples. Plus she was into her forties by then.”
“That’s very kind, very generous of her. She must be a sweetheart— like my mom. And like Samira—she told me she wants to adopt because she doesn’t think she can have kids of her own.”
“Really? She said that? When, tonight?”
JJ put his hand over his mouth. “I don’t think I was supposed to tell anybody.”
“Don’t worry, I—”
“But didn’t I see a ‘For Sale’ sign outside? You guys moving?”
“Yeah, we … we can’t make the payments, the remortgage payments.”
“Oh bummage. But you guys must be rolling, you live in Outremont! These ceilings must be eighteen feet high!”
“Well, we were … rolling, kind of, after my grandmother died. But the money’s long gone. Med school was expensive and then … renovations, and now the memory potions I’m making, and the new lab equipment. Plus my mom lost some of it on … well, bad investments, shall we say, and we had lots of debts before that. Because of me. I’ve been a lifelong drain—”
“Take the sign down.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You want to stay here?”
“Yes, but—”
“Take the sign down. We’ll find a way. I’m great at finding money, plus I’ll move in for a few days, if it’s OK with you and your mom. And pay rent. And sell off some of my kits …”
“No, really, JJ, that’s absolutely not necessary … I mean you can move in for a while, as long as you want, but I can’t expect … Where are you going?”
JJ was heading for the door. “How do you open this thing?”
“A then Z. Twice.”
“Got it. First, the sign comes down. Then we go down and check out your lab.”
JJ stayed the next fifty-two days. Gradually, Noel began to spend less and less time with his mother—only an hour or two a day for meals—and more and more time in the lab. He also saw less of Norval; they took turns cancelling their weekly matinée. As for Samira, he saw her once leaving the Psych building, but she barely acknowledged him. So much for the “crush,” thought Noel.
Most days Noel would work from late morning to 4 a.m., which included trips to McGill’s Health Sciences Library, memorising JJ’s natural therapy books (the sections relating to the brain), and working and consulting with Dr. Vorta. At least four hours a day he would have company downstairs: labouring on a rickety bridge table with his reconditioned computers, JJ now shared Noel’s equipment, patiently preparing his homeopathic elixirs and admixtures, grey-matter elevators and memory escalators.
Like his mother, JJ related things more than once, not out of forgetfulness but out of a child’s excitement at reliving, at sharing, cherished moments of the past. This never bothered Noel.
JJ also liked to whistle. At first Noel found his meandering strains— usually “Yellow Bird” or improvisational and keyless variations— distracting, but after a while he found it oddly comforting. He also got used to his habit of playing tunes on his teeth with a pencil, and of slurping every liquid, including herbal teas, through a straw. Nor did Noel mind when JJ urinated in the laundry-room sink, rising on his toes, glancing furtively this way and that. None of this bothered Noel because he was starting to make progress, real