The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [130]
Sucking required a conscious effort, however feeble. Floyd had also removed all traces of sedatives and the IV lines but kept the pulse monitor clipped to one of Russo’s fingers, its volume turned down to a weak blip, its tempo now steadily accelerating as Russo probably sank back into his dreams of cold horror. At intervals, Floyd had drawn a few drops of blood from a port on Russo’s hand to monitor his SATs—the oxygen levels in his blood. After such a protracted time relying on mechanical respiration, Floyd was worried about Russo’s lungs’ ability to provide enough oxygen to his body.
“Will he remember?” Laurel asked now.
Floyd didn’t answer straightaway but drew her closer. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely muffled. “We have different types of memory. Procedural memory is where we store functions, like walking, laughing, how to use a knife and fork, or how to perform mechanical tasks. A singer doesn’t think about singing when he sings, or a driver how to adjust to different flows of traffic when he drives. If he had to, his responses would be too slow and would cause an accident. Then we have semantic memory to store facts: What is a book? What are garters? What is a keyboard?”
“So, in semantic memory, you have the clue about what a keyboard is, but the ability to use it resides in your procedural memory?”
“More or less. Then there’s episodic memory, the most volatile, residing principally in the frontal lobes of the brain. Picture episodic memory like flypaper—a strip of material with two critical properties: area and stickiness. Over time, the flypaper surface crowds with flies. As its coating becomes less sticky, some flies drop and make room for others, but the new ones don’t adhere as strongly.”
“But I thought the capacity of our brain was almost unlimited.”
“Almost, but like any other system, the brain deteriorates with age. Our brain shrinks at a rate of one percent a year after the age of thirty. Granted, there are one hundred billion neurons packed into our three-pound brain, constantly sending and receiving signals, but over time the signals weaken.”
“And we lose our capacity to remember?”
“It isn’t as simple as that. Fortunately for Russo, the frontal lobes are the ones that shrink earlier and faster. There’s where our capacity to recall events lies.”
“You mean he will eventually forget his ordeal?”
“Not totally, but it will become hazy and, I hope, bearable.”
“I remember.”
They both turned to Russo, and to a voice so ragged it seemed like an old recording. His face was serene and his eyes were closed, though his heartbeat raced, but the words had come from him. Laurel shifted her legs to sit straighter.
“Who are you?” Russo’s lips moved but he didn’t open his eyes.
“He’s Floyd Carpenter, a medical doctor and hibernation specialist from Nyx, a corporation offering commercial hibernation services. I am …” The surreal nature of her relationship with Russo suddenly crashed down on Laurel. “I am a lawyer.”
“Have I been released?”
Laurel glanced at Floyd. He nodded once. “No. We sprung you out.”
Russo’s head lolled in their direction, and the line where his eyelids met widened a fraction of an inch. After so much darkness, even the dim light of a floor lamp on the other end of the living room and the TV panel’s luminance must have seemed painfully bright.
Floyd stood to step out of the room and returned moments later with a pair of sunglasses. “I noticed Tyler kept a pair in the hall drawer.” He leaned over Russo and slipped the sunglasses on.
“Who is ‘we’?” Russo asked. In dark wraparound shades, Russo’s alien appearance deepened. His hand reached to his crotch and seemed to scratch, although Laurel wasn’t sure if his fingers were attempting to relieve an itch from the catheter or trying to ascertain if other parts of his anatomy remained