White Noise - Don Delillo [86]
“Mr. Gray gave me sixty tablets in two bottles. This would be more than enough, he said. One tablet every seventy-two hours. The discharge of medication is so gradual and precise that there’s no overlapping from one pill to the next. I finished the first bottle sometime in late November, early December.”
“Denise found it.”
“She did?”
“She’s been on your trail ever since.”
“Where did I leave it?”
“In the kitchen trash.”
“Why did I do that? That was careless.”
“What about the second bottle?” I said.
“You found the second bottle.”
“I know. I’m asking how many tablets you’ve taken.”
“I’ve now taken twenty-five from that bottle. That’s fifty-five all told. Five left.”
“Four left. I had one analyzed.”
“Did you tell me that?”
“Yes. And has there been any change at all in your condition.”
She allowed the top of her head to emerge.
“At first I thought so. The very beginning was the most hopeful time. Since then no improvement. I’ve grown more and more discouraged. Let me sleep now, Jack.”
“Remember we had dinner at Murray’s one night? On the way home we talked about your memory lapses. You said you weren’t sure whether or not you were taking medication. You couldn’t remember, you said. This was a lie, of course.”
“I guess so,” she said.
“But you weren’t lying about memory lapses in general. Denise and I assumed your forgetfulness was a side effect of whatever drug you were taking.”
The whole head emerged.
“Totally wrong,” she said. “It wasn’t a side effect of the drug. It was a side effect of the condition. Mr. Gray said my loss of memory is a desperate attempt to counteract my fear of death. It’s like a war of neurons. I am able to forget many things but I fail when it comes to death. And now Mr. Gray has failed as well.”
“Does he know that?”
“I left a message on his answering machine.”
“What did he say when he called back?”
“He sent me a tape in the mail, which I took over to the Stovers to play. He said he was literally sorry, whatever that means. He said I was not the right subject after all. He is sure it will work someday, soon, with someone, somewhere. He said he made a mistake with me. It was too random. He was too eager.”
It was the middle of the night. We were both exhausted. But we’d come so far, said so much, that I knew we couldn’t stop just yet. I took a deep breath. Then I lay back, staring into the ceiling. Babette leaned across my body to turn off the lamp. Then she pressed a button on the radio, killing the voices. A thousand other nights had ended more or less like this. I felt her sink into the bed.
“There’s something I promised myself I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Can it wait until morning?” she said.
“I’m tentatively scheduled to die. It won’t happen tomorrow or the next day. But it is in the works.”
I went on to tell her about my exposure to Nyodene D., speaking matter-of-factly, tonelessly, in short declarative sentences. I told her about the computer technician, the way he’d tapped into my history to produce a pessimistic massive tally. We are the sum total of our data, I told her, just as we are the sum total of our chemical impulses. I tried to explain how hard I’d struggled to keep the news from her. But after her own revelations, this seemed the wrong kind of secret to be keeping.
“So we are no longer talking about fear and floating terror,” I said. “This is the hard and heavy thing, the fact itself.”
Slowly she emerged from beneath the covers. She climbed on top of me, sobbing. I felt her fingers clawing at my shoulders and neck. The warm tears fell on my lips. She beat me on the chest, seized my left hand and bit the flesh between the thumb and index finger. Her sobs became a grunting sound, full of terrible desperate effort. She took my head in her hands, gently and yet fiercely, and rocked it to and fro on the pillow, an act I could not connect to anything she’d ever done, anything she seemed to be.
Later, after she’d fallen off my body and into a restless sleep, I kept on staring into the dark. The radio came on. I threw off the covers and