Читать книгу Brainstorm - Sheldon J.D. Cohen - Страница 12

George’s emotional lability, fueled by his changing internal biochemistry, could not alter the inevitable. His work showed signs of deterioration, not because of any difference in physical prowess, but because of the storm that raged inside his brain. Like a hurricane born off the coast of Africa, the storm was heading westward toward Florida and gaining turbulence, speed, and momentum. This was the cause of his confusion and forgetfulness, both of which affected his performance at work. Jobs were left unfinished, shoddy work had to be redone and he failed to remember assignments. His mental state changed so fast that his coworkers, and even the foreman, could not miss the signs. Andy Simpson summoned him into his office.

“Sit, George. We gotta talk. Sorry, but you have to know, if there ain’t any improvement pretty fast, you’re outta here. You always did great work, but it’s different now and the boss knows everything. He told me to fix this problem either way. I got no choice. I’m under the gun, and I’m gonna watch you like a hawk. Understand?”

George was confused, but he knew enough to recognize that his job was at stake. He had all he could do to hold back and not vent. “I’ll do okay,” he said, trying with all his strength to muster the necessary control to keep his voice steady. “You’ll see.”

Andy, hoping for the best, dismissed him with a stern and unchanged expression.

The small talk between George and Gail had turned into silence. In fact, any meaningful conversation between them became more difficult. He mixed up the children’s names, and even they began to notice something wrong with their father.

Megan cried whenever he raised his voice. He spent most days staring into space, and even stopped working in the basement. Gail, reaching the breaking point, had had enough. She feared he was having a nervous breakdown, or worse. Could it be a brain tumor, she wondered? The unmistakable truth was that his condition was deteriorating. At times, he would respond to questions with answers that made no sense. She decided the time had come to give him an ultimatum: that he return to Dr. Crowell and level with him, or she would leave and take the children to her parents.

By evening, Gail heard a loud groan. She left the kitchen and went to the living room where she saw George sitting on the edge of the couch, doubled over and shaking. He had his arms crossed over his abdomen.

“Good God, what’s wrong?” cried Gail.

“Can’t talk…got a pain…can’t believe it,” he moaned.

“Your stomach?”

“No,” he screamed. “It’s here…and…and here,” he said, placing one hand on the left side of his upper back and the other on his lower left abdomen. This was the same problem he had developed on the ladder at Fred Worthy’s house. Only this was worse. “Call work and tell them I had to go to the hospital.”

“Let me call Dr. Crowell,” pleaded Gail.

“No, no, stay home with the kids. I’ll leave now,” he said, trying as hard as he could to stand up. “Gail, help me,” he pleaded. “I can’t wait. I need to get to the hospital…now.” He walked out the door bent on driving himself.

Gail was distraught. Was realization starting to soak in?