Free The Wonder Garden by Lauren Acampora Page B

wife would not be happy about it. In any case, a preserved specimen is no substitute for the real, living thing.
    There are so many questions. Harold tells himself that it is his responsibility to answer them, to gain uncommon insight into the nature of his wife’s trouble. But, he knows, this is not just about Carol. The truth is that he wants total access, total knowledge. So when Dr. Warren orders a PET-CT scan, Harold requests the doctor’s presence. They stand together in the technician’s booth. Harold watches his wife slide into the scanner’s mouth and waits for her brain to appear. It swims onto the screen, this time in vibrant colors like a flamboyant fish, and the doctor’s face glows aquamarine.
    The technician picks up his headset.
    Harold coughs. “Dr. Warren, before we start, may I speak to you privately?”
    The technician puts the headset down, as if offended, and the doctor looks at Harold. They step into the corner of the room, and Harold whispers, “May I ask you an unusual question?” He straightens his posture, tries to picture an admiring board of directors sitting before him. “Would it be possible for a patient to touch his own brain?” He is dismayed to feel his face heat.
    The doctor levels a blank gaze, then smiles slightly.
    â€œPerhaps, yes. I mean, it’s hypothetically possible. There could be local anesthesia on the skull area and nowhere else. In fact, it’s sometimes preferable that a patient remains conscious during an open-brain test. So, yes, it’s technically feasible that a patient could touch the surface of his own brain.”
    Harold nods. “I’m sure it would be a very strange feeling.”
    The doctor pauses. “Yes, I’m sure,” he says, stepping back toward the monitors.
    Harold is quiet, focusing on a yellow cloud in the back of Carol’s brain. The occipital lobe, he knows.
    It isn’t difficult to convince Dr. Warren to speak to him privately. All men are vain, in one way or another, Harold knows, and this request would appeal directly to his ego and professional sense of duty.
    â€œI’ve been thinking of making a donation toward your work,” Harold says. “A substantial one.”
    â€œThat’s terrific news.” The doctor smiles genuinely as the men walk together down the hall.
    â€œYes, well, it hasn’t happened yet,” says Harold as they enter the doctor’s office. He sits down without being asked. “The thing is, I think of philanthropy as an investment. And, as a businessman, I like to know what, exactly, I’m investing in.”
    â€œUnderstandable,” the doctor replies after a moment’s hesitation, taking the seat behind the desk. “I’d be happy to put you in touch with our development office.”
    â€œNo.” Harold leans forward. “You see, I’m particularly interested in neurosurgery, as you might gather. I’d like to learn more of the specifics about what you do here, what sort of advances make your own work stand out.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI don’t want some dry, deadly report. I don’t want to read a bunch of medical lingo.” Harold looks the doctor in the eye. “I want you to give me the real juice, man-to-man.”
    Dr. Warren shifts back in his chair. “I’d be happy to help you however I can,” he says tentatively.
    â€œWell then, let’s schedule a time to talk.”
    â€œSchedule a time? Oh. Well, I’m afraid that won’t be easy. I’m usually booked solid.”
    Harold stands. “Let me know when you have time to spare. I’ll buy you a drink and pick your brain, so to speak. Maybe give you a few tips of my own, if you like. Business insight.” Harold taps his forehead with a forefinger.
    The doctor tilts his head and smiles up at Harold, looking for that moment like a teenager in a beam of praise.
    The doctor chooses the bar, a