“Mariel, what have I done to upset you?”
The Washington Area Frisbee Club held an introductory clinic for novice players the first Saturday of each month at the Sligo Middle School. From the sideline, Rick and Chris watched a trio work the disc down the field in a weave drill.
“Put down that pivot foot, Kathy,” Chris called out. “That’s traveling.”
“I finally had a chance to talk to Mariel,” Rick said. He told him what happened.
“You asked her what you had done to upset her? Man, that’s way more polite than I would’ve been.”
“I suppose.”
“And what was her explanation for all this? Wait, let me guess. Never really liked you? Met someone else? Thinks ultimate is for dogs?”
“No, none of that. But I wish it was, because it’d be a whole lot easier to understand.”
“Then what the hell did she say?”
“She said … she said it’s because she’s gluten intolerant.”
Chris turned to Rick. “She said that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“O-kay … Those free doctors in Canada told her this?”
“She said she found out herself. She thinks she’s been like that since she was born.”
“Self-diagnosis. Gotta love the Internet. Actually, gluten intolerant people can become depressed, but you said she’s only like that to you and normal to everyone else?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d say she sounds bipolar, but who am I to argue with Google?” Chris shook his head. “Has she always been like this?”
“Where are we?” Mariel asked.
“Gravelly Point,” Rick said. “Come on.”
They got out of the car. He led her along a paved bike path that took them near the edge of the Potomac River. They found a spot between two clusters of trees. Rick produced a blanket from his knapsack and laid it on the ground.
“This is nice,” Mariel said. “How do you know about this place?”
“My ultimate team plays here sometimes, on those fields behind us.”
“Catching Frisbees? Isn’t that a game for dogs?”
“Yeah, except I don’t use my mouth.”
It was a clear night, and they had a perfect view across the Potomac. A Metrorail train was crossing the Long Bridge from DC to Virginia, a string of lights gliding over the river. Beyond the bridge were the illuminated Jefferson Memorial and Washington Monument. Far to the right was the dome of the Capitol Building, partially obscured by the darkened trees on the eastern bank of the Potomac.
It was Fourth of July in the nation’s capital.
Fireworks rocketed into the night sky to the left of the Washington Monument, exploding into showers of flame and color and sparkle. Concussive booms echoed across the Potomac, and on the surface of the water, diffused reflections of the fireworks shimmered and danced in concert with the bursts above. In the background, the muted but audible strains of the 1812 Overture could be heard from the radios of other spectators in the park and those on their boats in the river.
A plane roared overhead, taking off from Reagan National Airport. They looked up.
“That could be a ufo,” Mariel said. She pronounced it like a word, “you-pho.”
“Well, there are some lucky people on that UFO with an amazing view.”
They turned away from the sky, and toward each other.
Rick put his hand on her shoulder, ran it down her back. She didn’t turn away. He pulled her closer. She put a hand on the back of his neck, pulling his head slowly toward hers. He moved with the touch, leaned in close. Their lips met.
The fireworks continued.
Chris and Rick were, once again, the only post-game patrons at Fadó Irish Pub.
“This is unacceptable.” Chris pounded the varnished wooden table, jarring the pitcher and mugs. “Drinks are an essential part of ultimate. This is why we’re losing.”
Rick took a sip of beer. “Can you get me in for the treatment?”
“What treatment?”
“The treatment you and Dr. Ho have going up at Hopkins, the one where you fix the brains of people who think they’re ugly.”
“You think you’re ugly?”
“I know I’m ugly,” Rick replied. “My mother said so once.”
“Your mother—uh, never mind. Rick, that treatment is for people with body dysmorphic disorder. What’s this got to…” Chris’s expression changed. “This better not be about that girl.”
“I’m sure I could get over Mariel if only … I didn’t find her so damn attractive.”
“What are you saying?”
“The treatment. You adjust the part of the brain that perceives attractiveness—”
“The fusiform face area, yes.”
“Right.”
“So…” Rick continued, “it must be possible to turn it around. Let’s say, you adjusted my brain so that … I won’t find Mariel attractive anymore.”
Chris didn’t answer for a moment. “That’s insane.”
“Why?”
Chris grabbed Rick’s mug, topping it up. “This is all the treatment you need.”
“I’m serious!”
“The procedure is experimental, and we’ve never done what you’re suggesting.”
“I know it’s experimental,” Rick said. “I’m willing to be a guinea pig. Hell, I’m sure you and Ho could get a good paper out of this.”
“Man, you are really screwed up.” Rick opened his mouth, but Chris held up his hand. “Sorry, I’m not trying to diminish your feelings. But this is way overkill for a broken heart, and there are significant potential risks here.”
“Like what?”
“Well, hypothetically … prosopagnosia.”
“What’s that?”
“Face blindness. The FFA is also the part of the brain that processes facial recognition. There’s a chance you could lose your ability to recognize people.”
Rick fell silent.
“Drink … your … beer…” Chris punctuated each word with a jab of his finger. “Women are supposed to outnumber men in DC, so do yourself a favor. Find another girlfriend!”
The rain was coming down hard. Rick had left his umbrella in the car. He grabbed a magazine, a month-old copy of Aviation Week, from a table before exiting the revolving door into the parking lot. Laptop bag in one hand and the magazine held over his head in the other, he made a dash for his car.
As he fumbled for his remote, he spotted two people leaving the Devcon building. It was Mariel, sharing an umbrella with Dan Ricardo, one of the division presidents. They jogged the short distance from the building to the reserved parking spot where Ricardo’s silver Jaguar sat. The lights of the Jag flashed, and Rick watched them open the doors and get in.
The Jag didn’t start right away. Rick saw them talking inside. Ricardo looked old. Mariel looked happy.
Rick and Chris sat at a table near the back of Clyde’s Restaurant in Georgetown, under a skylight from which models of World War I airplanes were hung. Along one wall was a large fireplace, while another was covered with travel posters from the Twenties and Thirties.
“I took Mariel here once,” Rick said.
Chris poked his appetizer with a fork, pretending not to hear.
Rick looked up. “I want it done.”
“Want what done?”
“The treatment,” Rick said. “I’m tired of seeing Mariel every day and being heartbroken. I can’t take this anymore.”
“The only treatment you need is to find a cuter dinner date than me.”
“Chris—”
“Get over her!”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple.”
“You don’t—”
“Rick … grow up! I’m sick of hearing about this. Can we talk about anything else?”
“Some friend you are!”
“It’s an ex
perimental procedure with significant risks.” Chris ticked off points on his fingers. “We’ve never done what you’re suggesting. There’s no way Barbara will go for this. Rick, we’re treating people with serious neurological disorders, not—guys fixated on … wacky women from Canada.”
“Spoken by you, who still has a thing for what’s her name … Adrienne, from undergrad?”
“Hey—”
“You have no idea how much this hurts!” Rick’s voice was rising. He looked around, and the other diners turned away, pretending not to hear. “To meet someone as beautiful as she is, to think you know this person … and then, suddenly, one day it’s like a switch is thrown, and she becomes someone else. And every day, every time I see her, I hope that maybe that switch will go back and she’ll be that sweet and wonderful woman I fell in love with again.”
Rick slumped in his chair. “The things I was going to do for her. Move to Canada, get a job in Vancouver…”
“Cook gluten-free food for her? Wake up beside her every morning and wonder if you’ve got Jekyll or Hyde for the day?”
They glared at each other. A waiter came and placed a pewter pitcher inscribed with the words REFINED WATER on the table. Neither man touched his food.
Finally, Chris spoke. “All right. I’ll talk to Barbara tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“No, don’t thank me, because it’s not for you. It’s for me.” Chris waggled his fork. “I’m sick and tired of this girl and your moping. This’ll be worth it if it’ll make you shut up.”
Rick said nothing.
“Besides, you’re right about one thing.” Chris poured himself a glass of water. “I’m sure we’ll get a great paper out of this.”
The treatment went faster than Rick had expected. When he woke from sedation, only five hours had passed. Dr. Ho sent him away with a bottle of pills. “Retainers,” she called them. He was to take one daily until finished, by which time the changes to the neural pathways in his brain would become permanent.
A beige Buick station wagon with wood-panel sides, a relic from the eighties, pulled up to the curb in front of the Wood Basic Science Building. Rick got in.
“Hey.”
“Yeah, hi.”
Rick had barely closed the door and was still fumbling with the seat belt when Chris put the car in motion. They turned left on to East Monument Street, then proceeded to the on-ramp for the Harbor Tunnel Throughway.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked.
“All right, I guess. But I have a bit of a headache.”
Chris looked surprised. “Really?”
As they approached the Fort McHenry Tunnel, Chris slowed the car and rolled down his window to drop some coins into the toll bin.
“Take an aspirin when you get home,” Chris suggested.
“Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”
They emerged from the tunnel and continued to Interstate 95. The dull buildings of Baltimore gradually gave way to the fields and farms of Howard County.
“Listen,” Chris said, “I’m sorry about that time at Clyde’s.”
“Well, I can see why you’d get sick of hearing about my issues with Mariel.”
“You went out to Vancouver last year to see her, didn’t you?” Chris asked.
“Yeah. What a disaster that was.”
“She did the Hyde thing up there too? Evil twin with the goatee from the Star Trek mirror universe?”
“You got it.”
“Was she gluten intolerant then?”
“No. She told me she’d taken a bad fall while doing kung fu and hit her head.”
Chris laughed. “I’m sorry!” He wiped his eye with a finger. “All I can say is, I would love to get this woman into our functional MRI. Now there’s a paper!”
Rick stared out the window at the passing countryside. “Speaking of papers, Dr. Ho wanted me to bug you about your thesis.”
“Consider me bugged.”
Chris stepped on the gas, and the car surged down the interstate.
There was a knock at the entrance to Rick’s cubicle. He looked up from his computer.
A young Indo-American man was there. Rick blinked.
“Hey, you gotta check this out,” the man said. “Davidson and Mariel are having some kind of screaming match in his office!”
After a moment, Rick recognized the voice as Sanjay’s.
He followed the man through a maze of cubicles. Davidson’s office was floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides with vertical blinds that were currently open. Sanjay and Rick could easily see inside, so they dared not get too close as the opposite was also true.
Mariel and Davidson were indeed in the office. At Rick and Sanjay’s distance they could hear little, but mouths were flapping and fingers were pointing. Rick could see some of the engineers closer to Davidson’s office cautiously prairie-dogging over their cubicle partitions.
Suddenly, the door flew open and Mariel shouted, “Fine! I’ll bring it up with Dan tonight!” She stormed out of the office and marched down the corridor.
Rick turned to the other man. He saw the other man, Sanjay, shrug his shoulders.
Time was running out.
The defender marking Rick was already at stall six. Rick had less than four seconds to pass the disc. He looked down field to the end zone. A blond woman had broken away from her defender and was running for the corner.
“… stall seven, stall eight…”
Rick had a clear line of sight to her. She was looking right at him. But he hesitated.
“… stall nine…”
Rick was unsure, unable to throw.
“… ten. Disc is dead!”
Rick handed the disc to the opposing player, who tapped it into play. He had barely started counting stalls when his opponent threw a long hammer downfield toward a teammate in the other end zone. The throw was completed, and the opposing team scored.
As Rick walked off the field, the blond jogged up to him.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded. “I was going for the corner! Why didn’t you pass to me?”
“Knock it off, Cassie,” said another woman.
The woman named Cassie pointed at Rick. “He was looking right at me and did nothing! It’s like he didn’t know I was there.”
“Well, maybe if you wore an orange shirt like the rest of us you might be easier to see,” the other woman shot back.
“Why do you defend him, Jill? He’s sucked all season.”
“Hey!” A male voice chimed in. “Knock it off, both of you.”
The woman named Cassie stormed off to get water. The other woman, Jill, looked at Rick with an apologetic expression.
Rick turned to the third speaker. After a moment, he said, “Thanks … Chris.”
The Devcon cafeteria was serving tuna casserole. It was vile. A strange stench wafted from the plate. It was uneatable, so Rick didn’t eat it.
He confronted the cook, a short middle-aged man with scrawny arms covered with tattoos who wore a small white apron and a silly, misshapen toque. His name tag read BOBBY MAC, CHEF DE CUISINE. Rick was convinced the cook was a parolee.
“I want a refund,” Rick said.
“Why, sir?” Bobby Mac exclaimed brightly, a toothy grin plastered on his gaunt face.
“There’s a weird smell. I can’t eat it.”
“But it’s tuna, sir!” said the beaming Bobby Mac, as if it were an explanation.
After further negotiation, Rick got his money back. But he had lost his appetite. He looked at his watch and decided to return to his desk.
As he walked through the seating area of the cafeteria, he passed a table where a young woman was sitting alone.
“Rick!”
She got up and approached him.
“Hello,” Rick said.
“Oh, Rick,” she said, “I’ve been here for months but haven’t spent any time with you.”
“That’s … all right.”
“I haven’t talked to you.” She added
, “I’ve been having many gluten attacks.”
“You’ve been very busy, I’m sure,” Rick said carefully.
“You need to find me. Yell out to me. Grab me by the shoulders.” Her speech quickened with each sentence.
“I don’t want to do that,” Rick said.
“You are upset,” she continued, her voice staccato, “because I am pretending with the others but being honest with you. It is easy to pretend. It’s hard to be honest.”
Rick had no idea what she was trying to say.
Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. Startled, Rick paused before returning the embrace. She held him for several long moments, gently running her fingers down his back.
Just for a moment, Rick felt a familiar frisson.
“I have to go,” he finally said.
Rick let go of her hand, turned around, and headed for the exit. He walked slowly, as if waiting for someone to join him. When he got to the door, he was still alone. He put his badge against the card reader.
The door opened.
Rick walked through, and he did not look back.
The phone rang several times before Chris picked up.
“Rick, what’s up?”
“There’s something wrong with me.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’m serious, man!” Rick gripped the phone tighter. “I’ve been having trouble recognizing people.”
There was a pause. “Say again?”
“People at work, people on the team … it’s like it takes me a second or two to see who it is. And then I bumped into Mariel at work yesterday.”
“And?”
“And I felt … nothing,” Rick said, a part of him knowing it wasn’t quite true. “It was like she was a stranger.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Make an appointment for me to see Dr. Ho again, right away!”
“I’ll try to get ahold of Barbara, but she’s out of town until next week.”
“Well, there’s got to be someone else in the lab who might be able to—”