I reviewed the recordings of our conversations, jotting down notes from memory, recalling how she looked and what I?d seen in her as she laid out her tale. Two things stuck out for me: First, she believed all this, which was disturbing in and of itself. Second, it lacked any hint of self-aggrandizement. There just wasn?t anything in there that could be called heroic or inspiring. She also could have been piteous, but the way she described it, even when she got a little emotional, was so matter-of-fact that pity just seemed out of place. It also seemed consistent with the period she claimed to have lived in, though I was no expert there. I thought of calling a friend of mine who actually was an expert, but what exactly could I ask him? I decided to just outline it and save the deeper explanations for later.

I had an appointment in a couple of hours with the psychiatrist, Dr. French, and the head social worker, Ms Sorenson who had been visiting with her since she regained consciousness. Reviewing their reports in my hotel room before the meeting just made the puzzle seem more bizarre. Both of them maintained that Miss Baker was in deep denial about her condition, but the only evidence they had of this was her attitude. She nodded, smiled and said she understood what had happened, she understood there was a tumor in her brain, she understood that it was quite serious, and on, and on, only to finish by firmly, but oh-so-politely, declining to be visited by the oncologist or a physical therapist, or any other specialist.

To the hospital staff, this looked like a classic case of denial. To me it all looked like a dangerous delusion, but that was because I knew things about her they didn?t. That was definitely a problem. We?d had a rough start, but I liked her, and she was doing things that were pretty self-destructive.

Assuming that she didn?t know what she was doing.

The meeting with the psych people was pretty strained and unproductive. They really had nothing to tell me. Instead they wanted me to talk about her, and that was something I didn?t want to do. She hadn?t ordered me to keep my mouth shut when talking to her doctors, but I saw that as a given. I probed them on her mental state. Did they think she was delusional?

?She doesn?t exhibit any of the classic symptoms,? Dr. French replied. ?Her sense of time and location are solid, she draws reasonable conclusions and she?s certainly not paranoid, at least not beyond her obsession with privacy.?

?And that?s becoming a major problem,? the social worker offered. ?I?m not even allowed to share my own reports with Janelle here,? nodding to Dr. French, ?without going through her lawyers. Frankly, she and I haven?t been able to confer at all until you asked to see us both. HIPAA rules forbid it if she won?t let us.?

?Hang on,? Dr. French interrupted, but Ms. Sorenson threw her a sharp look and continued on.

?It?s like that with everything. All of her records are under lock and key now. Evaluations, x-rays, blood work?I can?t even get at my own reports from two days ago! She?s got an army of lawyers here and all they seem to do is prevent anyone from helping her, except to feed her and let Dr. Omar and the interns check up on her now and then.?

What could I say? No matter how I chose to approach it, that was exactly what she was doing.

Later that morning, I found I?d made a decision without realizing that I?d had a question in front of me. I walked into her room after a courtesy tap on the door, and found her sitting up talking on her cell phone with her breakfast tray still in front of her. She looked up at me and waved her left stump towards the chair.

?I just want you to tell him that I?m not angry. I never was. I understand these things. I just don?t want to bother him if he doesn?t want to talk to me anymore, but I?m open to it if he is... Yes, that?s all you need to say? Mm-hmm... Good? Yes, I understand that it?s a little awkward, and I do appreciate that? Good-bye. Oh, and Mitch? Thank you.? She folded up her phone then looked at me and smiled, ?You?re a bit late this morning.?

I sat down and launched right into it. ?I?ve got a lot on my mind. I met with your psychiatrist and your social worker.?

?Ah. That must have been interesting.? She looked down at her breakfast tray and seemed sad that it was empty. She reached over to her pink case on the stand next to her bed, and pulled out a huge chunk of cheese. One thing about her: she sure could eat.

?More like uncomfortable,? I said. ?They didn?t really have anything to tell me, but they had lots of questions for me. It seemed best to avoid answering them. For now.?

She sighed and said, ?I?d prefer that you didn?t, but I suppose I could let you tell them everything you know. But what good would it do them? Or you, for that matter? They would simply go from seeing me as being in denial, to being delusional. What would that accomplish??

?Oh, I don?t know. It might convince you to start trying to save your own life.? I gathered my thoughts. ?Listen, Princess, I like you. You?re weird, but I like you.? She flashed me that smile of hers, but I ignored it and went on. ?I?m taking this job because the money?s good, and because you?re very interesting?? I trailed off.

Bemused, she kept smiling at me. ?But??

?But I don?t believe you.?

?Of course you don?t. How could you?? Her smile broadened, her green eyes wide open and earnest. I had to look away.

?It?s more than that. It?s not about believing you or not believing you. I do believe them. I?ve seen the MRIs, I know what?s in your head, and I think you?re just refusing to deal with it.? I gathered my thoughts, trying to be kind. ?I think I might be a part of your refusing to deal with it. I?m not sure I can live with that.?

She was silent then, and I felt relieved. At least I?d said it. I went on. ?See, this has been fun. I like watching someone tweak the nose of the establishment, and you?re quite the little wrecking ball when you?re trying to get your way. But when this is all over, I need to be able to look at the results and not feel like I did something wrong. Everything?s not about money with me.?

?Well,? she said, ?I expected this, but not so soon.? She held up her hand as I started to interrupt. ?I did not enter this hospital of my own free will. I was unconscious and I couldn?t tell them anything about myself or make any decisions, so they had to do what they felt was best for me. I don?t resent that, but it is problematic. They found a growth in my brain. Everyone assumes this is something I was unaware of. Of course, I?ve never given them any reason to assume otherwise. It?s the price of my need for privacy that they are left with doubts and concerns that I will not set to rest. I have my own plans, and my own priorities, and regardless of how it may appear to you, or to my doctors, I assure you that I know quite well what is in my own best interests.?

I thought about that for a minute. ?So you?re saying you?ve known about this all along??

She started to speak, then stopped. She looked at me contemplatively, and shrugged a bit. ?No, you?re right, I?ve said no such thing. But I have said that I have not taken the easy path, and that I know what I am doing.? She paused for a moment, contemplating me some more, then took a breath. ?You have to accept that I am ultimately responsible for what happens to me. You cannot act for me. Honestly, it?s not your place.?

Her voice was soft, gentle as she said this, but it was no less a command for that. I didn?t resent it, but I didn?t really like it, either.

?Tell me something. Why are you still here? In the hospital, I mean. You?ve got the money to hire your own nurses, set yourself up somewhere, and you?re obviously not happy. So why stay here??

She sighed, and looked toward the window. ?That is a very good question. I?ve been wondering myself if there was any point to staying any longer. Mostly, I am here because it gives me a good excuse to have my lawyers here, and makes it simpler to coordinate with them. Also, because leaving too soon would draw more attention than staying too long. I am also not certain I?m ready to go home and burden my family with this, or attract too much attention there. It?s rather frustrating, really, because I am not entirely sure at any given moment what the best course of action would be.? She paused, and looked flustered. ?I find that more than a little disconcerting, really.?

?You have a family??

?Well, of sorts. I have begun thinking of them that way, anyway. But not blood relations, no, just people I care for and who care for me.?

?So what are your lawyers doing here?? I asked.

?Damage control.? She reached forward to rub the stump of her left leg. ?Their job is to run interference with the hospital staff, and otherwise track everything down, lock everything up, and have as much of it as possible destroyed.?

I frowned. ?That?s an unusual task.?

?An impossible one, really,? she sighed. ?Too many specialists were called in on my blood alone. Other things have been noticed as well, and questions are being asked. I?m really just waiting on one or two things, and then I?ll quietly take my leave. Of course I?ll need to find a place to go until I?m fully healed.?

She scratched at her left leg again, and I noticed that the stump looked unusual. It was wrapped in a sort of open-ended sock of stretch fabric, which was tied off neatly at the end. I?d seen it clearly the other day, but now it was deformed. It had developed a bulge. I looked up at her and she grinned sheepishly, like she had something to apologize for. Then she calmly drew the wrapper off her leg.

It was surprisingly un-grotesque, with smooth shining skin bearing only hints of scars where it had been sutured together over the end of her leg. It had been rounded and a bit irregular when I first saw it, but now there was a clear protrusion extending from the center by some four inches.

?The long bones grow out, then the muscle regenerates. It?s going to be interesting to see how the knee is rebuilt, and I imagine that will feel somewhat funny. I think the lower leg will be some trouble for me until it firms up. I lost my feet once. It was fascinating. May I??

I stared at her a moment until I realized she was holding the sock, then I nodded and sank back into my seat as she covered it, then pulled her blankets over it. We sat quietly for a few minutes, me regarding her, her regarding me.

?It?s growing back,? I said. It was a statement, not a question. She nodded, her eyes fixed on my face. I could feel her watching me.

?Your doctors haven?t noticed??

?One of the interns noticed something yesterday, but I just said it was swelling. Since then I?ve not allowed myself to be examined. I really do think I?ll need to be leaving here very soon.? She waited a moment, just watching me, and looking a little embarrassed. ?I?ve no control over this. The only way I could stop it would be to stop eating.?

?Heh. I?ve seen you when you?re hungry?? But humor wasn?t what I was feeling just then. I looked at her left arm. She glanced at it too.

?Nothing there just yet, but I can feel it. I think the leg will take first priority, which makes sense, don?t you agree??

?Sure?? I tried to formulate another question, but I couldn?t think what to ask. I finally stood and said, ?I think I need to take a walk. Do a little research.?

?Certainly, and please do take your time. But promise me something? Don?t make any decisions until you speak to me again?? There was just a hint of pleading in her voice.

?Don?t worry about it,? I replied. But her gaze remained fixed on me until I said, ?Yes. I promise.?

I wanted to go straight to her doctor, but I knew that would be a bad idea, not to mention a breach of trust. With the map of the area I?d gotten from the hotel concierge I set out for the library, choosing to walk because I needed the time to put things in order in my head. When I got there, I headed straight to the public computers to make some queries before grabbing a librarian in the reference section to help me find what I was looking for.

After hours of looking, I couldn?t find anything that could conceivably explain what I had just seen. Weird things happened when people lost limbs. You might see a splintered bone fragment or two work their way out. Odd growths and scars and swelling weren?t uncommon. But people don?t just grow back thick chunks of bone. I thought about making some copies of some of the material, but decided not to bother. I knew what I had seen.

I hadn?t eaten, so I stopped at a bar and grill, and allowed myself a couple of beers with my burger as I thought about it. There was no way I could walk away from this story now, but I increasingly found myself wondering just how far down the rabbit hole I?d fallen with this woman.

I returned to the hospital after lunch, but as I walked back into her room she was sitting sideways on her bed, facing a tall man with thinned-grey hair and glasses. He was seated, and holding her hand in both of his. I had startled them, and they both looked up at me with tears in their eyes. Embarrassed that I had barged in without knocking, I quickly excused myself and went out into the hallway, and tried my best to look busy.

Fortunately, after a few minutes he came out and approached me. He seemed a little awkward, but offered me his hand.

?Dennis Novak,? he said, by way of introduction. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I noticed him carefully appraising me. I wondered if this was one of her relatives, one of those people she said didn?t exist. Had someone finally come to bring us back to reality?

?So,? he began. ?Writing a book with her, are you?? His voice sounded wary, and concerned.

?Yes, it?s quite something. The stories she has to tell are? remarkable.?

?I imagine. But I hope you?re aware of what you?re doing here, young man.? He looked stern, and I began to worry. Was this the father of a deluded girl, here to tell me off?

?Miss Baker has quite a mind,? I said, a little defensively. ?I?m not a??

He interrupted me. ?You realize that what you?re doing here is dangerous, don?t you? It?s very difficult for her. I?ve never seen her so uptight.?

?Look, the doctors say she?s a little unbalanced but not dangerous, and she is an adult,? I said, feeling more defensive by the minute. ?We can stop this any time if it gets out of hand. Are you a relative of hers, or???

He frowned at me and said, impatiently, ?No, I?m not a relative. I?m just her friend. Maybe the only one she?s got now, and that?s something I take very seriously young man.? He started to sound a little angry, and stepped toward me a bit.

I stepped back and raised my hand. ?Wait, wait, okay, let?s calm down a little. Maybe we need to start over.

?Listen,? I said, a little forcefully, ?I?m serious. I do respect her. She?s really a very remarkable person. I am a writer, but I?m working for her, not the other way around. In fact I almost quit, thinking I might be exploiting her situation, and if you think I am, maybe I will. I wouldn?t take the job if I thought I was going to hurt her. I?m not that kind of person. Believe me, I?d quit first.? I looked him right in the eye. ?I really would,? I said.

He looked at me for a moment, and then relaxed. ?Sorry son,? he said. ?I had a loss recently, and it?s making me emotional. You?re right, she is an adult. God knows you?d have to call her that.? He chuckled wryly. ?She probably knows what the hell she?s doing, and arguing her out of anything is like arguing with a brick wall, that?s for damned sure.? He contemplated me for a moment, then said, ?Look, I just want you to be aware of what you?re doing is all. This whole thing is a huge strain on her and, honest to God, I?ve never seen her so scared. And that is the most fearless woman alive.?

That surprised me. I really wasn?t sure what to say.

?Please,? he said, ?I just want you to be careful and show some respect for what she?s going through, okay? She may seem invulnerable, but she?s not. She?s really, really not.?

?I know that,? I said.

?Good.? He said. ?Just remember that she?s easier to hurt than you might think. Especially in here.? He pointed to his chest. ?But also, God knows what the world could do to her. So, show her some respect, okay??

I nodded, a little numb.

?I have to go say my goodbyes to her for now,? he said, ?But here?s my card. I?m semi-retired, but still keep my hand in a little at the university, and you can leave me a message there.? I looked at his card. Professor Emeritus, Department of History, Colorado State University. A phone number and office hours. ?If I can help you, or help her somehow, I want you to let me know.?

I agreed, and we walked together back into her room. He leaned over her bed, and they embraced. She held him fiercely, her eyes closed. She looked ready to break his back she was squeezing so hard. They stayed like that for a long time. Then they relaxed, and he straightened up.

?Thank you so much for the pictures, Dennis,? she said, her eyes brimming. ?I?ll treasure them always.?

?Jackie would have wanted you to have them,? he said. ?So would Dad. I?ll see you soon, okay??

?Yes Dennis, soon. And please, please, think about my offer. You have no idea how much it would mean to me.?

?It?s very tempting, and I?ll give it a lot of thought. Okay??

She nodded. He turned, looked at me, gripped my hand and said, ?You call me any time, son.? Then he left.

She watched his back as he left, wiping her face. Talking mostly to herself she said, ?He?ll be too old to take care of himself soon. I hope he?ll come.? I frowned a bit. The guy wasn?t that old.

?Is this not a good time?? I asked.

?No, I?m fine,? she said. She took a deep breath, smiled, and continued, ?Wasn?t that sweet of him to offer to talk to you? I didn?t know he?d do that. He?s a remarkable man. You should feel free to do that, and ask him anything you like about me. I confess that I wonder a bit what he?d have to say. Would you like to see the photo album he gave me??

My head was spinning a bit as I sat down. ?Sure,? I said. As she handed it to me, I asked, ?So where do you know this guy from??

She gave a happy, almost cheerful laugh. I opened the photo album. It was one of those little one-photo-per-page albums, each photo encased in plastic wrap.

?Well when I walked into his classroom back in 1967, I had no idea he would be teaching there. His name wasn?t even on the schedule, and I don?t know if I would have recognized it, Novak being such a common name. But that?s when our friendship really started. Before that, I?d known him for a couple of years as a boy, when I was dating his father. I?d met his father during the war, and then ran into him again a few years later, after the divorce.?

As she spoke, I looked through the pages, one at a time. On the first page was a label: ?San Diego, 1943.? It was an amusement park photo, in faded black and white. In it, a huge, broad-shouldered sailor, stood there grinning like the cat that ate the canary. He was dressed in his bell-bottoms, neckerchief, and sailor?s cap. His right knee was bent out at a sharp angle, and on his other side he had his huge arm around his honey.

Faded as the picture was, she was still unmistakable. Her hair was shoulder-length and curled. She wore a polka-dot halter dress, a hat with an upturned brim, dark sensible pumps, and that smoky, enigmatic half-smile of hers. There was no doubt it was her. She didn?t look a day over 25. My mouth went dry.

As I looked, she continued to speak, but I didn?t hear her. Instead I looked at the next photo. ?San Francisco, 1955,? said the little label. There was the sailor, with the same smug grin on his face. Only this time, he was in a suit. He?d gained at least 30 pounds, and his hairline had noticeably receded. He was standing in front of what looked like a brand new Edsel. He had one arm around the shoulders of a young, somewhat unhappy-looking teenaged boy, 13 or 14 maybe, sporting a crew cut and black horn-rimmed glasses. Standing there beneath his other arm, it was her. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. She was wearing a floral print dress with a flared skirt, a broad v-neck collar, a huge waist-enhancing belt, and that same smoky Mona Lisa smile. There was a streak of grey in her hair, but she otherwise didn?t look a day over 25.

On the next page was the same serious-looking boy, a bit older, with that same crew cut and those same horn-rimmed glasses. He was in an oversized suit, surrounded by other somber-looking people in a church. ?Dad?s funeral. 1957. Thanks for coming,? it said. She wasn?t in the photo.

Then there was the boy again, a little older, still wearing the same crew cut and horn rims. He was wearing a cap and gown. ?UCLA, 1964,? said the little penciled-in label.

On the next page, there he was in a faded color photo, standing in front of a VW Microbus. His hair was medium-length, with a side part. He sported a t-shirt and a pair of wire-framed glasses. On his right arm was a severe young woman with horn-rimmed glasses, a sweater, and a plaid skirt. On his left, a hippie girl.

Her hair was curled again, but hung down nearly to her waist. She was wearing low-cut hip-hugger jeans with a huge belt buckle, a billowy peasant blouse, and hand-tied leather-and-bead jewelry on her wrists and neck. She had that same bemused smile on her face, although this time she was laughing a little. Her right hand gave a peace sign. ?UC-Berkeley?s coolest adjunct professor and his groovy chicks, 1967,? said the little label. She didn?t look a day over 25.

On the next page, there was another graduation photo, this time of the severe woman in a particularly fancy cap and gown: ?Jackie a year ahead of me, as usual,? said the label.

Then a wedding ceremony: The severe woman was in a bridal gown, looking reserved but giddily happy. He was in a corny pastel-colored tuxedo. On the bride?s side, third among the bridesmaids, there she was again, in a burgundy dress and shoes. She was standing back a bit, and looking just a little wistful behind her smile. The little label said, ?1971. Jackie always said you should have been the Maid of Honor!? She looked small and withdrawn, and didn?t look a day over 25.

She wasn?t in the next several pages. The next was of him, in the same graduation getup: ?Piled High and Deep! Finally finished it. 1972? it said. Then there were pictures of the two of them hugging a baby in a hospital, grinning like crazy. More photos, random pictures of kids and some unidentified people, with various dates. ?Missed you here,? one said. ?Here too!? another said.

Then there was a picture of a group of somber-looking people underneath a light blue banner. ?Mondale/Ferraro ?84!? it proclaimed. Almost everyone in the photo looked wistful; one girl was obviously trying not to cry, while everyone else was looking either somber or halfheartedly cheerful and defiant. There he sat, on the floor in the lower left, his hair obviously thinned considerably. The severe-looking wife next to him was looking stormy. Next to the wife, clutching her hand, there she was: hair in a crisped, poofy mullet, wearing a white leather jacket with fringes, blue jeans, white cowboy boots, and that smoky half-smile. Her other hand was in her jacket pocket. ?1984. You were the best part of a horrible year,? the little label said. She didn?t look a day over 25.

More pictures of children graduating, birthday parties. ?Missed you here,? one or two more were labeled. ?I?m a grandpa! I?m so scared!? said another one, in which the thinning-haired, salt-and-pepper haired boy stood next to a grinning young man and a girl, hugging an infant. Then there were still more family photos, labeled with years and small random comments.

In the last photo, there stood the boy, in front of a beautiful house. His hair was solid gray, thinned into a bit of a horseshoe. His severe-looking grey-haired wife stood next to him. Both were smiling and waving. ?2004. Jackie and I missed you a lot. We love you,? it said.

He was clearly the man I?d met just a few minutes ago, whose business card I?d just stuck in my pocket.

I looked up. She?d stopped talking some time ago. She was watching me, her face a little sad. There was a tiny glint of fear in her eye.
She didn?t look a day over 25.

I lurched to my feet. ?I have to go,? I said.

She looked afraid, and said, ?No, wait, please, that is, I mean, I need to talk to you about this.? I ignored her and walked out. I heard her call my name as I left, but I kept going.

I got in my car, drove back to the hotel, and walked straight into the bar. It seemed like the most reasonable thing to do.

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Methuselah's Daughter, a Novel