Relativity (20 page)

They were early for their appointment and quietly drank a coffee in the café outside before heading into the building. Tom handed Mark a temporary name tag and they followed a security guard to the burnished elevator door. The building's interior core had a ring of glass elevators—crystal capsules whooshing up, plunging down—like transparent rockets launching into space. Mark staggered as their elevator rushed up the shaft. People in the lobby looked as small as ants and the drop gave him vertigo chills. His eyes went out of focus. Walls closed in; he felt strangled by the tight space. Everything swirled and multiplied—three copies of Tom's face, three pairs of his shoes. Mark turned his back to the elevator window, looking away from the building's abyss.

“You okay?” Tom asked.

Mark wiped his forehead. “Yeah.”

With a sudden suck of air, the doors opened on the twenty-first floor. Their father's lawyer was there to greet them, shaking their hands before they'd stepped out of the elevator.

“Boys,” the lawyer said. “Good to see you again.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at Tom; they clearly weren't boys any longer. Richard Townsend was an old friend of John's—they went to school together, were on the same rowing team more than fifty years ago. Richard had always been their father's lawyer. And even though he wasn't qualified—he practiced business law, not criminal—he'd represented Mark at his trial. Qualifications didn't always matter in this city. What mattered was if you were a member of an exclusive old boys' club.

Mark hated this side of privileged Sydney. It was ugly and claustrophobic, but he'd bought into it once, was seduced by the idea of belonging. There was something easy about its durable membership. Sydney's most elite boys educational institutions were members of what were called the Great Public Schools. GPS for short. Being an old boy of a certain school was its own global positioning system—grown men still used their alma mater as a tracking device, how they positioned themselves within a tiny world.

“Please,” said Richard. “Take a seat.”

He opened the door to his office suite, revealing a curved floor-to-ceiling window. The harbor view was spectacular: frothy whites and deep teals of Port Jackson, yellows and greens of the catamaran ferries navigating the harbor basin. Mark shut one eye, the glare of the midday sun reflecting off the water. His mother had once told him that several of Sydney's ferries were named after ships of the First Fleet:
Alexander, Borrowdale, Charlotte, Fishburn, Friendship, Golden Grove, Scarborough, Sirius, Supply
. Mark liked this baptism, how the First Fleet was given a second life. He liked to think the original ships—still driving and heeling, sailing upwind into eternity—haunted the deepest waters of Sydney Harbor.

“Great funeral, boys,” Richard said. “Really great. Best I've been to for a long time. And I'm an old bastard, I go to a lot of funerals these days.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. “Dad would've been really happy with it.”

Mark laughed uncomfortably. “I don't know. He probably found at least one thing that wasn't up to scratch. During the service, I kept imagining him opening his coffin and yelling at us to start again.” Mark imitated his father's voice. “Get it right, boys!”

Tom looked embarrassed but it was true. They were still seeking their father's approval even though he was dead.

“Let's talk about the estate,” Richard said. “You've both seen and read the will by now, I believe?”

“Not yet,” said Mark.

Tom and Richard exchanged a look. All week, Tom had badgered his brother about the will; Mark kept putting it off. Luckily, in the days since their father's death, there was a lot to keep him busy. Arrangement of affairs, paperwork, packing up. Legal documents could wait. And Mark didn't really want to know what was in the will. His gut told him it'd probably be another blow.

“Your father was an organized man. John certainly had a mind for business. Didn't want his money lost to the tax office. Tom has assets in his name already,” Richard explained. “Like John's superannuation fund, so it wouldn't be taxed on his death. It's 16.5 percent. Robbery.”

“Okay,” Mark said. “So everything goes to Tom, right? I'm sure that's how Dad wanted to play it.”

“Not exactly. Tom isn't the only beneficiary.” He opened a folder and took out a stapled document. Richard's wrinkled hands shook as he offered the papers to Mark. “Here, have a look.”

Revoke, appoint, declare, bequeath—its legal jargon was another tongue. Mark already had an inkling his father had written him out of the will. There was no financial compensation for breaking the rules. When Mark needed to go to court, the family paid his legal fees. Thousands of dollars, top lawyers, the best solicitors, billed hour after hour; John knew they were investing in the fight for the truth. But there was no justice for his wallet in a guilty verdict, in the hefty bills leftover after proceedings had ended. So his father made it clear, years ago: Mark didn't deserve his inheritance. His mother might have fought for him, if she were still alive. But she wasn't. He didn't have anyone else on his side.

“What am I looking at?” Mark asked.

Richard flipped to the next page and pointed. “Here.”

Mark squinted. He read the paragraph aloud. “I give the sum of ten thousand dollars to Guide Dogs Australia. That's nice of him. I give my book collection to my granddaughters, Angela Hall, Amy Hall, and Alice Hall. I give my Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch to my youngest son, Mark Halley Hall.” He paused and looked up at Richard. “Is this why we're here? Because he left me his Rolex. How generous of you, Dad.”

Richard frowned. “Keep going.”

“I appoint my son Thomas Anthony Hall my sole executor,” Mark continued. “No surprises there. I give a fifty percent share of my property both real and personal to my son Thomas Anthony Hall.” His eyes darted over the text and his voice slowed down. “I give the remaining fifty percent share of my estate both real and personal unto my trustee upon trust for my grandson, Ethan Francis Forsythe, until he should come of age.”

Mark read the section again, repeating it to himself. It was disjointing to read Ethan's name on paper, see it in print. Claire had legally changed the child's surname to hers but when the baby was born—when they'd filled out the official forms for his birth certificate together—Ethan had been a Hall. “Wow,” Mark said finally. “Look at that.”

Tom leaned forward in his chair. “Please don't be upset.”

“I'm not.”

“This was just what Dad wanted.”

“And you've known about this all along?”

Richard removed his glasses and cleaned them with a small cloth. “Tom needs to apply for a grant of probate from the Supreme Court. Before John's assets can be released and distributed.” He fogged up his lenses with a few warm breaths then continued to wipe the glasses. “And we've been concerned that you might contest the will.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Under certain grounds, when someone has been excluded from a will, they can contest it. Make a claim for a larger share of the estate than what's been specified,” Richard said. “You're eligible. As a child of the deceased.”

“And go back to court?” Mark imagined more solicitors, affidavits, summons. Just the thought of the Supreme Court made his blood congeal. “No, thanks.”

“Not necessarily,” Richard said. “We could negotiate, arrange something that makes everyone happy through mediation. The matter doesn't necessarily need to go to court. You're more than welcome to seek your own legal advice about this.”

The office was quiet for a moment. Mark looked out the window at the sparkling harbor, its diamonds of salt bright on the surface. It was that precise angle of the day when the sun caught the water—when their star turned the waves into light. He looked down at the paper in his hands again. His father's instructions. Still hurting him from the grave. But there was something liberating about not being included. He knew he didn't need his family's money to survive.

“I did always love that watch,” Mark said brightly.

“You won't contest?” Tom asked. “Are you sure?”

Richard gave them both a stern look. “Perhaps you should speak to another lawyer before making this decision, Mark. I could give you some names. Once probate is granted, it'll be too late to make a claim.”

“No,” Mark said. “I don't want to.”

His brother looked at him kindly; it was an expression he hadn't seen on Tom's face for years. “I need to get in touch with Claire about this,” Tom said. “Ethan's share will go into a trust until he turns eighteen, but if she wants to release any funds early to pay for school fees or something, we can negotiate a plan.”

“I can do it. We've been in touch. I'll speak with her.”

“You have?”

Mark shrugged. “We had coffee.”

Richard stood up. “Well, we can make an application for probate as soon as possible then. I'll get my assistant to put a draft together for you to approve. And, Tom, let's look into opening an account to consolidate the assets. Maybe start making some inquiries about selling the house.” He stretched out an arm and shook their hands. “Boys. Good to see you both. I'll walk you out.”

“Thank you, Rick,” Tom said. “I'll call you later.”

As they waited for the elevator, Mark turned to Tom. “I didn't realize you planned to sell the house.”

“Of course, no point keeping it now that Dad's gone. We'll need to start packing everything up. Giving stuff away.”

Mark was silent. That was their mother's house and their mother's stuff. He didn't want to give anything of hers away.

“You can still stay there,” Tom said. “Until we're ready to go to auction. You'll probably head back to work before that happens, though.”

“Yeah, probably.” He couldn't stay on leave from his job much longer. Mark stepped into the elevator and pressed the button. Then they were free-falling back to Earth, plummeting to the ground floor. G-force emptied his lungs, pulled blood away from his head. With the indistinguishable forces of the equivalence principle—gravity felt like acceleration, acceleration like gravity—Mark momentarily realized that whatever he felt, looking down the building's atrium, also felt exactly like pain.

Ω

CLAIRE WAITED
for the doctor in his consulting room. Several framed photographs cluttered his desk but faced the other way; she couldn't see who was in the pictures. Today's newspaper was spread across the table, the crossword almost complete. Claire tilted her head as she tried to read the upside-down clues.

The door opened. Dr. Saunders smiled, before taking a seat at his desk. “I have Ethan's test results here. I wanted to talk to you about them.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not exactly.” He handed her some sheets of paper. “Let's go over the neuropsychologist's assessment first. Ethan took an IQ test, the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children. Pretty standard for kids under sixteen. But we had Ethan take it twice.” The doctor paused. “To say he aced it both times would be an understatement. Ethan's IQ is high genius level, around 170. Our neuropsych has never seen anything like it.”

Claire cast her eyes over the report. Her son's results were on the farthest side of the bell curve, in the top 1 percent. “I don't understand. When Ethan was five and assessed before, here in this very hospital, I was told his development was well below average. That he had a significant receptive and expressive language disorder. I've always known he was bright and never believed those assessments. Now you're telling me you think Ethan is a genius?”

“Genius isn't always expressed as solidly as you might think. Asynchronicity in early cognitive development does happen. Late talking is quite common in gifted people. Einstein himself didn't speak until he was four. Based on Ethan's results in the various intelligence and memory tests, and taking into account his brain injury, I think his abilities actually go beyond genius. Ethan isn't just a child prodigy. I think your son may be a savant.”

“Like
Rain Man
?” She shook her head. “I don't think so. Ethan's not autistic.”

“Claire, I understand your hesitation. Most people hear that word and think idiot savant. Not all people with savant syndrome have autism, just as not all autistic people are savants. Ethan's what we call an acquired savant. It's a very rare phenomenon, where savant skills emerge after a traumatic brain injury. Where the injury itself rewires the brain.”

“You mean he's been a savant since he was a baby?”

“Exactly. Primary damage in Ethan's brain is concentrated, where the associative memory system is normally located. But when higher regions in the cortex fail, older parts of the brain take over. Ethan has a remarkable memory; his skills are above the ceiling in every memory test. But I don't think it's a question of the boy simply having good recall. Ethan stores memories in the ancient, more primitive parts of the brain. Like the memory that never forgets how to ride a bike. His brain is very sticky. He actually can't forget.”

“His memory isn't so great when I remind him to clean his room.”

Dr. Saunders showed her another piece of paper. “Typically, the memory of a savant is very narrow but infinitely deep. Memory aside, I want to talk to you about his splinter skill. As I'm sure you know, Ethan has a remarkably intuitive understanding of physics.”

“He always has,” Claire said. She looked at the picture—hand-drawn lines that spiraled like a cobweb. “Did Ethan draw that?”

“I showed this drawing to a physicist friend of mine. Apparently, this is a perfect schematic of a black hole warping space-time.”