The Art of Forgetting (10 page)

              “And I’m very thankful for that. You’re the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had, even before Dad...”

              Roy looked down and nodded. “So it pains me to hear about how you’re letting your life slip right by you.”

              “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

              Roy smiled. “Very well, then. Tell me, do you have a girlfriend?”

              “Today? I don’t know. What time is it?”

              “That’s a clever way to avoid the issue.”

              “Roy, do you really want to hear about my sex life? You want a full confession? You better punch the clock. I’ll bet you hit overtime.”

              “I’m more concerned about your emotional well-being, your isolation, the way you’re denying yourself the potential for a happy, fulfilled life. And why?”

              “What do you remember of Grandpa?” Lloyd asked with an edge to his voice.

              Roy cupped his right hand around his left fist. “I have many fond memories of my father.”

              “Do you know what I remember? Grandpa walking out the front door of the house wearing his best shirt and tie, spit-polished shoes… and nothing else. Grandpa not being able to recognize his wife of forty years. Grandpa raving like a lunatic, accusing his family of trying to poison him. That’s what I remember of him.

              “Is it any wonder that when Dad started having lapses – don’t shake your head, I know what happened – when he started having those ever more frequent moments of incoherence, the same signs he witnessed when the trouble with Grandpa began, is it any wonder that he chose to put the barrel of his service revolver in his mouth while he still had the mental faculty to squeeze the trigger?”

              “We don’t know your father’s motivations.”

              “He didn’t want to end up like his father, and his grandfather before him. It was his way of escaping the family curse. So where does that leave me, the heir apparent? How many lives will I destroy when my hour arrives?”

              Lloyd lifted the glass to his lips and took a long swig.

              “You don’t know that this will happen to you,” Roy said. “It hasn’t happened to me.”

              “Congratulations. You won the genetic jackpot.”

              Roy rubbed his palms together and exhaled slowly through his nose. “So you’ve decided to be a hermit, to avoid commitment, to not love. That doesn’t make you a hero, Lloyd. It just makes you lonely and bitter.”

              “You had your way of dealing with it. I have mine.”

              Roy shook his head. “I didn’t join the seminary to escape loving. I had a calling.”

              “Well how convenient for you. Still, I have to hand it to you. You did your part to stem the Copeland bloodline. I’ll do mine. But I’ll do it my way if you don’t mind.”

              “And what if you’re throwing your life away for no reason? What if there’s nothing wrong with you?”

              Lloyd rolled his wine glass and stared at the swirling contents. “I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy.”

              “A pessimist,” Roy said.

              “I prefer to think of myself as a fatalist.”

              “Aah, fate! You know what Epicurus said of fate? ‘A strict belief in fate is the worst of slavery, imposing upon our necks an everlasting lord and tyrant, whom we are to stand in awe of night and day.’”

              “And you thought your degree in classics would never pay off.”

              Roy put a hand on Lloyd’s knee. “Perhaps you should try a little faith instead.”

              “Sorry, Father Roy, you know my views on God and Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.”

              “Not faith in God, Lloyd: faith in yourself, in your family, in those who mean well for you.”

              “I don’t see how that can help. But don’t worry about me. I made a conscious choice. I’ll be just like Mom. She never remarried. She’s lived by herself for some twenty years now and she seems happy.”

              “But your mother knew love once; a deep love like you’ve never experienced.”

              Lloyd snorted. “I don’t remember Dad being much of a romantic.”

              Ellen stepped into the living room. “Just five more minutes on the lasagna.” She looked at Roy with a proud smile. “How are my boys getting along?”

              Roy shrugged. “I cannot teach him. The boy has no patience. Much anger in him, like his father. He is not ready.”

              Ellen parted her lips as if she were about to say something. Her gaze shot back and forth between the two men.

              “I think that’s a quote from Star Wars, Mom. You’re still obsessed with that stuff, Roy?” Lloyd said.

              “Hmm, the force is very strong in this one,” Roy said.

              “Quoting Epicurus and Yoda in the same breath,” Lloyd said. “I guess that’s the mark of a true scholar. Or a complete nut. How is it that a Catholic priest can be so enamored with Star Wars?”

              “The battle of good against evil? An all-encompassing force that envelops every soul in the universe?  Why, Star Wars is a modern day gospel of sorts. If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that at least in part it’s what spurred me towards my calling. I envisioned that, as a priest, I’d be like a Jedi knight – without the light sabre, of course.”

              “We should call you Father Luke,” Lloyd said.

              Roy smiled ruefully. “I had suggested that as
your
name.”

              The meal was actually not half bad. Ellen Copeland had outdone herself in welcoming back her brother-in-law after such a long hiatus. Lloyd knew she felt a deep gratitude for standing by her after the death of her husband when so many had shunned her.

              After a slice of apple pie and another long chat, Lloyd prepared for the ride home. Roy accompanied him to his bike, carrying his helmet.

              “We’ll have to talk some more,” Roy said.

              “You’re not going to change me,” Lloyd said.

              “There are other things we need to discuss, when the time is right.”

              Lloyd nodded, mounted his bike and started the engine.

              “Lloyd.”

              “Sure, Roy. We’ll talk some more,” Lloyd said.

              “Your helmet,” Roy said.

              Lloyd smiled. “I was just about to put it on.”

              Lloyd took the helmet from Roy’s hands, slipped it on and lifted the visor. Roy shook his head at him. “You’re not so big that I wouldn’t call Sister Beatrice to whack some sense into you.”

              “Yeah, well first she’ll have to catch me on this.” Lloyd patted the shiny red fuel tank of his bike.

              Chapter 8

             
T
he administrative suite occupied the west flank of the ground floor of the school of medicine. It housed the offices of the various Deans and their secretaries on either side of the plush carpeted corridor. At the very end, just past a makeshift waiting area, stood a conference room known as the Dean’s library because of a mahogany bookcase that had been built into its southern wall. A dozen outdated texts stood askew on the shelves coated in a fine film of dust like furniture store props – relics of a bygone age, supplanted by smartphones and computer tablets.

              Lloyd sat in the cramped lobby just outside the conference room on a wood-framed sofa upholstered in a rough striped fabric. He really didn’t know what to expect from the meeting, had no idea who would be in attendance. He picked up a glossy magazine from the end table next to him and studied the cover: a full page photo of a gray-haired man in a white coat, arms crossed, beaming with self-satisfaction, the heading
Hospital Management Quarterly
hovering just above his head in bold red letters. Lloyd tossed the magazine back on the table without opening it.

              The door to the library opened and a short secretary with a pleasant round face stepped out. “Dr. Copeland, won’t you please come in?” She stood aside holding the door open.

              Lloyd got to his feet, straightened his tie and entered the room, nodding at the secretary who tightened her eyes in an overdone smile.

              A large, oval cherry-wood table occupied the center of the room. Five people sat around it. He recognized the three physicians:  George Lasko, the new Chief of Staff; Padma Sengupta, a nephrologist who was so mild-mannered she made Mother Theresa look like a meth-crazed street thug; and Martin Bender. A woman he had never seen, with a white widow’s peak in otherwise jet-black hair, peered at him with milky eyes that bulged from under stenciled crescents where her eyebrows should have been. And next to her sat Erin.

              Lloyd stood by the table drumming his fingers on the polished veneer as the secretary scurried to a chair in a corner where she settled in her seat and placed a stenographer’s notebook in her lap.
What the hell is Erin doing here
?

              Dr. Lasko, stretched out his arm, palm up, in what seemed a practiced gesture. He smiled stiffly, exposing deep crow feet that branched out from the corners of his eyes and said, “Dr. Copeland, please make yourself comfortable.” Lloyd settled in a chair and stole a look at Erin. She kept her gaze fixed on a stack of papers in front of her.

              “For the record, I’m Dr. Lasko of the Department of Cardiology. As the newly appointed Chief of Staff, I’ll be chairing this Institutional Review Board which was set up to consider your request to begin clinical trials using human subjects with…” he perched a set of narrow rectangular reading glasses near the tip of his nose, “a novel form of a conjugated prion protein for the treatment of severe memory loss and dementia.” He peered at Lloyd over his spectacles, his eyebrows raised in tall arches, as if awaiting confirmation.

              “Good,” Lasko said. “Why don’t we start by having the rest of the board members introduce themselves?”

              One by one, the board members spoke briefly. The woman with the white forelock introduced herself as Mrs. Devine, patient advocate and vice-president of the local chapter of a nationally recognized Alzheimer support group. When it was her turn, Erin seemed to focus on a spot half a foot above Lloyd’s head as she stated her name and professional title. Lloyd couldn’t be sure in the harsh neon lighting of the room, but thought he saw a slight blush on her cheeks.

              “Dr. Copeland, I’d like to try to keep this meeting informal so don’t hesitate to ask questions at any time.” Dr. Lasko leaned back in his chair and removed his reading glasses. “Alright, Dr. Kennedy, please proceed.”

              Erin picked up a sheet of paper and took a deep breath. “Dr. Copeland, first of all, I’d like to thank you for making yourself available to the committee.”

              “I’m happy to be available to you,” Lloyd said.

              Erin briefly locked eyes with Lloyd then looked down at her papers. “And I’d like to congratulate you on receiving approval from the Food and Drug Administration to proceed with phase one trials to test the safety of your drug on human volunteers. Now it’s up to this committee to approve or deny your request to enroll human subjects at our institution.” Erin paused to take a sip of water. “In reviewing your proposal the board has a couple of concerns. First of all, we understand that an animal subject who received the pharmaceutical agent in question showed signs of neurologic illness and perished.”

              Lloyd’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

              “One of your research subjects,” Erin said, “died as a result of the treatment.”

              “Where did you get that idea?” Lloyd said.

              “Are you saying that you did not have a mouse die in your lab recently?”

              “I’m saying that there’s no mention of anything of the kind in the proposal I submitted.”

              “Which brings us to the second point,” Erin said. “In the documents you submitted, you failed to report the death of an animal subject as is required by the scientific protocol of the university.”

              Lloyd slipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out his silver lighter. He rolled it in his hand under the table, his thumb riding over the smooth edges.
How the hell do they know about Wolfgang
?  “Look, no mice died during the study period,” he said, “in fact, the only adverse effect we observed was mild irritation at the injection site.”

              “What about after the study period ended?” Erin asked.

              Lloyd hesitated for a few moments. “This treatment is safe. You have all the documentation.” He reached over the table, stretching his hand to the middle, where plastic water bottles were arranged like bowling pins. He opened a bottle and took a sip without bothering to use a cup.

              “
All
the documentation, Dr. Copeland?” Erin continued.