Bewilderment

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I DIDN’T GRASP WHAT WAS HAPPENING TO ROBIN until I saw the rough cut. In the video, his name is Jay. He comes into the frame, and the shot begins to breathe. He turns to look at the ducks and the gray squirrels and the lindens along the lake, and his gaze turns them into aliens for the camera to reappraise.

Next, he’s lying in the fMRI tube in Currier’s lab, moving shapes around on his screen with his mind. His face is round and open but a little devilish, pleased with his skill. Dee Ramey, in voice-over, explains how Jay is learning to match another set of frozen feelings laid down years before. But her explanation is beside the point. He’s a child, in the full grip of creation.

Then he’s sitting across from Dee Ramey, on a bench under a spreading willow. She asks: “But how does it feel?”

His nose and mouth twitch a little. His excited hands twist with explanation. You know how when you sing a good song with people you like? And people are singing all different notes, but they sound good together?

The journalist looks sad for half a moment. Maybe she’s thinking how long it has been since she sang with her friends. “Does it feel like talking to your mother?”

His brows pinch; he doesn’t quite like the question. Nobody’s saying anything out loud, if that’s what you mean.

“But you can feel her? You can tell it’s her?”

He shrugs. Vintage Robin. It’s us.

“You feel like she’s there with you? When you train?”

Robin’s head swivels on the stalk of his neck. He’s looking at something way too big to tell her. He reaches one hand above his head to catch the lowest branches of the willow and let it slip back through his fingers. She’s here right now.

The video blinks first and cuts away.