On/Off - A Jekyll and Hyde Story Read online

  ON/OFF

  A JEKYLL AND HYDE STORY

  Also by Mike Attebery

  Billionaires, Bullets, Exploding Monkeys

  Seattle On Ice

  On/Off - A Jekyll and Hyde Story

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Attebery

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Cryptic Bindings

  Visit our website at www.crypticbindings.com

  Read Mike Attebery's Blog: www.mikeattebery.com

  Second Edition: April 2012

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  For Bueller and Mimi...

  who curled up in blankets at my feet

  as I wrote this book in the mornings

  over the years.

  CONTENTS

  FALL

  TWO WEEKS EARLIER

  THE PREVIOUS SUMMER

  SHADOWS

  I

  CHAPTER ONE - WINTER

  CHAPTER TWO - COLLEGE LIFE

  CHAPTER THREE - THE MIND

  CHAPTER FOUR - THE ACCIDENT

  CHAPTER FIVE

  II

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE - CHRISTMAS

  III

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN – COMPLICATIONS

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - UNDER THE SENTINEL

  WAITING

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FALL

  There was a sliver of metal in his brain. He could feel it scraping against the tissue, biting into the swollen gray pulp. It hurt like hell. Every movement, every breath, sent a wave of pain rushing through his head.

  The pain flipped a switch. His mind kept wandering back to the car accident with his father all those years ago. They’d been on their way to the movies when the truck broadsided them. Splintered glass had sprayed into his terror-stricken eyes. He was eight at the time. It was the same then, trying not to move, inevitably blinking; knowing what would happen, but unable to keep his head still. Until now, that had been the worst pain of his life. The glass was lodged deep in his eyes, and his inability to keep still had taken its toll. Eventually, they’d reached the hospital, where a patient surgeon with steady hands had removed the shards. The wounds healed, and Jamie recovered the majority of his vision, but he still saw floaters and shadows. Ten years later, anyone studying his face could still sense a distant trauma in the delicate tissues peering out through frozen eyelids. Even now, he rarely blinked, forever fearing the return of that stabbing pain. His doctor was always chiding him, “Your eyes are too dry. Blink! Blink!” But Jamie ignored him. He used drops.

  Yet, the accident had been different -- it was traumatic and unexpected; there was no anticipation, no time to bite his lip and dread the inevitable explosion of pain. In this case, the goal was not freedom of movement, but the ability to sit still, to think clearly for the first time in almost a year. The glass in Jamie’s bloody eyes had been extracted by a lone doctor. This time, a team of surgeons had worked together, meticulously slicing back a flap of scalp, cutting away a portion of his skull, and pulling back layer upon layer of mealy brain matter, testing each with an electrical pulse, before massaging a wafer-thin disc of polished metal into the soft, gray tissues beneath. The team had then tethered the implant in place with a series of microscopic barbs, before reconfiguring the displaced portions of his central nervous system, and closing his head back up. Now, sixteen hours later, Jamie ran a tentative finger over the crusty, tender sutures on his shaved head, hoping they hadn’t left anything out. He lowered his hand, holding the fingertips in front of his face. There was no movement. He could actually hold still. He set his hands in his lap, listened to his own breathing, and stared into space.

  TWO WEEKS EARLIER

  At the height of Jamie’s condition, Dr. Price entered his office at the university and sized up his young patient’s situation. He removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on the bridge of his nose. The horn-rimmed frames accentuated his owlish appearance, which he knew his patients found oddly reassuring. Yet, as he forced his best poker face, he knew his expression betrayed him. They’d exhausted the traditional options. All of them. The seventeen-year-old who had entered his office one year ago showing symptoms of early onset Parkinson’s, now sat before him, a gyrating, head bobbing display of misfiring synapses. His legs were a constant blur of twisting, jarring movements. One arm was pulled up to his chest, the other cradled the elbow.

  Until recently, these “on/off” episodes of tensed muscles and uncontrollable tremors had come and gone with the shifts in medication throughout the day, but now they were nearly continuous. Jamie twitched incessantly, nearly obscuring the wince of sweaty exhaustion he expressed with each wild corkscrew movement of his body. This display was all the more bizarre considering the patient’s apparently peak physical condition. In an effort to control the symptoms, Jamie was adhering to the strictest of diets, and had been following a grueling exercise regimen during the now vanished “on” periods.

  The medications, levodopa among many others, had become almost completely ineffective, and the degree and duration of Jamie’s episodes had continually increased. Price had repeatedly gone over the treatment options with Jamie and his mother; they could attempt surgery and lesioning of the brain to slow or prevent what he described as the “electrical storms” in Jamie’s head, but chances were poor that such an attack would hold any lasting benefits. Over time, the return of the episodes was certain, and chances were good that any relief would be short-lived. They could continue exploring emerging medications, but all current avenues had led to dead ends. Price felt it was time to take a bold, experimental approach, albeit one with questionable motives.

  The severity of Jamie’s PD symptoms, at his age, was unheard of. Even for a much older patient after decades of progression, the type of spine-shredding spasms he displayed would have been unnerving. Price had earmarked Jamie’s case with his team from the start. The inherent possibilities in a case involving a relatively healthy young patient displaying such extreme symptoms had been an easy sell, the very subject they’d been looking for, and they leapt at the opportunity. As for the Peppers, desperation has a way of sweeping aside the obvious questions, like “what do you stand to gain from this?” They were only interested in helping Jamie regain control of his life, it never occurred to them that Price’s own motivations might be less than transparent. Either way, the surgery would have gone through, the implant would have been tested, but this was perfect. If successful, a young “miracle patient” would be a boon for the program. Price was confident the boy would be interested. At this point there was nothing left to lose.

  Within a week, he was again sitting with Jamie in his office, showing him the device that could change his life forever.

  “It looks like a big metal tick,” the young man muttered.

  Price smiled ever so slightly as he rotated the prototype in his hands, “Yeah, I suppose it does, actually.”


  Jamie’s muscles tensed as he strained to sit still. Even then, his head bobbed rapidly from side to side as he studied the implant from the corner of his eye. The overheard lights sparkled along the edges of the thin metal disc in the palm of Price’s hand.

  “What are those barbs on the side?”

  “Those are the key. They’re the filaments that will conduct the directional signals in your brain. They’ll also act as tethers to hold the probe in place after surgery.”

  Jamie raised an eyebrow. “How much is this gonna hurt, doc?”

  “It may be extremely painful at first.” Price paused for a moment. “We’ll give you medication for the pain and to prevent swelling, but our hope is that your body will attenuate itself to the implant after the first week, even forget that it’s there.”

  “Sounds like a ball,” Jamie muttered flatly. “Does this mean I can shitcan the meds?”

  Price’s mouth pulled tight. “You’ll still be taking low levels of medication to manage the more minor symptoms, but they’ll be minimal.” He leaned forward, forcing sincerity as he looked Jamie in the eyes. “I have a great deal of faith that this will work. If it does, trust me, it will be worth it.”

  Jamie reached over and took the shiny metal object from Price’s hands, turning it in his fingers. It was the size of a quarter with virtually identical dimensions. He ran his fingers over the edge, feeling the filaments scraping and catching ever so slightly on his skin like tiny Velcro fasteners.

  “And this will let me paint again, doc?”

  “Jamie, if this works, it will let you live again.”

  THE PREVIOUS SUMMER

  The Pepper home echoed with ghosts. Unborn children. Forgotten promises. The whisper of secrets behind the reflections on rippled glass windows. It was a big old house, hidden away at the end of a long, shadowy drive on the edge of Pittsford, one of the more upscale suburbs of Rochester, New York. Jamie had enjoyed a happy childhood there, for the most part. In the summers he liked to crawl under the bushes that hugged the bottom of the house, and play for hours in the cool darkness below. Then he’d run out into the bleaching midday sun, blinded by the light as he rolled down the grassy hill, losing momentum and tumbling to a stop, eyes closed, to stretch out under the broiling sun. In winters he’d gone sledding down the same hill, and wandered the snowy woods that surrounded the property. He knew the area by heart. Lynn Pepper had done many of these things with him, sharing the bond of a mother and her only child. Mostly, it had been a happy home, but it still held reminders of a life that had not gone as planned. During certain times of year, holidays especially, the air in the home grew heavy, clinging to their lungs like pollen in a humid northeast summer. That wasn’t to say things weren’t maintained. If anything, the place was spotless. Lynn had an obsessive determination to maintain order, the type of single-minded outlook often found in successful professionals and single parents. Lynn was both, producing a steady output of pieces for publication, maintaining a household, and supervising her son’s upbringing with a head down, straight ahead sense of focus.

  Large families have a sense of community that comes, in part, from minimal parental attention. Lots of kids, parents balancing family with work and their own relationships -- all this gives the children breathing room, space to grow and find their footing. The single-parent household is much different. Day-to-day pressures are easily ratcheted up. The importance of each decision is skewed by reliance on only one perspective, and even if the end result is successful, there’s always the perceived burden that something, or someone, is missing. Jamie grew up in just such a home, and though he was relatively content, as time went on he found himself searching the brooding rooms of the house, looking for answers to the question of what was missing. An innocent curiosity compels children to search through their parents’ bureaus, smelling perfumes and opening pocketknives, handling and examining trinkets once their owners have long since failed to notice them anymore. Pondering the belongings of relatives is not seen as dangerous or inappropriate for young children; after all, they’re simply curious about the world of adults. Things change however, when the person you wish to understand has been missing or dead for more than half your lifetime.

  Alone during the sweltering days after he graduated, Jamie again found himself searching the rooms of his mother’s house like he did as a boy. He sat for hours at his father’s desk, again digging through drawers of the man’s letters and keepsakes. Jamie had rummaged through these things off and on for years, but this summer he felt a compulsion to go back. Ultimately, he’d come out of his trance, close the drawers, and go back to his room to read, or down to the living room to watch television, but increasingly that summer, with too much time on his hands, Jamie’s mind wandered back to the past, and questions about what had happened.

  By the fourth of July, life had become unbearable. His days were a series of extremes. He was either stranded on the couch, nervously flipping channels as he waited for the latest tremors to stop, or racing the clock to use every normal moment; exercising and running during the ever-so-brief “on” periods when the meds were still somewhat effective. For the better part of the summer, he hadn’t known which way was up. Some days he woke early, feeling fine, but dreading the moment his body would begin to stiffen and shake. Other times, his eyes would open and he was paralyzed, his arms and legs drawn up tight, leaving him helpless until the next moment of relief. At this point, he couldn’t tell the tail from the dog. Either his mind was a jumble from the medications, or his head was working overtime, sabotaging itself and the rest of his body. His brain had become the enemy, an enemy he tried to assuage with medicine and exercise, but which rejected both.

  Almost worse than the PD symptoms, were the hallucinations. When he hit adolescence, Jamie thought the surge of hormones would drive him mad. The sight of a cute girl, or even the briefest suggestion of sex, would drive him over the edge. He was a cauldron of tension and excitement. Like any teenager, his brain was wired for just one thing, but this, this was indescribably worse. Dr. Price had mentioned the possibility of hypersexuality with the current levodopa dosages, but Jamie had no idea how extreme it could become. His dreams had become ever more erotic and bizarre, and his waking moments were a dizzying array of fantasies and frustration. He was embarrassed at how much time he spent beating off, trying to clear his head, but no sooner did the images and urges slip away, then his body was once again working overtime, his eyes dilated, a mist of sweat on the back of his neck.

  Last year, things had been so different. None of the medications. None of the problems. He’d been working at the music store downtown, dating Jenny Conners, getting laid every night. Funny how she’d dumped him for that guy on the football team, Jamie knew it was because of the guy’s looks. Now, a year later, he was the one with the better body, at least, the more muscular one. How well he could use it was another matter, entirely dependent upon when you caught him. Maybe Jenny would want to make an appointment. Before seven or after four, right around then he seemed to be in peak condition, ready for a good roll in the hay, and not quite exhibiting the movements of a latter day Richard Pryor. Poor guy. Jamie knew how he must have felt when his MS kicked in. At the peak of your career, the world in front of you, drug problems fading away, then – BAM! Some jokester sticks out his foot as you’re completing your victory lap. It was just last fall, right around the time he’d realized where Jenny was spending her nights, that he’d had the first inkling that something in his head was shorting out.

  He was sitting in the art studio, working on Mrs. Van Dyke’s insufferable underpainting assignment, when he felt something in his head pop, and the feeling of hot liquid coursed beneath his scalp. Looking back on it, he knew he’d blown a fuse. He hated doing those goddamned underpaintings, with all the raw umber and black shadows. He hated this assignment: painting a couple of flower pots in front of a window, but first, painting the entire picture in black and white, and countless shades of brown. He didn’t need
a guide to help him feel his way through a painting. At that moment, there were two things he knew for a fact: the first was that he was once more a free agent in the high school dating world, the second was that he was one hell of a painter. He had the arrogant “modesty” of the true artist, knowing your work is good, but always downplaying your ability. But he knew. Just as he knew he could tie his shoes with his eyes closed, he had every confidence in his abilities with a brush. He already had his application in with the fine arts program at the Rochester Institute of Technology, and he knew with his gut that he was getting in. Sure, screwing around with Jenny was great, she was hot, and more than a bit crazy, but for him, a loose, quickly painted canvas was just as exciting.

  As he sat in the empty studio, feeling just a bit too cocky for his own good, everything changed. He dipped the brush into the raw umber, swirled it with the black, and pulled the bristles back over the pallet in one smooth, confident stroke, then he turned and lifted his hand to the canvas, only funny thing – his hand wouldn’t move. It just lagged behind, wavering in place. He raised an eyebrow and tried again. Nothing. His eyes narrowed as he looked out at the suddenly alien limb that hung in midair, quivering before him. And then his heart sank, ‘cause he knew this had been coming. Somehow, he knew. And that was what scared him the most.

  That was last October. By the spring he was a wreck, and his mother and Dr. Price were having weekly meetings to plan a strategy, first for management of the disease, and later for a counterattack. Now, though no one said so, it was clear they were losing ground. He’d barely made it through the final semester of high school, graduating by the skin of his teeth. Truth be told, he knew the school board had taken pity on him. His RIT scholarship was still official for the fall quarter, but he’d been incapable of painting for the last six months. The most creative pursuit he could handle was snapping some pictures with a digital camera. In the back of his mind, he was saving the images for a time he might adapt them for a canvas, but for now, he was enjoying manipulating them with a computer, and at least having some sort of creative outlet. It wasn’t the same, but it was filling a void, and at the same time, he was discovering a surprising intensity for the medium.