The Body Electric

Chapter 7

Mom breathes a deep sigh when we reach the reverie chamber and she settles into the plush cushions of the chair. She runs her fingers over the armrest, tracing patterns in the fibers. I lower the hood over her head—a large, half-globe helmet that will emit sonic flashes that she won’t feel or hear, but that will spark the memories in her mind. Mom shudders as I press the cool electrodes onto her forehead.

Before I do anything else, I connect Mom’s cuff to the reverie chair, checking her health stats. I have to swallow back a gasp of surprise—I’ve never seen her with such bad stats. Dangerously low blood pressure and heart rate, low oxygen, vitamin deficiency, constant dialysis pumps... how has she hidden how bad off she is from me for so long?

“Ella?” Mom asks when she notices that I’ve frozen, my eyes glued to her stats.

I force a watery grin on my face. “Ready?” I ask.

Mom nods and I turn my focus to the neurostimulator and adjust the dials, setting a low direct current of electricity to her brain. In moments, Mom’s slipped into sleep.

I take this moment to look at Mom, and try to ingrain her image into my memory. This image. The lines on her face smooth, and a small smile twitches the corners of her mouth. She looks peaceful now. Like she’s not even sick at all.

My fingers glide over the controls in the room. Every single thing—from the automatically dimming lights to the reverie chair itself—was designed by Mom. People had theorized that reveries were possible, but it was Mom who made the system. It’s Mom who’s changing the world with it.

Reveries are a state of controlled lucid memory recall. When you’re in the reverie chair, you experience a memory—your best memory, the time when you were happiest—just as if it were all happening again. On a purely theoretical level, reveries are easy—a dose of a specially designed drug plus transcranial direct current stimulation equals a state of lucid dreaming based on a pre-existing memory.

Reveries enable you to retreat into your own mind. Ms. White works with the government so she can funnel grant money into Mom’s research, and she’s experimented with having scientists and researchers use reveries to focus entirely on a formula or problem they have to solve. It almost always works: Reveries open your mind up so that everything inside of you becomes entirely focused on one thought.

But Mom didn’t invent reveries for science. She invented them for herself, for a reason.

In reveries, she gets to see Dad again. Before she got sick.

I slip out of the reverie chamber, keeping an eye on Mom’s health stats. I know from experience that Mom will be dreaming about Dad, reliving a day with him. It will feel real to her, as real as real life, and when she wakes up, maybe she’ll be able to hold onto that peace and happiness, at least for a bit.

As I watch Mom’s health scans, I can see everything improving—her tension, her blood pressure, her heart rate—it’s all getting better with every second she’s in the reverie. There’s no science to that: happy people are healthier. It’s not a permanent cure, but the effects usually last her a couple of days at least.

Red flashes across the control panel. I lean in, inspecting it. Her brain scan goes off the charts—her reverie is failing—and by the time I look back at Mom’s health stats, every single one of them is back up.

I race back into the reverie chamber just as Mom’s eyes flutter open. I can’t tell if, as the reverie fades, Mom feels fear or panic first, but either way, her eyes grow wide and then suddenly narrow. Her arms and legs twitch, as if she’s trying to summon the strength stand up.

“What happened?” she asks, looking at me. Her eyes are glazed—the reverie drug is still in her system.

It’s just not working.

“I couldn’t get you to a reverie,” I say. “I’m sorry, Mom, I thought I did everything right...” I lean down, inspecting the chair, the sonic hood, the electrodes.

Mom puts a hand on my arm. “Ella,” she says. I ignore her, trying to figure out what went wrong. “Ella.” Mom’s voice is firmer this time. I pause. “You know why it didn’t work.” I shake my head. “That’s not it.” Mom sighs, shifting in the reverie chair. “I theorized about this before. Hebb’s Disease attacks the synapses in my brain. My body’s not strong enough to have a reverie.”

The amount of pain in her eyes when she says this kills me. Reveries were the last thing that gave her any modicum of peace. She couldn’t forget about being sick, not ever, except in a reverie.

This damn disease has taken away so much. Not just her health, but her chances of happiness. She used to love to go out; now she never does. She used to run. She used to sing. But Hebb’s has slowly, irrevocably taken it all away.

And now it’s taken away reveries, the only chance she had to escape.

“It’ll work; let me try one more time.” “Ella,” Mom says gently. “It’s hopeless.”

“Just stay there. Don’t unplug.” I pause. “Actually, here.” I give her a second dose of the reverie drug—it won’t hurt her, just make her sleep.

She’s asleep again by the time I slip back into the control room, pacing, pacing. There has to be something I can do. Mom’s sick—really sick this time, maybe so sick that—

I force myself not to complete that thought.

But she’s in pain. She’s been hiding it, but her health stats don’t lie. She hurts, she constantly hurts, but this— this—a reverie—would alleviate that pain. Just for a little. But that would be enough.

My mind races in a myriad of thoughts. Mom can’t have more nanobots. Mom can’t have a reverie. There’s nothing I can do.

I pace back and forth in front of the control panel, thinking, thinking. There has to be something that I can do. I can’t just not do something. I have to—

I stop. Mom can’t have more nanobots. But I can. I’m nowhere near my limit. On the other side of the control panel is another door, a secondary reverie chamber that’s connected with Mom’s. Mom theorized that someone could go inside someone else’s reverie by linking two chairs together. She experimented, but it never worked—until she developed nanobots that were designed to help the observer break into the other person’s mind. She ultimately decided that it was too great a risk to give someone the additional nanobots, and she closed off the room.

But if it worked...

I could go into Mom’s reverie. I could enhance it, make it stronger, help her to stay in her memories, help her to remember what life was like before she got sick.

I check Mom’s stats one last time—the extra dose of the reverie drug has helped, and her mind is building the platform for her memories, but I can tell it’s shaky at best. She’s going to wake up again any second.

It’s now or never.