Dr. Conlon’smorning lecture is on the extraocular muscles. The muscles that allow the eye to move are controlled by three pairs of cranial nerves: the oculomotor nerve, the trochlear nerve, and the abducens. The mechanism is pretty complicated, and weakness of any one of these nerves causes the affected eye to deviate in a way that would cause vision to double.
I have to admit that Dr. Conlon is a damn good lecturer. The eye is a very complicated organ, and there are a lot of dumb people in my class. But by the end of the lecture, everyone seems to get it.
When we’re in the lab an hour later, even Rachel seems well versed in the extraocular nerves. She recites them to Dr. Conlon proudly as her nipples poke through her T-shirt. And he seems excited she got it right. Or excited by her nipples. Either way.
“And where’s the rest of your group?” he asks.
It’s just me, Rachel, and Sasha today. Abe and Heather aren’t around—they’re probably somewhere making out or something.
“I have no idea,” I say to Dr. Conlon, and then I add, “Guess they have something better to do.”
Dr. Conlon just shakes his head.
“By the way,” I say. There’s something that’s been on my mind, and I’ve got to ask him about it. “I was just wondering… Do you know what happened to our cadaver? Like, how he died?”
Dr. Conlon raises his black eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Well, he just seems so healthy…” I laugh, but somehow it comes out a little strangled. “I mean, aside from being dead.”
I’d always thought of Dr. Conlon as being good-natured, but his blue eyes suddenly grow dark behind his spectacles.
“That’s confidential, Mason,” he snaps at me.
I just stare at him. It was an innocent question, and his response was… well, pretty surprising.
“Sorry,” I stammer.
Without another word, Dr. Conlon grips the handle of his cane and limps away from our table. He seemed so furious all of a sudden. What the hell was that all about?
Almost like he’s hiding something, isn’t it?
I shake my head, wondering where that thought came from. I’m overworked and not sleeping nearly enough. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong with this whole situation.
63
“How much weighthave you lost, Mason?”
I’m flipping through the pages of my anatomy textbook as I sit on the bed in my room. My mother called me and immediately started grilling me on whether I’m taking care of myself. She’s right—I’m not eating enough, and what I eat is crap. But what can I do? I’m sure as hell not going to start cooking myself healthy meals every night. It’s cafeteria food or else ramen noodles. Or if I’m feeling motivated, I’ll crack open a box of macaroni and cheese—the kind where the cheese comes in a fine powder.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say.
“Come home this weekend,” she says. “Have a home-cooked meal.”
I don’t point out that any “home-cooked meal” is in fact cooked by the housekeeper. For years, my father and I have been complimenting my mother on Georgette’s food. My mother would routinely burn toast.
“I guess so,” I say.
Thanksgiving break isn’t for a few more weeks, and some real food would be amazing. I could probably spare a couple of hours of studying for that.
“You can bring your girlfriend if you’d like,” she adds in a sly voice. “We’d love to meet her, darling.”
My mother has always taken too big an interest in my personal life. She misses my college girlfriend, Sienna. My mother would have married Sienna herself if she could have.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, Mom,” I try to tell her.
“You?” she snorts. “Of course you do.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
