Gilda Page 3

patients would share her enthusiasm or even listen, much less understand.

  “Despite progress in recent years, humans are still a long way from understanding the brain,” she continued. “Many people are foolish enough to think that philosophy or psychology explain everything. They don’t. Just like religion doesn’t explain reality. They are all based on opinions and stories and wishes and hopes…and hype or bluster. Anything not able to be proven by a mathematical formula, the periodic table, or quantum mechanics is suspect. Ideas are intangible; science can be real. And, the fascinating thing about neuroscience is that there is so much left to discover. I spent too long studying human ideas and the nature of ideas. I want to learn how they are produced and to help add a layer to understanding of the human mind.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Will understanding how the brain works explain the meaning of an idea or someone’s actions or, for that matter, the meaning of life? Will someone still be a criminal, if it’s proven that nature—his genetic make-up—made him commit the crime, which is in itself nothing but a human idea.”

  “Guilt a human concept,” she replied.

  “But, we feel something, so it must be natural, not learned in society.”

  “That’s why we must learn what happens in the brain to trigger such a feeling, because feelings have origins long before morals were conceived or defined.”

  “Won’t society—all groups in all countries—have to re-evaluate everything?”

  “Possibly,” she replied, frowning. “But many, if not most, laws and rules and mores are based upon what humans want, not what causes behavior, so little would change quickly.”

  “Governments and religions all try to control people,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid that understanding how the brain works will lead to more or better ways to manipulate people than already exist?”

  “Maybe. But, that’s no reason to inhibit medical discovery. And, I think that it will be fun, if I open that Pandora’s Box.”

  I thought for a moment about all she had said.

  “I admit to not knowing anything about the brain and accepting that there is a lot to learn,” I said. “But, I can’t see how understanding how the brain works will explain, for example, why that guy shot John Lennon or why Hitler turned out as he did. If someone had tested little Adolph’s brain as a child, he was yet to have learned to hate Jews or have his First World War experiences.”

  “Maybe it won’t,” she replied. “But there are many aspects of human life and human behavior that will be explained. And, we’ll discover stuff we never imagined.”

  “Do you think that humans could reach a point where they know too much?”

  “Possibly. And, there’s a risk in that, but we mustn’t let that prevent us from searching.”

  The conversation had become far deeper than I could have expected. I enjoyed talking with her, but we had to find an end.

  “Do you like lobster?”

  Surprise showed on her face.

  “It’s out of my price range. Why?”

  “How ‘bout dinner on Friday?”

  She shook her head, which incited disappointment.

  “I work the night shift tomorrow and Friday, but Saturday’s good.”

  I brightened.

  “Great,” I said. “Okay. I’ll drive you home, so I know where to pick you up on Saturday.”

  Gilda beamed one of those smiles that were beginning to erode my concerns about age difference and the proper mourning period for Karen. If nothing else, they would fuel a fantasy or two.

  On the way to the car, she provided her opinion about organized religion, which was rather close to mine. That was one key element of a good relationship. That and a nice smile. On the way to Cambridge, she filled me in on her packed schedule. Regular shifts at the hospital, which rotated day parts, and summer semester assignments left little time for play. I wondered if, perhaps, that helped to explain the lack of a boyfriend.

  “Why don’t you give me your number, in case I need to get in touch,” I said.

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Everyone has a phone.”

  “I can live without one, so it’s an unnecessary expense. My roommate lets me use hers, if I need to call somewhere.”

  “I’ll give you my number, in case you want to cancel.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Just in case.

  I rattled off my number, which she repeated.

  “Got it,” she said.

  I knew enough not to question her memorizing skills. I would have had to write a note or save the number on my phone.

  Gilda pointed out her house, where she shared an apartment. Apparently, only one of her roommates was around during the summer, but all paid their rent. She took on the extra chore of cleaning for a reduced share of the costs. I did not ask where she found the time.

  “Don’t touch the door handle,” I ordered. “My mother taught me to be gentlemen.”

  She merely smiled and waited for me to circle the car. When I opened the door, her smile had diminished to what looked like a smirk. I feared that I might be acting “old”.

  “I had a great time,” she said. “Thanks for dinner. I haven’t eaten in a restaurant for ages.”

  “You get to do it again in a few days.”

  She stood facing me; her smile had returned.

  “Just to let you know,” I said. “I don’t ever want to get into a discussion on free will.”

  She laughed.

  “I like talking with you.”

  “Me, too,” I replied. “You can’t fake chemistry.”

  She kissed me quickly on the lips and hurried towards the door. After a few steps, she paused and turned.

  “You shouldn’t fight chemistry,” she said. “I can’t wait for Saturday.”

  She waved and ran up the stairs without turning to look back. The door opened and closed, and she was gone. I recalled my thought last time: I’ll never see her again. Now, like her, I couldn’t wait.

  On the way home, I thought about my situation. I was almost forty, a recent widower, and infatuated with a young woman not much older than my students. The only thing missing from this moral disgrace was sex…a thought that caused my imagination to head down paths I had yet to consider…and knew that I should not.

  Unable to sleep, my mind came up with the word smitten. If I recalled my vocabulary lessons, the root was in smite, which meant to strike a blow. Gilda had certainly struck me: I was smitten by her beauty, her brains, her body, and what I had learned of her character. Instead of mourning Karen’s death, I could not keep this young woman from my thoughts. I was no better than my teenaged students, who scribbled the name of their latest infatuation, with hearts or stars or smiley faces, in their notebooks during class and day-dreamed instead of listening to my lecture. At least, it was summer break, so I was not distracted from anything important…besides mourning.