Read, Sign, Sell Event – 8/26/17 – Open Book

Redfern 3 mp

Lisa’s Reading Material:

An explosion shoots an iron rod through the skull of twenty-five-year-old construction foreman, Phineas Gage. Hurled to the ground, Phineas convulses but remains conscious. He says he doesn’t feel pain.

When the accident occurred, Phineas was working on the Rutland & Burlington Railroad in Cavendish, Vermont in 1848.

One of the ‘great’ medical curiosities of all time, Phineas’s head injury may have been the first case to link brain studies with human personality.

In this novella, Phineas, his sister, and her husband share their thoughts and experiences after the accident years. Their stories tell: how they coped with Phineas’s recovery, the challenges of traveling with him to California, and how his skull and tamping iron were delivered to the Warren Anatomical Museum six years after Phineas’s death.

Based on a true story and known facts (at the time of writing), this work of fiction breathes a sense of life and emotion into the people who lived through a historical event commonly studied by neurology and psychology students.

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1852

Phineas is aboard the Witch of the Wave with his parents and sister, Phoebe. The ship is beginning to move through Boston Harbor.  It will be traveling down the eastern seacoast to Chagres. From there, the family will cross the isthmus to Panama City and board a steamer bound for San Francisco.

As familiar territory fades from view, Phineas is feeling queasy. He reminisces about what he’s left behind.
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Everything changed that day, four years ago, when I became a freak, The Man with his Brains Blown Out.

When I think about Caroline, my insides get agitated. In happier times, we dreamed of our children. I hadn’t realized how fortunate I was when I was just a man, with a girl, working for our future.

Longing and loss shoot through my heart, searing me. I blink back tears. Viewing undulating ocean swells through distorted vision doesn’t help my mood or my wily guts!

I remember a Sunday afternoon like it is perfectly preserved in an unblemished piece of golden-tinged amber. We wandered off by ourselves, walking over the hill to a peaceful meadow, out of sight of the picnic and games. Caroline discovered a patch of Quaker Ladies flowers, tiny things with four white petals and a sunny center. We set to work picking some when she asks me how many children I think we’ll have.

“Coming from a large family,” I said, “I think I’d like not so many that the middle ones are forgotten in the pack.”

She giggled saying she agreed. I chose a flower, twirling it by its stem, sniffing its delicate perfume, “What would you name our first born?” I wanted to know. I reached over, plucking the pins from her hair, watching it tumble over her shoulders. She looks like she used to when she was a girl. Her smile sets my heart a flutter.

Her eyes sparkle, “I think I should like to name her, Susan.”

“Susan!” I was surprised. “You are wishing for a girl first?”

“Yes, silly, girls are a great help around the home. She will watch the other little ones when I am laboring with the next.”

“Come here,” I said. She leaned toward me. I embed the flower stem in her loose hair so it stays in place. “Here’s to the first,” I said, kissing her. For every child we named, I added a flower, following it with a kiss. We’d be breeding like rabbits if the Quaker Ladies were a prediction of our fate!

Before we started back, a gnat flew into my eye— the left one. The hurt that the tiny bug caused was out of proportion to its size. Caroline sat me down. While pulling my lower lid away, she dabbed with a corner of her handkerchief.

“For such a big, handsome man you yowl and complain like a baby,” she observed with good humor.

When she’d gotten the critter out, she wiped at the tears running down my face, kissing the injured eye, then the other one for good measure. I had to thank her for her kind and gentle services… It was difficult to stop thanking her! But a gentleman doesn’t keep pestering a lady once she’s called a halt.

Having Caroline to myself for that space of time, I was itching to finish saving for our farm and for us to be married! The need for money was what had sent me up Cavendish way to work on the railroad.

A chilly wind crawling beneath my jacket brings me back to my place and time. Looking over the Atlantic waters, my mind conjures up my beloved. She stands beside me, her elbows on the deck rail. She leans into the wind. Her eyes are closed but she is wearing a broad smile. “Every day is a new adventure!” she exclaims.

Turning toward me, her long, loose hair, behaves like fine autumn grass overcome by a dust devil. The Quaker Lady blossoms that I placed there come away, pelting my face with such force that they sting like blasting rubble.

My stomach is tight and sour, jumpy. Saliva, like hot water condensing along the sides of a glass pot, seeps into my mouth, filling the crevices below my tongue.

It occurs to me, with finality, that I will never be a father, now. That dream is as dead as my relationship with Caroline.

I hug the rail, opening my mouth, letting my guts erupt.

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