Entangled: Chapter 29 - The Other Possibility

Brent's MEG Results and a Much Needed Phone Call

It was early afternoon before Brent woke in his hospital suite to the sound of the cellphone ringing on the coffee table. Laura’s voice told him Dr. Patel would be visiting in about ten minutes. Brent groggily replied, “Okay, fine,” then lingered on the couch for a few minutes before heading into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

Drying off, he looked at himself in the mirror, still amazed at how much younger he appeared. He figured he could pass for late twenties or early thirties instead of early forties—gray hair showing, a little stressed, a little tired. Trying not to dwell on why, he wondered if it had to do with his alter ego living without a wife and kids, or with the ease of independent wealth. He doubted the drinking had anything to do with it, though his thoughts drifted to Brad—his younger‑looking older brother, unmarried, childless, and pretty much an alcoholic.

The doorbell cut through his reflection. Brent steadied himself, physically and mentally, and went to answer it.

Opening the door, Brent was grateful to see Dr. Patel, hoping she had some much‑needed answers. But his relief faltered when he noticed Sammy standing just behind her, off to one side. As he motioned them inside, he and Sammy exchanged uneasy smiles.

Dr. Patel spoke first. “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“No, no. Please, come in, make yourselves comfortable.”

The women settled on opposite ends of the couch, Brent taking the single matching chair. He wanted to say something, but nothing came. So, he waited—patiently, if uncomfortably—for one of them to begin.

At last, Dr. Patel leaned forward. “Well, Brent, there are a couple of things we wanted to let you know. First, the reason we asked you to take another MEG is that in your initial scans we observed strong electromagnetic fields in portions of your temporal lobes. Frankly, they’re very rare. Their intensity goes beyond even the most extreme epilepsy cases we’ve recorded. Dr. Levine has already discussed this with you to some extent, including the possibility of Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.”

Dr. Patel waited for Brent to respond, but he stayed silent, glancing between the two women with concern and apprehension. So she went on.

“The good news is that based on today’s MEGs, we’ve seen these electromagnetic fields decrease by about thirty percent compared to yesterday. Whatever caused them, it seems to be subsiding. We’d like you to come back tomorrow and the next day for more imaging, just to be sure.”

Brent seized the pause. “I’m not sure what any of that means.”

Dr. Patel glanced at Sammy, who gave her only a quiet please continue look. She nodded and pressed forward.

“Well, we’re not exactly sure either. There are a few possibilities. One is that you may be suffering from a type of Dissociative Identity Disorder triggered by a significant temporal lobe epileptic seizure. Another is that you may have sustained a traumatic brain injury that disrupted your cognitive functions, leading you to imagine or construct a different world where things in your mind have been rearranged. There are precedents for this, though nothing documented to this extreme. Often, as with many brain injuries, the brain simply needs time to repair itself. If that’s the case, and, given the rate at which the fields are diminishing, there’s a distinct possibility you may return to ‘normal’ within three days.”

When she paused, Brent, visibly distressed, asked, “So you’re telling me that my life—the life I know to be true—is all a fantasy?”

“There is that possibility, yes,” Dr. Patel admitted reluctantly.

Seeing Brent’s emotions rising, Sammy quickly added—against her better scientific judgment, but hoping to ease him—”There is also the possibility that the world you’re experiencing now, with Dr. Patel and me, this whole life that goes against what you know in your heart... this could be the fantasy. In three days, it could all end, and you could be propelled back into the reality you’re familiar with. Either way, this surreal purgatory you’re in now will end.”

Overcome with emotion, and embarrassed by it, Brent stood abruptly. He turned his back to them and walked toward the window overlooking the landscape. After a few moments, he asked, “Okay... well, what am I supposed to do now?”

Neither of them knew quite what to say. Dr. Patel and Sammy exchanged a look until Dr. Patel finally offered, “Well, the only thing we can really do now is wait. In most cases of epilepsy, medication is indicated, but in your circumstance—especially given the lack of typical seizure symptoms—it’s best we refrain. I recommend you stay here for at least the next three days so we can continue monitoring your MEGs and then go from there. Would you be okay with that? Considering all the media exposure you’ve recently endured, I strongly recommend it.”

“I suppose,” Brent answered, lost in thought.

Dr. Patel added, “We can get you something to ease the anxiety if you’d like.”

Brent considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I think I need to get through this without any more foreign substances in my body. But thank you.”

The two women exchanged a look as they rose together. Dr. Patel spoke as they made their way to the door. “I’m sorry, Brent, for all of this. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Composing himself, Brent turned back to them, remembering his manners. “Doctors, I really want to thank you for your work on this. I appreciate it.” He escorted them to the door, shaking both their hands in silence. Dr. Patel slipped quickly down the hall, while Sammy lingered at the doorway, making Brent think they had preplanned that.

“I wish I could say I’m sorry about last night,” Sammy told him, “but I’m not. What I am sorry about is that I... we made things more complicated than they needed to be.”

Brent searched frantically for words but found none. Sammy lifted a hand to his face, and by reflex he nuzzled against it. Then she walked away down the hall, pausing to glance back. “Call me if you need me,” she said.

He watched her for a moment longer, then closed the doors. His hand lingered on the knob before he turned back toward the couch. A stiff drink crossed his mind—something strong — which would mean breaking out of there. The thought agitated him.

Instead, he went to the refrigerator, pulled out a full jug of orange juice, and gulped down half of it. Setting it down, catching his breath, he found a large glass, filled it with ice, and poured more juice to the brim. He carried the glass to the kitchen table and sat, replaying Dr. Patel and Sammy’s words in his mind. Three days. What’s going to happen in three days?

Suddenly, music played from behind him. Brent immediately recognized it as Ave Maria by Sarah Brightman—one of the songs his mother had loved to sing. He turned to see his iPhone lit up on the coffee table. Grabbing his juice, he walked over, picked it up, and sat down on the couch.

His breath caught when he saw his mother’s smiling face on the screen. Tears welled in his eyes as he answered at once.

“Hello?”

“Brent?”

“Hi, Mom,” he said, trying to sound normal even as tears streamed down his face.

“Oh my God,” she said, her voice filled with deep concern, almost panic. “Are you okay? I saw you on the news!”

“Yeah, I’m okay, Mom. It was just a big misunderstanding, that’s all,” he said, taking a few seconds to swallow and recover from the wave of emotion that hit him at the sound of her voice.

“What happened, edoy?” she asked more calmly, using the Filipino term of endearment much like mijo in Spanish. “Put on your video! I want to see you!”

“What? Oh, uh... okay, hold on,” he said, wiping away tears and straightening himself before taking a sip of juice. He was surprised that this Brent’s mom knew how to Skype—his own mother didn’t even know how to turn on a computer. Still, he figured out how to activate the video on his iPhone and soon saw a live image of her, which nearly made him cry again. Luckily, he managed to keep control.

Knowing he had to say something to ease her worry, he began, “Mom, remember when Brad and I were kids and we used to go to the city swimming pool and play games like who could hold their breath the longest?”

“Yeah, oh my God, that made me crazy. The two of you used to scare me doing that. The lifeguards kept telling you to stop!”

“Well, that’s what happened. I was just doing that. The security guard at the hotel thought I was drowning in the pool, called 911, and then jumped in to rescue me.”

“Oh my God,” she said, a little chuckle in her voice. “Was Brad there with you?”

“No, Mom, I was by myself.”

“How could you play by yourself?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I just was.”

“You shouldn’t do that by yourself.”

“I know. The police and the ambulance came, and somebody must have called the news. That’s all. That’s what happened.”

“What about the kids? You said you had kids?”

Momentarily caught off guard, Brent hesitated, then lied. “Oh... what I meant was that I’m a big brother. You know, that program where big brothers and big sisters help younger kids who are struggling in school, especially kids from poor families?”

“Oh, yeah, they have that here in Cleveland,” she answered, a little warily.

“Well, that’s what I meant. I’m a big brother to a few kids I’m hoping to see later this week.”

“Oh, okay, that’s good. It’s nice that you’re doing that,” she said genuinely, then added with a slight accusatory tone, “Hopefully you’ll have your own kids someday soon, like Andrea and Brad. Well, your dad and I were just worried when we saw the news. We didn’t understand what was going on. Now we know, and that’s good.”

“Yeah, you know how the news makes a big deal out of everything.”

“That’s true. They should just mind their own business,” she said with a chuckle. “So, okay, that’s why we were calling.”

Sensing she was preparing to hang up, Brent wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. “How’s Dad?” he asked.

“He’s okay. Just working around the house. You know, he’s pretty much back to normal now, thanks God,” she said, adding the Filipino s to thank. “I pray to God every day.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, from the colon cancer. It’s been almost a year since his diagnosis and six months since his surgery. His appetite is back to normal, and he’s regained all the weight he lost during chemotherapy—maybe even a little more,” she added with a laugh.

Brent sat in stunned silence, absorbing what his mother had just told him as a dull ache spread through his head. He thought about his own father in his own world, remembering that he too had been diagnosed with cancer about six months earlier. But as far as Brent knew, his father was still fighting—still chasing second, third, even fourth opinions.

“Are you okay, edoy?” his mother asked, noticing him staring blankly.

“Yeah, Mom,” he said, returning his attention to her. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“Okay, you go to sleep now,” she said, almost ordering him, then added, “Are you still drinking?” When he didn’t answer right away, she pressed on. “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Okay, Mom,” he replied, smiling at her—and smiling inwardly too—as he suddenly realized what it must feel like to be his brother Brad, who in his world was the one with a drinking problem, busted a couple of times for DUI.

“Okay, edoy, no more swimming by yourself, okay?”

“Okay, Mom. I love you,” he said, his voice catching slightly with emotion.

“I love you very much, edoy,” she said. “Dad told me to say he loves you, too.”

“Tell him I love him, too. Bye, Mom.”

“Okay, bye‑bye, edoy,” she said as she switched off.

Brent set the phone back down on the coffee table and wiped his eyes, clearing the tears that had welled up after the call.

He stood, walked to the bathroom, and pulled a couple of aspirins from the medicine cabinet. Swallowing them, he stared at himself in the mirror, hoping they would work soon—his headache was getting worse.