“Louise Albére, neurochirurgienne à l’Hôpital Pitié-Salpêtrière à Paris,” she says in perfect French and holds out her hand. “It is a pleasure finally meeting you, Mrs. McKenzie. I have heard only the best.”
My mother is as confused as I have ever seen her, shaking her head. Her eyes switch between her and me before hardening slightly. I am already preparing myself for impact.
“You have a girlfriend now,” she says.
“Pssst,” says Amelie, “It’s the first time she ever allowed me to officially appear. We'd better nurture the seed with care.”
My mother’s critical eyes take in Amelie’s appearance.
“You said you are a neurosurgeon in Paris?” my mother asks.
“Qui,” Amelie says. “Yes.”
“You must know Muhammad Omar,” my mother says.
“Sadly, not. He left a month before I transferred. But I heard he is very content in Zurich.”
My mother's face suddenly relaxes, and I cannot believe what is happening before my eyes.
“He is indeed. Have you read about his recent work on the multi-modal treatment of glioblastomas?”
“I did indeed,” says Amelie. “The combination of tumor-treating fields with checkpoint inhibitors is a fascinating approach. I am very excited about where it leads, particularly the hypothesis that TTFields may enhance immunogenic cell death. What are your thoughts on the approach? I have heard so much about your achievements, especially the meningioma you removed from the cavernous sinus.”
My mother’s face lights up with delight as she puts a hand on Amelie’s arm and guides us to a group of people, one of whom is my father. I let go of her arm and just stand there and watch her.
My mind starts working again as I process what just happened. A strange sensation spreads through my stomach.
The mere guts of her impersonating a neurosurgeon in a room full of surgeons is beyond me. She knows things she shouldn’t know. She is lying to all of them. Without even caring. Without an inch of regret. It brings her joy.
She is laughing and blending in with my parents’ colleagues, who all seem to enjoy her immensely.
And I cannot help but wonder if she did the same thing to me. Blend in. Perform. Lie.
Sickness grows in my stomach.
What if she deceived you? What if she is a spy to get to your work? But she was cleared by the government. But it was so fast. What if—what if?—
Panic surges through me.
My heart beats fast.
I am not getting enough air.
Everything is so overwhelming.
And just when I am about to collapse in me, there is a touch on my arm.
Her hand.
“I was just telling them about the wonderful classified research you can’t tell anyone about, not even me. They are dying to hear about what we talked about last night.”
“You have to tell them about the neurotransmitter behavior based on environmental influence,” says Amelie in her French accent. “It is most interesting, especially the GABAergic and the—what is it in English—modulation du système glutamatergique—“ She searches for the word for a moment. “Ah, qui, glutamatergic system modulation, yes? after surgical intervention.”
All eyes are on me, while my gaze is unfocused. She is so good at pretending to be someone she is not that I am re-assessing everything I know about her.
I can’t tell exactly what it is, but she is hiding something. Something that connects everything.
The way she talks.
