4. Jane
JANE
PLAYLIST: FRAGMENTS — JOHANNES WINKLER RUSSANDA PANFILI
The moment I close the door to my apartment behind me, I sink to the ground and just lie down on the floor. Still with my bag around my shoulder, shoes on. Black Matter sits next to me immediately, at her typical distance. Meowing.
It’s been a while since I felt the need to lie down the moment I come home, but what happened today took its toll on me. All those people. All these questions. And then, her.
The student who saved my life. The one who overpowered the shooter. Who saved me.
She saved me.
And risked her life. And not only did she risk her life to save me, but she also knew what was going on with me. She saw. She was the first to see what was really going on. It frightens me.
Her name is Amelie Degard. On record, she is just a normal, completely inconspicuous student. Only she is not.
Something about her doesn’t add up. The questions she asked. The way she looked at me. The way she acted. She knew how to regulate me. What if she is like him? What if she wants to hurt me, too?
But she saved you.
She gave you the courtesy of distance.
She said to the police she acted out of adrenaline.
I heard it. But the questions she asked? Never did I have a freshman recite anything from advanced chapters.
Maybe she has a relative who is autistic?
Or maybe she herself is autistic and hyper-focused on the topic?
Maybe there is a simple explanation, and your mind just constructs. You’re scared, you might make things up because of hypervigilance.
The exhausting dialogue in my head just wouldn’t stop. I am overwhelmed by existing alone right now.
So I just lie here.
Staring at the white ceiling with all the chatter in my head.
Everything spirals out of control.
I feel so out of control.
When I wake up, I am still on the floor, and my entire body is aching. Most of all, my head throbs.
Black Matter has curled into a ball on my bag, a carefully chosen spot where she does not touch me. I know she loves that bag, so I slip it off in the most awkward manner by rolling over the floor and out crawling of the shoulder strap, so I don’t have to move her.
Then I get up.
It’s 2.30 in the morning.
I am so far out of the controlled structure that I fell unwell from it.
Moreso, a jittery sensation lingers in my stomach.
No water or food helps, and it stays with me for the entire night and following day, especially the moment I step onto university grounds.
Rationally, I know the man is gone now, arrested.
But fear doesn’t acknowledge rational thinking, because it is activated in different regions of the brain.
Thursday comes, and I haven’t slept properly in two days.
Most of all, I am dreading the lecture on Introduction to Behavioral Neuroscience, because it was where it first started. Although I booked a different room now, I still can’t shake the sensation of dread.
My heart beats up into my throat when I enter the building housing the Hamilton lecture rooms. I walk all the way up to the 603.
When I reach the wooden door, I pause for a moment to calm my nerves.
I don’t want everyone to see that I'm still struggling. I can’t let anyone think there's something wrong with me.
My entire life, others thought I was different, strange, the weird know-it-all, and I won't tolerate students questioning me or thinking badly of me.
I am Jane McKenzie. Youngest professor appointed at Columbia. I got the Fellowship. I am—
“Are you alright?” interrupts me a voice from behind in my self-talk. I turn. Amelie Degard. I now see her close up for the first time. She has the darkest brown eyes I have ever seen.
Maybe she’s a vampire, says a voice in my head, and I almost snort.
I just rewatched my favorite vampire show for the twentieth time because it brings me comfort.
Predictable action, and a release from the realm of reality.
I look at her skin. Perfect and even, almost too perfect.
My eyes wander to her lips; they are rosy and full, and—
“Are you alright?” she asks again, and I catch myself staring at her for the entire time with a slightly parted mouth. What the hell am I doing here? I am out of control. Everything is out of control.
I need to get back in control. I need distance.
“Yes, fine,” I say harshly, and I draw a step back, unable to stop my T. rex arms from snapping in front of my chest.
This can’t be happening! I shout at myself in my head.
“You don’t look fine,” she says.
“I am fine,” I say robotically. “Get inside, the lecture is about to start.”
I will not have a student mess with me. I am the professor after all. Would she speak to a 65-year-old man like that? No. She thinks she can do it with me, because I am young and a woman, and she a rich girl who never had a boundary set—that’s what it is. And with that, I enter the lecture room.
I am Jane McKenzie, after all.
“Alright, everyone,” I begin. “I know the events have taken a toll on us all, but let us try to move on. It doesn’t do well to linger in the past. Interestingly enough, the brain cannot distinguish between reality happening and something we imagine—meaning, when our thoughts linger on the same thing over and over again, we are able to consolidate and reinforce those neural pathways into creating, and re-creating the same set of physical and emotional reactions to those experiences all over again.
There is evidence that those experiences can change the neuroplasticity of our brains, alter our perception, and affect not only our nervous system but also our immune system, hormonal levels, and every other system in our body.
Which leads us to our topic of behavioral neuroscience for today. ”
My eyes wander over the students as I check in on how they are doing, only to find the rich girl has her hand up in the air—again.
I swallow, sigh silently, and then say, “A question, Miss Degard?” I am mildly annoyed by her. She somehow seems to seek closer contact, and I don’t like it at all.
“Yes, Professor,” she says quite eagerly.
“The Alvaro Pascual-Leone piano experiment, where he found that participants were able to change their motor cortex function by simply rehearsing playing the piano mentally on almost the same level as those who played physically…Same with the Hamilton one—If neuroplasticity is that responsive to directed thought, just like you said, is the rehearsal of negative reactions to experiences, why isn’t it widely used?
Because wouldn’t the logical extension suggest conditions like depression are addressable through such—“
She stops mid-sentence. While I am utterly impressed by her knowledge, I am certain there is something about her that makes me wary. She should not be able to ask questions like this. She is a freshman. Unless, of course, she is more like me than I would like her.
There is only one way to find out.
“You have answered your own question,” I say. “Think about what you said. The Pascual-Leone experiment focused on changes in the motor cortex.”
“Depression isn’t a motor function issue,” she says.
“I know. But wouldn’t it be worth exploring whether it could?
Depression causes a change in neurotransmitter regulation, yes?
Affected by the regulation of hormonal distribution.
You just said the repetition and reaction on the re-creation of the experiences can alter hormonal and other systems, which made me wonder if CBT, for example, could actually worsen symptoms of depression because it constantly rehearses the past experiences? ”
I catch myself with a corner of my mouth tugging into an impressed smirk. Because I am impressed, and also, for the first time, I have a student who thinks beyond what is written in the books. It is exactly what is needed in my field.
“Which is why there is an actual debate around the approach of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy regarding traumatic or depressive expressions. It is well worth exploring later. Because right now, I believe the basics are needed first for the rest of the class. I don’t know how you have all the knowledge you have, but—“
“Eidetic memory,” she interrupts me. “I remember everything I read.”
She uses literate language. Even with a very rare eidetic memory, she must have read it somewhere. I have to say, I am intrigued. But I also have rules.
“I generally don’t allow students to interrupt me,” I say, “Unless of course, it is in an emergency.”
She stares at me with challenging eyes as she leans slowly back in her seat.
And it dawns on me, she might not be the rich girl I thought she was after all.
She might be a rebel, one who thinks differently, questions what has been set.
Like me. Only I would always listen to those with authority; my parents have taught me so, and I would never disobey them.
I continue with my lecture, starting with the basics of Neuroanatomy, Neurophysiology, Hormones of the Brain, and Behavioral Chemistry.
Four fully filled boards later, every other student looks like their brains are on fire, while the girl just sits there, staring as always.
She hasn’t copied a single thing, but if I had a photographic memory, I wouldn’t either.
“Alright, that’s it for today, we’ll see each other on Tuesday next week. Make sure to get familiar with the neuroanatomy so you understand what I am referencing from here on forth. Miss Degard, a word.”
There is an agreeing hum, and everyone packs their bags. I wait for all of them to leave, and so does she.
When the last of the students is gone, I turn to her.
“You seem awfully well prepared for a freshman,” I say in a hopefully friendly enough tone to make it not sound like an accusation.
“I am always prepared,” she says.
“What are your plans for your life? Where do you see yourself?”
It is a typical question, and yet, the moment I asked it, something in her changed. The very self-aware body language switches; she tenses and averts her eyes. But what I find more interesting is the way her jaw clenches. It is an emotionally loaded topic. And the picture I get of her fills.
I don’t break the silence and sit next to her in the row, a seat between us.
“I don’t know,” she finally says. “The only thing I do know is that I have always wanted to understand the human mind.”
“What was the initial moment?” I ask and watch her closely.
She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and her head twitches in the slightest way, telling me she might be more troubled than I have given her credit for.
“My father,” she says finally without any further explanation, and I don’t deem it necessary to ask. She stares out of the window.
“I have a lot to teach,” I say, and get up to get my bag. “I also have a very interesting research project that is in dire need of someone capable.”
She turns her gaze to me.
“Are you offering?” she asks in her direct manner, and it’s as if she has snapped into a different personality. A protective layer.
“Describe the anterior pituitary hormone release to me,” I say.
“Neuroendocrine cell bodies in the hypothalamus produce releasing hormones, which are released from the axons that terminate on the portal system and travel to the anterior pituitary. The hormone-producing cells respond to the hypothalamic release by changing the secretion of their tropic hormones. Those are released into the bloodstream to regulate endocrine glands throughout the body. Reactions are always subject to circulating messages and synchronous inputs, which brings us back to the topic of this course.”
A smirk appears on my face because she does indeed have an eidetic memory. I have never encountered someone who has, which makes her even more interesting for my research.
“I believe I am offering. My office, tomorrow at 3 p.m.”