"Michael Flynn - Melodies of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

performers." She raised her free hand to block her ear, a futile gesture,
because the music was on the other side.
On the other side of the ear . . . ? I recalled certain case studies from
medical school. Odd cases. "There are other possibilities," I said.
"Neurological problems . . ."I pumped the bulb and she winced as the cuff
tightened. She lowered her hand slowly and looked at me.
"Neuro . . . ?" Her voice trembled.
"Fossil memories," I said.
She shook her head. "I ain't—I'm not rememberin'. I'm hearin'. I know
the difference."
I let the air out of the cuff and unfastened it. "I will explain as simply as
I can. Hearing occurs in the brain, not the ear. Sound waves vibrate
certain bones in your middle ear. These vibrations are converted into
neural impulses and conveyed to the auditory cortex by the eighth cranial
nerve. It is the auditory cortex that creates 'sound.' If the nerve were
connected to the brain's olfactory region instead, you would 'smell'
music."
She grunted. "Quite a bit of it smells, these days."
Hah, hah. "The point is that the sensory cortices can be stimulated
without external input. Severe migraines, for example, often cause people
to 'see' visions or 'hear' voices. And sometimes the stimulus reactivates
so-called 'fossil' memories, which your mind interprets as contemporary.
That may be what you are experiencing."
She looked a little to the side, not saying anything. I listened to her
wheezy breath. Then she gave me a glance, quick, almost shy. "Then, you
don't think I'm . . . you know . . . crazy?" Have you ever heard hope and
fear fused into a single question? I don't know. At her age, I think I might
prefer a pleasant fantasy world over the dingy real one.
"It's unlikely," I told her. "Such people usually hear voices, not music. If
you were going insane, you wouldn't hear Benny Goodman tunes; you
would hear Benny Goodman—probably giving you important
instructions."
A smile twitched her lips and she seemed calmer, though still uneasy.
"It's always been a bother to me," she said quietly, looking past me, "the
notion that I might be—well, you know. All my life, it seems, as far back as
I can remember."
Which was not that far, the director had told me that morning. "All
your life. Why is that?"
She looked away and did not speak for a moment. When she did, she
said, "I haven't had no, any, headaches, doc. And I don't have any now. If
that's what did it, how come I can still hear the music?"
If she did not want to talk about her fears, that was fine with me. I was
no psychiatrist, anyway. "I can't be sure without further tests, but a
trigger event— possibly even a mild stroke—could have initiated the
process." I had been carefully observing her motor functions, but I could
detect none of the slackness or slurring of the voice typical of severe
hemiplegia. "Dr. Wing is the resident neurologist at the hospital," I said.
"I'll consult with him."
She looked suddenly alarmed, and shook her head. "No hospitals," she
said firmly. "Folks go to hospitals, they die."