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Authors: Chris Bohjalian
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beyond something called Avogadro's number--beyond a detectable trace. Well, it seemed to me that was fine if this Avogadro fellow was a NASA scientist with a NASA scientist's toys, the tools for a proper, twenty-first-century chemical analysis. But what if Avogadro were some eighteenth- or nineteenth-century alchemist? A guy in a hood who lacked even the tools to weigh himself properly? I decided I'd have to ask Carissa about Avogadro the next time I spoke with her, or look him up on the Web in the morning.
I reached into my nightstand drawer, hoping to find a tube of cough drops. No luck. I'd have to go downstairs for a spray of Chloraseptic. Elizabeth and I had always talked about putting a bathroom on the second floor of the old farmhouse we'd bought, but we had never gotten around to it. And so the only bathroom in the whole place--on the first floor, on the far side of the kitchen--seemed about an acre away in the middle of the night, especially on cold nights in January and February.
For a moment I watched it snow from my bedroom window, the larger flakes rafting in the occasional gusts like leaves in a stream, before settling finally in the grass. I'd suspected the snow had resumed when I'd turned out the light, because the world had seemed so quiet.
Downstairs I passed through the kitchen. There were my dishes in the sink, and there on the counter was the little book Carissa had lent me. And there on the cover was the picture of that old bald guy with a beard. Hahnemann. Samuel Hahnemann. Mr. Homeopath. Dr. Like-Cures-Like.
Carissa had said that Hahnemann had begun his "provings" in the late 1700s and continued them into the nineteenth century.
Provings, of course, sounded scientific, at least in a vaguely mad-doctor-with-a-monocle sort of way. But Hahnemann was also a bark eater. His exploration of what would become homeopathy had begun when he'd started eating Peruvian bark in 1790 in order to try and replicate the symptoms of malaria.
That, in turn, probably meant that Avogadro had lived in the nineteenth century, too. Perhaps even earlier.
Shit. Carissa, I realized, was going to give me arsenic. And I was going to get sicker for sure.
Chapter 4.
Number 74
Among chronic diseases we must unfortunately include all those widespread illnesses artificially created by allopathic treatments, by the prolonged use of violent, heroic drugs in strong, increasing doses.
Dr. Samuel Hahnemann,
Organon of Medicine, 1842
.
Jennifer realized her husband was serious about homeopathy while she was watching him shave one morning late in November. It wasn't long after their race to the emergency room in the middle of the night, and he may still have been taking prednisone.
She remembered sitting on a small bar stool in the corner of the bathroom off their bedroom, watching his reflection in the mirror as the razor cleared the white foam from his face like a snowplow.
"And you could get a cat," Richard was saying, his eyes on his chin.
"Is that what all this is about?" she'd asked. "You want me to have a cat?"
"You love cats. And the kids could have a dog."
"Timmy talks a good game, but I don't think he really cares one way or the other."
"What about Kate?" he had asked, referring to their daughter. "She brought it up again just the other night."
"She starts high school in a year. Ten months. Trust me, pretty soon boys will matter to her a whole lot more than a dog. She won't even remember she'd wanted a dog."
"Ah, but you'll still want a cat."
"I'm fine, sweetheart. I really am. I see more than my share of cats and dogs at the animal hospital. I get my fix twice a week. Don't feel you need to do this because your family wants pets."
She'd watched him start on his neck, tilting his head back as far as he could, and she'd wondered how men managed to shave there. It didn't just look like it hurt: It looked downright deadly.
"There are other reasons."
She thought she had probably smiled. She knew exactly what he
I reached into my nightstand drawer, hoping to find a tube of cough drops. No luck. I'd have to go downstairs for a spray of Chloraseptic. Elizabeth and I had always talked about putting a bathroom on the second floor of the old farmhouse we'd bought, but we had never gotten around to it. And so the only bathroom in the whole place--on the first floor, on the far side of the kitchen--seemed about an acre away in the middle of the night, especially on cold nights in January and February.
For a moment I watched it snow from my bedroom window, the larger flakes rafting in the occasional gusts like leaves in a stream, before settling finally in the grass. I'd suspected the snow had resumed when I'd turned out the light, because the world had seemed so quiet.
Downstairs I passed through the kitchen. There were my dishes in the sink, and there on the counter was the little book Carissa had lent me. And there on the cover was the picture of that old bald guy with a beard. Hahnemann. Samuel Hahnemann. Mr. Homeopath. Dr. Like-Cures-Like.
Carissa had said that Hahnemann had begun his "provings" in the late 1700s and continued them into the nineteenth century.
Provings, of course, sounded scientific, at least in a vaguely mad-doctor-with-a-monocle sort of way. But Hahnemann was also a bark eater. His exploration of what would become homeopathy had begun when he'd started eating Peruvian bark in 1790 in order to try and replicate the symptoms of malaria.
That, in turn, probably meant that Avogadro had lived in the nineteenth century, too. Perhaps even earlier.
Shit. Carissa, I realized, was going to give me arsenic. And I was going to get sicker for sure.
Chapter 4.
Number 74
Among chronic diseases we must unfortunately include all those widespread illnesses artificially created by allopathic treatments, by the prolonged use of violent, heroic drugs in strong, increasing doses.
Dr. Samuel Hahnemann,
Organon of Medicine, 1842
.
Jennifer realized her husband was serious about homeopathy while she was watching him shave one morning late in November. It wasn't long after their race to the emergency room in the middle of the night, and he may still have been taking prednisone.
She remembered sitting on a small bar stool in the corner of the bathroom off their bedroom, watching his reflection in the mirror as the razor cleared the white foam from his face like a snowplow.
"And you could get a cat," Richard was saying, his eyes on his chin.
"Is that what all this is about?" she'd asked. "You want me to have a cat?"
"You love cats. And the kids could have a dog."
"Timmy talks a good game, but I don't think he really cares one way or the other."
"What about Kate?" he had asked, referring to their daughter. "She brought it up again just the other night."
"She starts high school in a year. Ten months. Trust me, pretty soon boys will matter to her a whole lot more than a dog. She won't even remember she'd wanted a dog."
"Ah, but you'll still want a cat."
"I'm fine, sweetheart. I really am. I see more than my share of cats and dogs at the animal hospital. I get my fix twice a week. Don't feel you need to do this because your family wants pets."
She'd watched him start on his neck, tilting his head back as far as he could, and she'd wondered how men managed to shave there. It didn't just look like it hurt: It looked downright deadly.
"There are other reasons."
She thought she had probably smiled. She knew exactly what he
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