In fact, the operation had never been performed.
After the “prefrontal leucotomy” invented by Moniz and promoted by Freeman became celebrated and fashionable, Aston had known his father for enough years to realize that, if Alex discovered their relationship, he might very well force Aston to undergo the operation.
It might be his final move… a way of eliminating the problem once and for all.
Sean was still studying medicine and had not yet graduated. War raged everywhere, and apart from America there was almost nowhere in the world to go. So, as a precaution, without letting anyone—not even his lover—suspect what he was doing, Aston had secretly begun taking pain medication, even over a long period.
It had only been a precaution.
Aston had made many preparations. Some might prove useful; others probably never would.
Knowing Alex’s character, he was sure his father would not carelessly withdraw his men before the anesthetic was administered.
But once the nurses wheeled him into the actual operating room after anesthesia, there would probably be very few others inside.
An operating room needed to be sterile.
Alex’s former soldiers, retired policemen, and retired boxers… would hardly be standing around it.
No one would expect a “patient” to retain some awareness after being anesthetized.
Moreover, in those years operating rooms were most often located on the second floor, sometimes on the third, because the ground floor was so busy.
Anesthesia was far less effective then than in later generations. Some patients even woke up in pain in the middle of an operation… What if, Aston had thought, by carefully and secretly taking painkillers over a long period, he developed tolerance and resistance without telling anyone? Then… the anesthetic dose Freeman selected was bound to be inadequate.
Elio’s Notes: This escape relies on a fictionalized anesthesia scenario. Tolerance to some pain medications can increase perioperative analgesic requirements, but it does not reliably make a person conscious through general anesthesia. The original narrative is preserved; this is not a clinical recommendation. Source: Review of perioperative management in opioid-tolerant patients.
It had all been preparation for that one “what if.”
And that what-if had actually come to pass.
He had prepared for many possibilities. In the end, this was the one he used.
Before administering the anesthetic, Dr. Freeman came over, touched Aston’s face, and said, “Good boy… don’t be afraid… look forward to it… Once we’ve done this operation, your symptoms will disappear completely.”
“I have no symptoms,” Aston said.
“No,” Dr. Freeman sighed, “you’ve been ill for more than seven years. Very seriously ill.”
The anesthetic entered his body. Aston dug his nails into his skin and pretended to sleep, slowing his breathing and relaxing his muscles. Yet just as he had prepared, the dosage proved insufficient for him. He remained relatively conscious.
Then, at a certain moment, Aston suddenly shoved the medical staff aside, grabbed a bone hammer that had been set nearby for the craniotomy, smashed the glass in two or three blows, and leaped out.
Operating rooms still had windows in those days.
It happened so suddenly that no one else even reacted.
Aston’s arms and legs were weak and his mind somewhat clouded. As he landed, his legs gave way and he fell to his knees, scraping his knees and palms.
As previously arranged, his driver Parker had left an ordinary car parked downstairs, with the key in the ignition.
It was a very ordinary Chevrolet, one of the best-selling cars in America.
Aston climbed inside and started the engine. His mind swam and his whole body felt limp. He thought, “Sean, Sean…”
Forcing himself to stay conscious, forcing his body to obey, he slammed his foot onto the accelerator.
At a secluded location, he switched to another car Parker had prepared in advance: a 1930 Ford.
He rested briefly. Once he felt a little stronger, he drove straight out of New York.
He could not take a plane or a train. Those required identification, and he would be too easy to find. So he continued driving the car.
He did not take the Lincoln Highway, the most direct route. Instead, he chose a wandering, unpredictable path through the states.
Even Alex Aston could not establish police checkpoints on every interstate road and inspect every passing vehicle, particularly at a time like this.
America had declared war on both Japan and Germany; the whole country was on high alert. If the Astons set up checkpoints on every road simply to recover their son, they would surely face fierce public criticism.
They could only post checkpoints at selected places.
Aston avoided large cities and main roads. He did not contact his lover either, fearing that Sean’s communications were being monitored.
Besides, on the third and fifth days, he had seen missing-person notices bearing his own likeness by roadsides in two eastern states. They said he was “experiencing a psychiatric episode,” “emotionally unstable,” and “extremely dangerous.”
He did not want to drive into a town and risk being recognized. His height and appearance always stood out. Nor did he want to enter a hotel, restaurant, shop… or anywhere else to use a telephone.
He did not want anyone reporting him to Alex. He would take no chances.
He did not buy newspapers, either. So he had no idea that vague details identifying him, along with the exact surgery date, had been publicized for days before the operation to tremendous fanfare. Still less did he know that Dr. Freeman had chosen to conceal the truth about this “prefrontal leucotomy” that had captured the nation’s attention.
The publicity had been enormous, and everyone awaited the outcome. So when reporters asked about it, Freeman did not say, “The patient escaped; the operation was interrupted.” With Alex Aston’s approval, he told an enormous lie and declared it a success.
Alex Aston cooperated. He arranged for a bodyguard to impersonate his son as he was wheeled out. With his head bandaged and his eyes closed, the man could hardly be recognized. He was taken to a private room and then returned to the family’s house, where they likewise announced the surgery had been “successful.”
The fellow was even required to pose as the patient for an interview!
The man lying in the photograph taken before surgery had been Aston himself. Every photograph and appearance after that was someone else.
That was why Aston did not realize how desperately he needed to telephone Sean.
The car had already been stocked with food, clothes, water, and fuel.
He simply drove day after day, drawing a little closer to Sean every time.
There were no highways like the modern ones in those days. Aston drove in daylight, then at night switched off the engine and slept in the car for a while, hidden somewhere.
Sometimes he wiped himself clean; sometimes he found a place to wash under cover of darkness, perhaps a darkened motor camp when no one was around, or simply a river. He also washed his towels, shaved, and trimmed his hair.
He fell ill once along the way and did not dare visit a hospital. Fortunately Parker had packed some medication. Aston spent a few hazy days inside the car, then resumed his journey.
It was January, and snow made some places difficult to drive through.
In that winter of January 1942, before the era of interstate freeways, he spent a full five weeks driving across America.
From the northeastern corner to the far western edge.
To see the person he loved.
In fact, he did more than merely “cross America.” He wound through state after state, traveling north and south as well, taking only small roads to reach the other end of the map.
No matter how fiercely the sun shone, how hard the rain fell, how deep the snow piled up, or how beautiful the scenery along the road was, he never stopped except for the days he was ill.
Outside what was absolutely necessary, he never stopped.
There was nothing in his eyes but Sean.
Once a tire burst. Aston stepped out, replaced it with a spare in only ten minutes, returned to his seat, and drove on.
New York.
Connecticut.
New Jersey.
Pennsylvania.
Maryland.
Delaware.
West Virginia.
Virginia.
North Carolina.
South Carolina.
Georgia.
Tennessee.
Kentucky.
Mississippi.
Arkansas.
Oklahoma.
Texas.
New Mexico.
Arizona.
Utah.
Idaho.
Oregon.
…California.
When he saw the word “California,” his eyes grew faintly moist.
“Seany,” he thought. “My Seany. At last we’re going to meet again.”
At last we’re going to meet again.
He drove all the way to Qin Siyu’s home.
He had finally reached the end of his journey. Aston could think of nothing but seeing Sean.
He guessed Alex would have made arrangements, but because the arrival time was uncertain, Alex probably could not keep too many men posted on the street or outside the house around the clock. That would attract attention.
He took two handy tools to use as weapons, thinking he might be able to defend himself.
Once he saw Sean, if Sean agreed, he would get them away as quickly as possible… cross from southern California into Mexico.
If they hurried, they could get into Mexico within a dozen or so hours, before Alex’s men caught up.
Strangely enough, however, no one stopped him.
…
Even at Qin Siyu’s house, Aston did not find him.
Lin Suyu opened the door.
Aston gave her a polite smile and then stepped past her, striding eagerly into the house.
The door to Qin Siyu’s room was open.
Aston went inside. His Sean was not there.
The room was extremely clean, but certain things seemed suddenly to have disappeared, as if someone had taken them away.
What daily necessities remained had been carefully arranged and put into storage.
Some places that easily gathered dust had even been covered with cloth or sheets of paper.
The whole room was empty and bare.
As though its owner would not be returning for a very, very long time.
“… ” Aston went back to the doorway, his heart in his throat, and asked Lin Suyu, “Where’s Sean?”
“Sean?” Lin Suyu studied him quietly. “I remember you. You’re Kingsley Aston, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Aston replied.
Lin Suyu said, “These past few weeks, my brother has been reading newspapers constantly. He paid special attention to stories about Freeman. Does that have something to do with you?”
Aston repeated, “Newspapers?”
“He seemed to be holding on to some kind of hope, waiting for something. Maybe news of you? Only a few days ago did he finally accept reality and give up hoping.”
The words struck Aston hard. He asked Lin Suyu, “Where is Sean now?”
Lin Suyu answered, “He’s in the Pacific Ocean.”
Aston’s mind went blank. “…The Pacific?”
“Yes.” Lin Suyu glanced at the calendar. “Kingsley Aston, you missed him by only three days.”
Aston echoed, “Three days?”
What did she mean, three days?
“Yes. Sean’s transport ship… sailed from America three mornings ago.” Lin Suyu’s voice remained calm. “He’s joined the war.”
Dazed, Aston wandered back into Qin Siyu’s room.
The window was open. The room was bright and clear, yet so many things were gone: clothes, books, everyday belongings, and especially…
Aston opened a drawer. It had once been filled with all the memories they shared: the gold watch, a ring, a bullet, papers, candy wrappers, a seal, a poker chip… everything. Now everything had vanished.
Even after they became a couple, Sean had carefully preserved every memento of their time together, reluctant to discard anything. He even kept the business cards from every restaurant they visited and the tickets from every place they went, writing the date on the back and stacking them together. He saved wrappers from the first snacks they shared, too, washing them clean, labeling them with dates, and storing them.
The two of them also had a small, portable camera. Qin Siyu loved taking pictures of things he considered “important,” writing the date on the back, such as a great fish they caught or a little dog they had rescued.
He did not dare keep a diary, so instead he used these things to record what they had done each day they spent together, preserving their days in memory.
Now all of it was gone.
Had he packed it all away somewhere?
Aston looked toward Qin Siyu’s desk. A sheet of xuan paper lay spread across it, held down by two paperweights, bearing a piece of calligraphy Qin Siyu had written before leaving.
His Chinese handwriting was sharp and fluent.
The characters had been written in one uninterrupted sweep, as though their author had not paused to consider shape or beauty but had simply poured out emotions that had swelled inside him until they could be contained no longer.
By the time he reached the final character, the ink had run dry.
But he had finished writing it anyway.
Aston’s Chinese had become quite good. Standing before the desk, he lowered his eyes. A breeze from the window lifted the xuan paper, making its corners rattle and flutter as though it might tear.
On the paper were four Chinese characters:
【永失我爱。】 (My love, lost forever.)