“Determinists would say that the outcome is already decided,” answered a blond girl, the one who’d called Lucas “choiceworthy.” “Like, say it’s heart disease. They’d say she was destined, from birth to have it. Maybe because the disease is in her genes or her mom brings her up on fatty foods or whatever. It’s like it’s fated—she never has a chance.”
“Okay.” Lucas frowned. “So, if it’s all predetermined, fated, as you said, the doctor has no responsibility to try to help the patient?”
He wasn’t looking at me, but he was talking to me. I was furious.
“No,” the girl answered. “The doctor still has to tell.”
“Why?” Lucas asked.
“Because he’s part of the predetermined events. The patient’s visit that day, the conversation they have, what they decide to do or not do—it’s all part of the patient’s destiny.”
“Exactly.” Lucas smiled approvingly. “So, even if he can’t control the outcome, the doctor is still morally responsible for fulfilling his role and telling the patient, correct?”
She nodded, beaming.
“And what about the libertarians? How would they view this dilemma?”
“Well, they think everything is about choice, so the doctor definitely has to tell what he finds,” a guy up front said. “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be giving the patient a chance.”
“Okay,” Lucas said, “so again, the doctor has to tell.”
I couldn’t believe Lucas was doing this: twisting the lesson to suit his own agenda, making it seem like I had a moral duty to tell people about the mark. He was encouraging these flawed arguments and no one was calling him on it. Not even Professor McMillan.
“And finally,” Lucas said smugly, “what would the compatibilists say?”
“Still the doctor’s responsibility to tell,” the same guy said. “I don’t think there’s any question about that in any of these arguments, the issue is really—”
Lucas cut him off, leaving me no doubt that this lesson was for no one but me.
I stood up. I was shaking, I was so angry. “First of all,” I interrupted, several people nearby turning to stare, “determinists don’t believe in moral responsibility and you know it, Lucas.” More heads turned at my bluntness.
“Second, libertarians would say the doctor’s only responsibility is to use his free will and choose the best solution—which might or might not be to tell—since nothing is predetermined.”
I had everyone’s attention now. “But it’s a stupid question to start with. I mean, maybe I can buy the idea that a doctor, who chose his role and took a sworn oath to intervene, should tell someone that they’re about to die. But of course we’re not really talking about a doctor here.”
I could sense my classmates looking at one another, confused. I never took my eyes off Lucas and he never took his off me. I tried to make my voice less strident, hoping one last time to get him to understand.
“I mean, we all know death is coming, right? We all have a chance to make the most of our time, to choose how we spend our days. There is a limit to them, it’s not a secret. Why should anyone be responsible for giving you more than your share? Especially when there are no guarantees about what you’ll do with them. Maybe it will be something good. Or,” I said, thinking of Eduard Sanchez, “maybe it will be the opposite.”
It was totally quiet in the room, every eye on me, notebooks and lesson abandoned. Professor McMillan had stood up, but he too waited, watching it play out.
“I’m not sure who I side with—determinists, compatibilists, whatever—but I believe Socrates was right that we are, each of us, responsible for our own happiness. You choose to smoke that cigarette, talk on that cell phone while driving, have that extra drink. You are responsible. In making those choices, you accept the outcome. Call it fate or personal accountability …” I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”
I gave Lucas a minute to answer, but I could tell from the disappointment in his eyes that we were worlds apart. Always would be.
I collected my books and, the room still silent, walked out the door.
Chapter 27
I went to the park. To the pond, my thinking place. I didn’t really want to think, though. What I wanted was for all of this—the mark, my failed first love, Nan’s lies about my mother—to go away. Be some kind of dream. Instead, it got worse.
I almost didn’t answer my cell, sure it would be Lucas. It was Petra.
“You okay?” she asked almost immediately. “You sound bummed out.”
“My boyfriend and I had a fight.” In front of my philosophy class. About the meaning of my life.
“I’m sorry. I can call another time if you want …”
“No, no. What’s up?”
“I finally finished reading the files. There was more in there. Some new stuff. You got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I lay back, feeling the tickle of grass against my neck, and closed my eyes. I didn’t really want to hear anything else about my crazy mom and how she hadn’t been able to handle the mark. If she couldn’t, how could I? “Go ahead,” I told Petra.
“Turns out there was more than just survivor guilt. About halfway through her second year, it started to come out. Dr. Wells believed it probably existed before the accident, in some form, but grew afterward.”
“What grew?”
“Delusions.” I could hear papers shuffling. “You ever hear of Lachesis?”
“Is that some kind of condition?”
Petra snorted. “Not even close. It’s a person. She’s a person, I should say.”
The name, now that Petra identified it as one, was familiar, but just barely. I sat up, staring at the sparkly surface of the pond. “Who is she?”
“I looked it up to be sure,” Petra said. “Lachesis,” she read, “Disposer of Lots, one of the three Moirae. She measures the length of the thread of human life spun by Clotho.”
“The three Moirae? What are Moirae?” But even as I asked it, I felt my stomach roll. I remembered where I had heard the name before. “Who is Clotho?”
“My questions exactly,” Petra agreed. She continued reading. “The Fates, or Moirae, were Greek goddesses who controlled the destiny of everyone from the time they were born to the time they died. They were: Clotho, who spun the thread of a person’s life; Lachesis, the apportioner, who decided how much time each person was allowed; and Atropos, the inevitable, who cut the thread when you were supposed to die.”