Whispering Minds

by A. T. O'Connor

  I moved on to the handmade cards and drawings.

  Jimmy,

  I miss you. Happy Birthday again.

  Forever and Always,

  Gemi

  The years progressed and the cards turned to letters. The sadness of Jimmy’s loss turned to hurt and pain at being left alone to face the inconsistency of our parents.

  Then something changed. The writing drifted from loopy letters to tight angry slashes and back again. They increased in frequency. Instead of a new letter being deposited every year for Jimmy’s birthday, the letters came at random times.

  Jimmy,

  I hate you for leaving me here. I want to die.

  Luna

  P.S. forever and always

  I almost threw up.

  It wasn’t possible.

  I hadn’t met Luna until this year. Certainly Jimmy never had.

  The pounding in my head escalated. It felt like JayJay’s freight train had a track in there.

  Dear Jimmy,

  Come home. Dad is mean. He hits Luna like he used to hit Mom. Brutus tries to keep her safe, but it is getting harder for him to protect her.

  Forever and always,

  JayJay

  Fear is pain that death left behind

  Pain is death caused by fear

  And death is nothing more than fear of pain

  Or is that life?

  Forever- the poet

  I shook my head to clear it. Nothing made sense anymore. My world had tipped upside down, turning everything I knew on its head. Currently, my dad had been arrested for breaking Mom’s ribs, she was fast on her way to a mental break down, and I was reading letters written to my brother who disappeared from my life without so much as a goodbye. Worse yet, the people who wrote them were strangers to me until two months ago.

  I fingered another letter. Each page was different. Each writing was different. Each name a part of the Baker’s Dozen that I met during a psychology project for college.

  I pulled out my messenger bag and my dream study notebook. The first section comprised a nightly dream journal. The second had been devoted to the study of lucid dreaming. The ability to interact within a dream and shape the outcome probably explained my ability to conjure up the Dozen in my mind.

  The third section formed a directory of sorts for my dream partners. The Dozen. I turned to the tab, expecting to find a horrifying reality of lost sanity. Instead, I found a log of their reported dreams, including information on frequency, content and daily events that might have influenced them.

  The Dozen were real. The proof was in my hands. I’d chatted with them and emailed them. Their dreams had been recorded via our online communication. Collin had passed along my info in the psych department to help me find unbiased participants. I’d screened the requests when they came in until I found twelve candidates. Something else would explain the link between the Dozen and these new-found letters.

  A meticulously written note grabbed my attention. The words were so perfect and tight as to appear typed.

  Dear Jimmy,

  I know where you are. I don’t understand why you left. Not entirely, but that doesn’t really matter. Nobody here would believe me if I told them you weren’t dead. Sometimes I think Indie has guessed, but at this point, she doesn’t care. I hope Angel is right. I hope I’m wrong and that you’re in heaven, waiting for us. But I have no proof to tell me this is so. If the others knew I even considered this a possibility, I would die. And without me, they would die too. We need each other to survive, even though I’m the only one who really gets why. Nothing is ever perfect. Not life. Not science and especially not us.

  F & A,

  Einstein

  Chapter 31

  The pounding in my head increased exponentially. The yellow room flickered into view then disappeared like a television set picking up poor reception. A gray static fog filled the space and the room disappeared.

  Nothing is ever perfect.

  “Utopia.”

  Collin.

  I threw the papers back in the hidey-hole and carried my psych notebook to Granny’s room to boot up my net book. I logged onto PFYOU and played the video of me in Collin’s apartment. My screen-self pranced up to the camera dressed in next to nothing. My actions were provocative, the invitation to “find your inner self” was sexually charged. Yet never once did I cross the line into perversion.

  Or pornography.

  I watched the video again and again, searching for clues. The clothes were obviously mine, as they fit my body like a second skin. They had been purchased specifically for me. Yet I had never bought anything remotely like that before. I wouldn’t even know where to find a leather bra and panty set, let alone the corset, garters and chains that completed my ensemble.

  “Indie.” The name rushed into the room on a sigh of relief.

  Of course Indie would know. She knew everything about crossing the line from innocence to daring. She would be comfortable in these clothes and probably wore them on a regular basis. It’s probably why I’d used her name with Collin.

  I logged onto our chat room with the intention of sending her a message. My inbox blinked. Most of the new messages were from James. Just reading his name for the first time after learning about my brother, made my blood run cold. I wondered what his last name was.

  Where are you?

  Call me.

  Where is everyone else?

  Gemi, call me.

  This is urgent.

  I think something happened.

  Luna called and threatened me.

  Are you okay?

  This is scaring me. Gemi. Where are you?

  One message from Luna: Whatever you do, don’t call James. He’s gone crazy or something. Everyone has disappeared. Even Brutus. I think there was some kind of confrontation. I’m scared and don’t know if I can keep living this way. If I don’t hear from you soon, I’m going to end my life. For real this time.

  I stopped reading for a minute as a flood of memories washed in of Luna threatening me. I didn’t trust her then or now.

  This is James. Call me now. Luna just threatened me. Stay away from her and call me.

  I just saw something on the internet that really creeped me out. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t want any part of it.

  You and me both.

  Gemi, disregard the last message. I’m worried about you. Have you heard from anyone else? If I don’t hear from you soon, I’m going to call the police.

  No more police.

  I typed a message to James letting him know I was fine and that I would get back to him when things settled down. Tires crunched outside in the snow and a flash of headlights through the window pulled me away from my message to Luna. Car doors slammed.

  I stuffed my net book into my messenger bag and army crawled my way into the skinny space between the bed and the wall. Someone pounded on the front door.

  Police.

  No, they would announce themselves.

  I stifled the urge to scream and wondered if I would still fit in the cubby hole under my headboard. Then it struck me. Granny’s headboard matched mine. Both had been custom made at the same time. I searched for a lever.

  Nothing.

  The pounding stopped.

  I dashed to the closet where I hid behind Granny’s long dresses. I pulled her shoes into a pile around my feet and concentrated on my breathing. If I couldn’t get my hitching sighs under control, whoever broke in would find me as easily as if I had sat on the bed and called their names. Footsteps sounded down the hall.

  “It’s in here.” Chrissy.

  “What did she see?” Collin? I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like him.

  Silence. I imagined Chrissy giving that sullen shrug.

  “Well?” Scuffles ensued. Chrissy cried out.

  “I don’t know.” She sniffed.

  “Tell me again what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.” Chrissy whined with pain. I pictured
her brother squeezing her arm, twisting it to elicit an answer. My own arm hurt in sympathy as a memory flashed before me of my dad grasping Mom this same way. I closed my eyes against the vision. I couldn’t do anything about Mom’s years of abuse now.

  Another cry. “Fine. She found the site. Pulled it up and saw the videos. She knows it’s yours, Collin.”

  “You told her.”

  “I didn’t. I promise. She must have guessed.”

  “Then?”

  “Then nothing. I went to bed.”

  “How did she guess?”

  A rustle of fabric. Another shrug. “I think she recognized the furniture in your apartment.”

  “You said she had flash drives?”

  Silence.

  “Where are they?”

  More silence, followed by rummaging on Granny’s desk. “Where are they, Chrissy?”

  “I don’t know! I just saw them in her bag, and they looked like yours.”

  “Anything else that can tie us to this?”

  “You. Tie you. I didn’t do anything.”

  Collin’s laugh came out ugly and froze the blood rushing in my ears. “Oh, my dear sweet sis. You are not innocent in this. If we get busted, just remember who brought me the freaks.”

  Chrissy sobbed. “But it’s legal. They signed a contract. You said yourself.”

  “All but one.”

  “So why’d you pick her?”

  “Why not? She’s so screwed up she doesn’t know she has a right hand and a left hand. Never mind that they don’t know what each other does.” A fist slammed into the headboard and I nearly screamed. “What the hell am I going to do about her?”

  “Take down the sites. If you’re right, she probably doesn’t remember any of it. Get rid of the evidence, and you’ll get rid of your problems. She did you a favor by wiping your hard drive.”

  “You are so naïve, Chrissy. You think all those videos were free? We paid your little junkie friends in the currency they wanted. And I’m not going to jail for that. But you just might, so keep your mouth shut and get me those flash drives.”

  The mattress creaked. “So what’d ya pay her then?”

  Collin laughed again. “That’s the beauty. Nothing. And her innocent shit got more hits than the hard-core porn. She was a freakin’ gem.”

  “I saw her video. There’s nothing innocent about it.”

  “Maybe not on the outside, but she has more personal security guards on the inside than Fort Freakin’ Knox.”

  “What do we do now?” Chrissy’s whine sent shivers down my spine. She sounded like a trapped animal.

  Collin’s voice softened. “Braydin and I will take down both sites, close the ring. You stay here so she doesn’t get suspicious about the broken door. You know, you went into town, did something today and came back. No key. Broke in cuz it’s cold and starting to snow.”

  “I don’t want her to be a part of this anymore, Collin. She’s different than the rest. Just let it go.”

  “I will. As soon as I make sure she can’t pull me down. And that, dear sis, is your job.”

  “I don’t want to stay. What if she gets mad?”

  “She won’t get mad. She’ll want to save you. In her perfect utopian world she saves everyone.” Another chuckle. This one laced with derision. “Too bad you’re already hopeless.”

  The bedsprings squeaked. Chrissy’s sobs came out muffled, as if she had her head buried in the pillow.

  “Don’t cry, Chris. You did good.” Something heavy dropped onto the bed. “Get those drives for me.”

  Chapter 32

  Footsteps carried Collin down the hall. The front door slammed. Chrissy’s sobs continued from the bed. I rested my head in the crook of my arm, waiting for Chrissy to fall asleep so I could extricate myself from the claustrophobic space.

  Hurry up. Hurry up. I had to send an email to Clarence with a link to the PFYOU site before Collin deleted it from the web.

  That, and I needed to find out what had been on Collin’s hard drive that I’d downloaded and what was on the flash drives I’d confiscated.

  At 4:22, snores sounded from the bedroom. As quietly as I could, I eased my way out of the closet and tiptoed to the living room. Snow and wind swirled in through the open door. I pushed it closed and shoved a chair in front of it to keep it shut. The only internet in the house was in Granny’s room. I had no choice but to hook up there and pray it wouldn’t wake up Chrissy. Though from the half-finished bottle of vodka beside her, I doubted anything could.

  I shot Clarence an email with the PFYOU link, as well as a handful of screenshots just in case he missed the actual site. Then I looked through the flash drives, putting aside those that didn’t seem inherently troublesome. Even so, it took more time than I liked.

  One after the other, I discarded files until I came across one titled Psychological Disorders. The table of contents listed a bunch of mental afflictions. Borderline personality. Bipolar. Multiple personality disorder. Schizophrenia.

  Chrissy turned over on the bed and mumbled something in her alcohol-induced sleep. I held my breath until she settled back in and her snores started again in earnest. The screen wavered and the noise in my head built, making it nearly impossible to focus.

  The Poet scribbled frantically in his notebook while Angel prayed incessantly, her voice escalating to get above the clatter of JayJay’s chugging train and Brutus’s threats. Indie demanded to see Collin, and Luna rocked herself faster, harder, in the corner of the room, the motion making us all sick, like a boat tossed at sea.

  I laughed out loud, a harsh sound in the stillness of Granny’s bedroom. As a whole, the Baker’s Dozen was seriously messed up. Collectively, we had nearly every neurosis mentioned.

  But didn’t we all?

  On impulse, I clicked on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

  A video opened on the screen and began with a disheveled teen sitting in a chair, staring at the camera with grayish-green eyes. A familiar painting hung on the wall behind him, the ornate frame making him look painfully out of place. A hand reached in and set a small box on the table. Instantly the boy reached for the box and opened the lid without looking inside. His eyes darted to the camera, and he closed the box. Opened it. Closed. Opened. Closed.

  Off screen. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I have OCD.”

  “What does that mean to you?”

  Open. Close.

  “That I do things over and over and over and over again. I can’t stop.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “I save.”

  “Save what?”

  Opened and closed. Opened and closed. The boy’s hands were unnaturally pink against the gray table. Opened and closed.

  “Corn. Beans.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “I save cans of corn and beans.”

  “Where?”

  “In my closet.”

  “Why?”

  “For the end of the world.”

  “How many cans do you have?”

  “Seven-hundred and fourteen.” A thin sheen of sweat formed on his upper lip.

  “Seven hundred and fourteen cans?”

  Opened and closed. “Yes. And water.”

  “What’s in your hands?”

  He looked down. “A box.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  The boy looked at the camera intently, then shifted his eyes to the box. The expression on his face was painful to watch—an animal stepping into a trap. He swung his eyes back to the camera. Slowly he opened the lid and stared straight ahead.

  Silence.

  Seconds ticked by. He shifted in his chair.

  His eyes darted down, and he moaned.

  His hands found the cards and pulled them out.

  He matched up the cards, one way and then another. Finding combinations of colors, suits, numbers and other seemingly random patterns. When he finished, he repeated the process. Faster and faster, his hands flew acro
ss the table, dealing out cards into piles. Swiping them back together and separating them again.

  Never once did he take his eyes off the cards. The pattern seemed to change and become more erratic. The boy made a low hum in his throat that grew with the intensity of his dealings.

  He slapped the cards down, shoved his chair away from the table and strode out of the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  Anger laced his response. “To the bathroom.”

  “Why?”

  “The jacks.”

  “What about the jacks?”

  “They’re dirty, damnit. You know that.”

  On screen, a hand pointed to the cards laying face down on the table. The disembodied hand flipped them over to reveal two jacks facing each other.

  The hand removed the cards and put the lid back on the empty box.

  When the boy returned to the table, his hands were red and raw. Blood seeped from two knuckles. He sat in the chair and looked straight at the camera. After a moment, his hands found the box and opened the lid. Opened and closed.

  Off screen. “What’s in the box?”

  The hum returned.

  After more cajoling, he opened the box. His body went rigid.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “Me.”

  “How?”

  “I’m a Jack.”

  The boy froze with ugly pain stretched across his face.

  My stomach churned.

  I scanned the list of diagnoses. My head pounded and my heart ached. All those case studies. All those kids. “And me.”

  Not you.

  “Where am I on this list?”

  Bach, music.

  Chapter 33

  Blackness closed in around me. The train going through the tunnel, chugging in tune to Bach. I asked him to play me a different song. A little Johnny Horton. At first he balked before plinking out the bare bones of a folk tale. Roughly forty-five minutes had passed since Collin left for Prairie Flats. I couldn’t afford to lose this chance to another memory lapse. To keep me focused on the here and now, JayJay sang along to the music—whispering minds, whispering minds—mangling the words as only a little kid could.