The Listeners

by Jordan Tannahill

  But—

  We’ve been canvassing the whole neighbourhood looking for others, Tom said, handing me a flyer.

  The flyer was a lot more slick and detailed than the notices Howard and Jo stuck up. Seema said that they had been much more methodical in their outreach as well, knocking on doors house by house, street by street. I asked if they had found others.

  Tom nodded—Oh yeah.

  A handful, Seema clarified.

  It’s a slower response than we would’ve liked but—

  We expect some people to sit with it for a few days and call us, Seema said, as I read through the flyer, which looked like a pamphlet you would find in a doctor’s office for depression or menopause.

  Maybe them just knowing about The Hum will make them think, wait a second, I do hear something, Seema said.

  Most people will sign a petition but aren’t willing to talk about their experience, Tom said. And what we need are testimonials. Your experience, the way you articulated it at Howard’s? That’s the kind of story we need to get the severity of this across. And listen, I know you and I didn’t hit it off right away, and I’m sorry about that—

  Yeah well neither did we, Seema said, glancing at him.

  But you seem like a very reasonable, sensible woman, and we need someone like you on our side, he said to me.

  They looked at me, expectant. They had obviously poured days and weeks of work into this, and I admired their drive, but our paths had diverged. They were on a completely different journey with this than I was. They were still stuck in the mindset of that first meeting, seeking to form some kind of neighbourhood association, and determined to find a physical source. My thinking, the thinking of the rest of the group who had continued to convene at Howard and Jo’s week after week, had evolved and deepened in ways Seema and Tom couldn’t even begin to grasp.

  I’m sorry, I said, handing their flyer back to them. But I can’t.

  Seema motioned to the charred mailbox—Don’t let this scare you, Claire. There’s strength in numbers.

  I took a moment to choose my words carefully. I’m learning to find peace with The Hum, I said.

  She frowned—But you don’t have to put up with it.

  But I’m not ‘putting up with it,’ I said. I’ve chosen to welcome it into my life.

  Tom muttered Christ, and looked down at the floor.

  Seema’s face hardened—So Howard’s got you then?

  He has not got me, I said, I have an independent mind, thank you. I just don’t buy anymore that it’s some blast furnace or highway. I mean listen.

  I paused and the three of us sat there, surrounded by balloons and half-hung streamers, listening. It’s atmospheric, I said. It’s completely encompassing.

  Tom sighed and swilled what was left of the whisky in his cup—Claire, Howard’s theory is complete nonsense. It’s—

  It’s like the science equivalent of fake news, Seema said.

  I told them that I thought it was very easy to be cynical, and a lot more difficult to open yourself up to the possibility of discovery.

  Pretty much all scientific theories are discredited at first, I said. String theory, dark matter. The Earth revolving around the Sun wasn’t too popular at first either, if you recall.

  Seema extended her hand towards me, over the tabletop. I’m a medical resident, she said. I’m used to a lot of pseudoscience and alternative cures.

  I suggested to her that she should read about it and inform herself, and that it was all online if she cared to look.

  Oh, Tom said, raising his arms, it’s online, it must be true.

  There are many reputable sites—

  This wavelength that Howard is talking about, Seema cut in. There is absolutely no way the human anatomy can hear it. It’s not physically possible.

  I suppose that’s the nature of discovery, isn’t it? I replied. What once seemed impossible is re-evaluated and reconsidered.

  You really believe him, she asked. She posed this more like an accusation than a question.

  Well I’m not surprised you don’t, I said. The two of you never even gave him a chance. You came in with your minds made up, and when something else presented itself, you were out of there. You barely got any explanation whatsoever, and then you never came back. You have no idea the full scope of—of revelation around this.

  That was, perhaps, an indelicate word choice.

  Revelation, Tom scoffed. Please. Enlighten us.

  You don’t actually want to know.

  No, I do, he said.

  Only to mock it.

  Well I sincerely do, I want to know, Seema said. And I absolutely won’t mock it.

  I met her eyes—As a doctor you might actually appreciate this. We’ve been learning about brain waves.

  Okay.

  I’m sorry—brain waves? Tom said. Is that a thing?

  Seema sighed—Of course it is, Tom; have you never heard of a brain scan before?

  Well I don’t know.

  Well maybe stop talking then.

  They’re the fluctuations of the electric current in the brain, I explained. And scans show that the brain lights up when brain waves hit 7.83 hertz.

  The Schumann Resonance, Seema said. I nodded, impressed that she remembered from the first meeting.

  Right. Exactly. And at that specific frequency, whole areas of our brain that we never normally use suddenly burst into action. We only otherwise use about ten percent of our brain at any given time.

  That’s—that’s a popular myth, she said.

  Studies support it.

  I’d like to see those studies.

  And if that’s the resonant frequency of the Earth’s atmosphere, I continued, then we’ve spent millions of years on the planet evolving under its influence. Every cell, every living thing. So naturally our brains want to synch with it. And all kinds of living things do. Whales, birds, bees—they all use the Schumann Resonance to navigate. And for our health and well-being we need to learn to tune ourselves to it.

  Tom chuckled—Tune ourselves?

  Yes.

  And how does one do that, exactly?

  Well that’s the question, isn’t it? I explained to them that people have been trying for millennia. The chants of Buddhists. The Hindu Om. The drone of church organs. Didgeridoos.

  All kinds of faiths, maybe every faith, has been trying to do just that; trying to achieve transcendence by tapping into the Resonance, I said, hearing myself trying and failing to articulate the full splendour and complexity of the discussion at Howard’s.

  Tom downed the last of his whisky—I’m not religious, so—

  Neither am I, I said.

  —so I haven’t felt that impulse to uh tune myself with anything, he said, before turning to Seema. Have you?

  Well—

  With a hum?

  No, but—

  Just forget religion for a second, I said. Have you never had a moment where you just felt perfectly in rhythm with the universe? Where you’re thinking perfectly clearly and everything seems to make sense?

  Maybe after a good cup of coffee, he said, reaching for the Johnnie Walker and uncorking it.

  I have, Seema said.

  Have you? he asked, with bemusement.

  There’s a kind of euphoria to it, isn’t there? I continued. Well just imagine if you could feel like that all the time. And 7.83 hertz is the frequency of our brain waves during meditation and dreaming. It’s like a gateway to deeper states of consciousness and creativity.

  Seema exhaled. Claire, the thing is—

  And none of it strikes you as bullshit, Tom cut in, pouring himself a fresh shot.

  No, it doesn’t. And I’d appreciate if you didn’t infer—

  From upstairs in her bedroom, Ashley’s voice suddenly thundered—It’s bullshit! It’s bullshit it’s bullshit it’s bullshiiiiiit.

  Tom raised his eyebrows and stifled a laugh. I closed my eyes. Please just go, I wanted to tell them. Five minutes ago I was help
ing my daughter into her prom dress, I’d been busting my ass for days to make this a special night for her, and this was the last goddamn thing I needed.

  Listen, I said, eyes still closed, I can only speak to my experience.

  And have you experienced this transcendence? Seema asked, with compassion. I opened my eyes and looked at her.

  Not yet fully, no.

  Do you believe you will?

  I don’t know, I said. I hope so.

  She said she sensed a skeptic in me.

  Well that’s my nature. I question.

  And have you questioned this?

  Of course I have; I resent your implication.

  I’m not implying anything, I’m just—

  I’m not a gullible person, Seema.

  I never said you were.

  And I can tell you that things have begun to make a lot more sense to me.

  Since Howard?

  Since—since having this information to draw on, I said. The air does feel like it’s vibrating. The humming is louder at night. And it seems to be coming from everywhere, and yet nowhere.

  And so then you start trawling the Internet for blogs, Tom said, with cool detachment, that parrot this theory back to you until you’re in this little echo chamber of people who don’t know a damn thing about science because we’re barely taught the basics in school by nutjobs like you.

  Seema told him to stop. He took a sip of whisky. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, looked over, and realized Ashley was now sitting halfway up the staircase, watching. Good, I thought, I wanted her to hear what I was about to say. I turned back to Tom.

  Tom, the Earth is making us aware of itself in the most extraordinary way. And you can choose to listen or can choose not to. But I am listening. Because I have been given the gift of being able to. And so have you.

  I looked at Seema. And so have you, I said. So why say no? Why not commune with the Earth on a more sensitive and fundamental level than most people could ever imagine?

  Tom looked down at his mailbox, and then back up at me—With all due respect I think you’re a lunatic.

  I nodded—Lunatic. Madwoman. Witch. Yeah. I know the story, Tom. Those who see differently—

  Oh yeah, you’re a martyr, he said, rising from his seat. A real Joan of Arc.

  He picked up his mailbox and made for the door.

  And what about Emily? I asked.

  What about her?

  She believes it too.

  We don’t talk about it.

  Well let me tell you, she believes.

  Tom flashed me a pained smile—I know.

  He glanced at Seema, and then up at Ashley on the staircase. He saluted her, and then walked out through the front door into the gathering dusk.

  I don’t know how you stand him, I said to Seema, as the door shut.

  She shrugged—He’s the only person willing to help me figure out what this actually is.

  I downed the last of my whisky like a movie mobster and dropped my cup into Tom’s empty one. I know you think I’m a lunatic too, I said.

  She smiled and shook her head. I told her I was sorry that I couldn’t help her, and she said she was too.

  So you really don’t think the Resonance exists, I said.

  Claire. I know that’s maybe the more exciting or poetic explanation, but honestly? Our hum? It’s just some industrial white noise. And I’m going to find it and I’m going to deal with it. On top of all the other shit I have to do in my life.

  She made a little doleful laugh to herself.

  Like I’m—I’m pulling eighteen-hour shifts at the General, she continued. Tom’s retired, so he can, you know—I can’t spend all my free time on this. But I just know if I don’t, it’s not going to happen. Like can you imagine Tom doing this on his own? He’d get into an argument while handing out flyers and punch someone in the face. You laugh but he almost did.

  I wished her luck. She rose, thanked me, and wished me the same. She then told me to be careful. Thanks, I replied, but I think you’re the one who has to be careful.

  She considered this for a moment, and made to say something, but smiled instead. She turned, wished Ashley a happy prom, and walked out the door.

  I looked over at Ashley on the staircase, slumped in her dress.

  Let me fix your hair, I said. She ignored me, picking some lint off the carpeted step. C’mon. I motioned to her to come down and join me in the dining room, but she didn’t move. I walked over to the staircase, climbed halfway up, and sat down beside her.

  I’m completely alone, she mumbled.

  I’m right here.

  No, you’re not. You’ve been taken from me. This thing has taken you and now it’s taken Dad, and everything is fucked forever. And you can’t see it because you’re inside of it, and so are they, with their stupid petition and flyers. It’s like a mass delusion, she said, swirling her hand in the air.

  Just because you can’t hear it, doesn’t—

  I can’t because it’s not there. You’re all caught in this—this hysteria and you don’t even—

  Hey Miss Feminist—

  I know, I know but it is, Mom, it just fucking is. Like that medieval dancing plague or something.

  Howard has spent his career devoted to this.

  So? Mom, a priest spends his entire career devoted to God, that doesn’t mean I have to give a shit about what he has to say about it.

  But this is something that exists, okay, this is science.

  To Howard Bard it exists, Mom, not to the rest of the world.

  He’s an internationally respected academic.

  Oh please.

  He has more degrees than a thermometer!

  Yeah so did, like, Robert Mugabe.

  I started to laugh, and Ashley smiled, in spite of herself—It’s true. I wrote an essay on him.

  Howard’s not a tinpot dictator.

  No he’s just a—tinfoil-hat dictator.

  He was dean of geosciences at Virginia Tech for eighteen years.

  Yeah, before he was fired, she said, widening her eyes.

  I told her the administration was completely threatened by him.

  Do you know how hard it is for an old white man to be kicked out of a tenured teaching job? she asked. He was dean for Christ sake, he’d practically have to murder someone to lose his job.

  He was a renegade who totally revolutionized the department.

  She buried her face in her hands for a moment, and then looked up at me—You’re not on stable ground, Mom, and honestly? It’s scary. Because people, when you’re in this state, they’ll take advantage of you.

  No one’s taking advantage of me.

  You are not yourself, and you’re not in a strong place.

  Yes I am and don’t—You think I’m a weak person? A weak person, Ash, would have just ignored it and wished all of this away. A weak person would be still at school teaching and coming home, and just, just carrying on like everything was hunky dory.

  I pointed to my chest—I am battling. I am going to battle every single hour of the day.

  I’m not saying you’re a weak person, I’m saying you’re—

  And I can’t do this alone, okay? I need you on my side. You can’t let your dad turn you against me.

  Whoa whoa, she said, holding up her hands, as if I just drew a gun.

  I know he’s trying to.

  Don’t start—

  He’s telling you I’m bipolar, isn’t he?

  She looked away, down the staircase—Who else is he going to talk to?

  Has he been telling you that?

  Our conversations are private.

  He shouldn’t be off-loading that on you, I said, shaking my head.

  Who else has he got?

  I need you with me on this.

  On what? she asked, turning back to me, indignant. On Howard? On The Hum? No, I’m sorry. I love you, but I’m fucking scared for you.

  Scared of what?

  Of the complete d
isintegration of your life!

  I couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes, so I stared down at my feet on the stair. I touched the tip of my big toe, poking through the small hole it had worn in my left sock.

  I wish you could just be happy for me, I said. I have found a community of people who care for me and love me.

  They do not fucking love you, Mom. I’m your daughter, I love you. Dad loves you. These people barely know you.

  They know me better—Ash, they know things about me that even your dad doesn’t.

  That’s fucked up.

  No, it’s not. Because they treat those parts of me, and my life, and my story with a care and a, and a compassion that even he could never muster.

  That’s just bullshit, she muttered.

  Well it’s not, and I wish you’d stop dismissing me, it hurts.

  You think this hurts you?

  I tried to explain how I had found a space where I could be truly free and uninhibited for the first time in my life. A space where I felt truly safe.

  Do you know how rare and precious to me that is? I asked. I don’t understand what you are so afraid of.

  That Howard’s a fucking psychopath, she replied.

  Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her bra to check it—They’re outside.

  Without looking at me, she got up and descended the stairs.

  Ash, wait.

  I hurried down after her, and put my hand on her shoulder—Have fun tonight, okay?

  She mustered a faint smile—Just promise me you’ll be gone when we get back.

  I told her that I would. And don’t leave your drink unattended, I called as she walked out the door. I watched as she hurried down the front walk, waving to her friends Sophie and Jess, who whooped and cheered while leaning out the windows of a white Escalade. If they saw me in the doorway, they pretended not to. I closed the door, turned back to the half-decorated dining room, and felt the wind escape from me like a punctured tire. The room was a mess. There was still so much that needed doing. I crossed to the table, sat down, and poured myself another whisky, before glancing up at Ashley’s homemade banner.

  10

  UNTIL THAT EVENING AND MY CONVERSATION WITH ASHLEY on the staircase, I don’t think I fully grasped the extent to which hysteria was a psychic wound that we as women still bore; a wound inflicted from centuries of our symptoms, our instincts about our own bodies, our pleasures and afflictions, always being the first to be discounted and discredited, even by other women. Even by our own daughters, as the case may be. It was a wound that we still carried, because we could, at any moment, have an entire history called upon to silence us in a word, in an instant. And in the eyes of my family, of those who loved me most, I was now the hysterical subject.