—a spokesperson from Southwestern Gas—
—Southwestern Gas confirmed the company increased the flow along the Phoenix Access pipeline as much as thirty percent in the fall of 2018. The company believes this additional pressure may have caused vibrations which—
—migraines, nosebleeds, insomnia—
—a kind of localized mania, leading to the fatal standoff between police and members of the Sequoia Crescent Cult last June—
For days, news anchors, experts, and spokespeople had been peddling a municipal report which attributed The Hum to a natural gas pipeline that ran through the desert some two miles from our neighbourhood. The official story was that Southwestern Gas had increased the flow along the pipeline the previous fall, around the time most of us first began to hear the sound, when the vibration from this increased flow had supposedly caused the foundations of buildings to rattle. All I could do was laugh. Did they really expect us to believe that everything we had endured—the headaches, the nosebleeds, the rapture, the raid, the deaths—was because of a pipeline? Did they really expect me to believe Kyle was struck by a bullet in his pelvis, and another in his neck, because of increased pressure along a natural gas pipeline? It was so achingly banal as to be almost believable. It didn’t matter if I did believe it, or if anyone did, really. I understood the function it served. Sometimes people need a myth to rally around, especially after a collective trauma. We were a neighbourhood, and a city, in need of closure.
Around a quarter past midnight I woke to the sound of Emily’s voice on the television. The screen was the only light on in the house. Emily’s face was large, in close-up. The camera cut to a wider shot, revealing her sitting beside Tom, in the studio. He was wearing a nicely pressed shirt. There was a daytime view of the city behind them; it must have been a rerun of an interview from earlier in the day. I sat upright and watched.
It was like … waking up from a nightmare. It felt like I had lost a year of my life, Emily said.
We were two strangers in the same house, Tom said. Well, before you started living with your sister, he said, glancing sidelong at Emily.
Do you still hear the hum? the interviewer asked her. Now that Southwestern Gas has lowered the pressure?
No, she said, shaking her head. I don’t.
Who do you blame for the deaths of Kyle Francis and Damian Barnes? Do you blame anyone?
I swallowed and closed my eyes, waiting for Emily’s reply. When it didn’t come, I opened my eyes again, and saw her staring down into her lap. Finally, she looked back up at the interviewer, her eyes glistening. As she opened her mouth, I reached for the remote and turned off the television.
Months ago, when I was not there, Kyle stepped inside my house, and sat on my bed, and spoke to my daughter, and walked around my bedroom, and fell asleep on the couch in my living room. He had been just one teenage body among dozens that night. And yet, somehow, his scent still lingered. In closets, in cupboards, in the corners of rooms. Sometimes it was enough to make me lean against a countertop and close my eyes. Whenever I drove past the park, I imagined the ruins of his tent hidden somewhere in the brush. I would lie in bed some nights thinking about how easy it would be to get up, put on my shoes, and walk the six blocks through the darkness, through the overgrowth, and to crouch down amongst his things, his old records and books, and whatever remained, but I could never bring myself to do it. It was like a scream at night which no one goes to investigate.
I did stop hearing The Hum eventually, though I was still hearing it days after they had officially decreased the pressure in the pipeline. It stayed with me like a phantom limb—three days, six days, nine days after, albeit fainter and fainter, until eventually, I woke up one morning, and it was gone. I lay in bed, listening to the birds out my window. I focused and strained in the hope of hearing any trace of it in the background, the faintest vibration, but I couldn’t. It felt a little disorienting, at first. Like the world was missing the colour yellow, or the taste of salt. There was some register of experience I could no longer access. Though gradually I became accustomed to its absence, as we do with all things we lose.
I started sleeping again. I started setting my alarm in the morning again. I started jogging, and flossing, and checking my emails again. I erased the hour of vile messages from strangers on my voicemail. I started making the bed. I started buying raspberries and tulips. I started listening to podcasts about astronomy, urban planning, the Black Death, the history of medicine, gay conversion therapy, bees, the Harlem Renaissance, paganism, Dolly Parton. I started making meals with more than three constituent ingredients. I started smiling at my neighbours. I started talking to Paul—civil and amicable check-ins at first, and then longer and more involved conversations about current events, our days, about the ways in which we had hurt one another, and the ways in which we might find our way back to loving each other in the way we once had.
And then one morning the doorbell rang. I bolted upright in bed, and grabbed my phone off the side table—five past nine. Shit. I pulled on my bathrobe, pushed my hair up into a messy bun, and dashed downstairs as the doorbell rang again. I opened the door to find Paul standing there with a box of his things at his feet.
Morning, he said.
Hey. Sorry. My alarm didn’t go off.
Don’t worry, Ash and I can take care of this round.
I looked out beyond him to the driveway. Ashley was busy unloading boxes from the trunk of his car. I told him that, if I jumped in the shower now, I’d be ready for the second load.
You’re not having second thoughts, are you? he asked.
What? No, of course not.
You seem subdued.
I’m sorry, I literally just woke up.
He nodded, then picked up his box, and walked into the house. I admitted to him that I was up late.
Doing what?
I let out a little self-conscious laugh. I uh—finally finished The Magic Mountain, I said.
It took him a moment to register what I’d said, before he laughed as well.
I know, I said. It took me a while.
Longer than it took to write, probably.
He put the box down by the foot of the staircase.
Well I took a big break from it, I said.
So you thought you’d binge it last night? he asked.
Ashley walked through the front door carrying a large box.
Hey, she said, looking over at me. Sorry I haven’t called you back.
She dropped the box with a thud—It’s midterms.
I told her that I knew, and not to worry—You’re looking good.
Yeah right. Freshman twenty-five.
No.
Whatever, I’m still getting laid, she said, walking into the living room and pulling open the curtains. But Mom, honestly, stop with this Miss Havisham bullshit and open your curtains.
I do! Give me a break, I just woke up!
She disappeared into the kitchen, while Paul leafed through the mail on the dining room table. He held up a stack I had set aside for him—Look, even with the mail redirect.
It’s all junk though, I said.
I asked him if he would like some coffee, but he declined—I’d like to just get everything unpacked first.
Ashley walked back into the living room holding a glass of orange juice, and remarked on the lasagne in the fridge.
I made it for tonight, I said. To celebrate.
Aw, she replied mawkishly, but Paul seemed pleased. I asked her if she was planning on staying the night.
I’ll see how I feel. I might crash with Yona.
Well I’ve made up your bed, if you decide to.
All right.
Paul walked back out the door to continue unpacking the car, leaving Ashley and me alone for the first time in months.
I’m glad you’ve been liking your classes, I said.
A bit less now.
Oh?
She shrugged.
Your art history professor sounds fun.
> Yeah, he’s okay, she said, nodding, before taking a swig of juice. So, do you still blame yourself?
I was completely caught off guard by her question. What?
About Kyle.
I—Yes. Obviously. Of course I do.
She looked at me for a moment, inscrutably. Well I don’t, she said.
Thank you.
But everyone else does.
I swallowed, and nodded.
And so, by extension, everyone blames me, she said. I tried to formulate some words of comfort or consolation, but everything that came to mind felt so profoundly insufficient and trite as to be almost comical. She raised her eyebrows and took another sip of juice, in silent rebuke. Paul returned with a box, thumped it down, and left to retrieve more.
I sometimes wonder what he would be studying now, she said.
I admitted that sometimes I thought the same thing.
English, probably.
I nodded. Probably.
You ever try to talk to him? she asked.
What?
Do you guys ever talk?
No. What do you mean? How would we—?
Well I don’t know, you’ve believed in weirder shit in the past.
No, I said. We don’t.
Hmm, she said, and took another sip. Dad told me you don’t believe the city’s report.
I sighed. She was angling for a fight. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. She left for university when I was still in hospital. A few emails and a few phone calls weren’t going to sweep away the unexploded land mines. I knew she wanted me to capitulate, but I wasn’t going to. Ash, what I heard was not a pipeline, I said.
She slammed her glass down on the coffee table—The whole fucking world accepts it was but you. Even your old posse. They’ve pretty much all given interviews, haven’t they? They’ve all disowned Howard.
Not everyone.
Even Jo.
What else could she do?
What are you even—? Ashley threw her hands up, and landed them on her head. She then held her head as if it were about to explode with frustration. Even now, she said. I bet you secretly think you still hear it.
I don’t.
So why can’t you just admit it? They increased the pressure on the pipeline, it caused vibrations, the vibrations caused The Hum. They decreased the pressure, The Hum went away. I mean what more do you want, the hand of God to write it in the sky for you?
A pipeline two miles away, I said.
Yes. And they fixed it, she said, eyes widening. They objectively did, Mom, it’s not up for fucking debate.
Okay.
So you either hear it or you don’t.
I don’t, I told you.
Because they fixed it.
I nodded, noncommittally. Except I could still hear it for days after they lowered the pressure, I said.
I bet you even still feel bad for Howard, she said.
He’s not the villain he’s being made out to be.
She ran her hands over her face in frustration—Mom, he brainwashed you and held you hostage.
No one was held hostage.
The nation watched you run out of that house naked and get pulled back inside.
Yes, but—
That Nora woman was tackled to the floor when she tried to escape.
I told Ashley that it was hard for her, or for anyone else who wasn’t inside that house, to understand.
This class action lawsuit against Howard, she continued. The only reason all his old students didn’t come forward sooner is because they were brainwashed. Just like you. And probably traumatized and terrified.
Ash, listen—
No, you listen, Mom. You had a complete psychotic breakdown. The whole world saw. It was on live television. You’re a fucking meme. Tits and vagina and everything. Do you have any idea—Don’t even. I—
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a long moment, and then looked at me—I would be so furious at you, about what you’ve done to me, if it wasn’t for the fact that mostly I feel sorry for you. You were sick. And you probably still are. A sick—
Ash—
No, shut up and listen to me. Even now, you can’t even admit it. You were under insane emotional stress, chronically under-slept for months, susceptible to brainwashing and-and God knows what else. You were not yourself.
Paul entered, dropped another box, glanced up at us, but knew better than to say anything. Ashley watched him walk back out through the door, before saying—He thinks everything can just go back to normal.
Well I hope it can, I said.
Really?
Yes.
She narrowed her eyes—I don’t even think you’re happy that it’s gone.
I told her that of course I was. I have my life back, I said.
What life?
Don’t be cruel.
What is it that you want back?
Just—
The quiet?
Yes.
Kyle?
I looked down at the floor.
I don’t think you’ve even accepted that you lost your mind, she said. She then fell quiet, perhaps waiting for me to incriminate myself somehow. What more did she want from me? My name was cleared. Charges were dropped. I had no contact with any of the other Hummers. I was working on my mental health, getting my sleep, taking my medication. Did she want me to beg for forgiveness? To grovel? To eat dust?
I lost everything else, I said.
She nodded, and looked around the living room, as if it were the inside of my mind.
I love you. But I can’t help you. She said this like a doctor conveying a fatal prognosis. And I gotta protect myself.
I wanted to hug her, but I couldn’t move. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t manage to do that either. I think you should go have your shower, she said.
I brushed my hair out of my eyes and whispered yeah.
I could hear Paul reappearing through the front door, struggling with a large box, but neither Ashley nor I paid him any attention. As she looked at me I wondered—did she not see how far I had come? How hard I had worked to claw my life back? Was she just going to write me off, then, because I wasn’t ready to adopt her version of events? I wanted to tell her—I am trying my best, Ash, every single day, to forget what I felt, what I heard, what I experienced, and live a normal life again. As Paul walked back outside, Ashley started for the door as well, but then hesitated. She stood there for a moment, then turned back to me, and gave me a hug. It took me completely by surprise. It was tentative at first, but then strengthened, until she was squeezing me with an almost aching intensity, and I was doing the same. Her hair was in my mouth. I felt the moisture of her face on my neck. The heat of our bodies pressed together. She pulled away and flashed me a look. A look that said—there is love. There is still love. And then she walked out, leaving me alone in the living room.
Paul returned after a minute and dropped another box down in the front hallway.
That’s the first carload, he said, straightening up. I’ll be back with the rest in forty.
I promised I would be ready to help on his return and tightened the sash around my bathrobe as I crossed towards him.
You better, he said, with mock seriousness. His armpits were damp. I could smell his aftershave.
It’s good to have you back, I said.
A slightly wistful look passed over his face. Hopefully, he said.
And then, for some reason, I chose that moment to remind him that I had therapy in the morning. He told me that he already knew that. And we have ours together on Tuesday, he said.
Sorry, I forgot we went over this. I also have an interview with the library on Monday, did I tell you that?
Oh good. No, you didn’t.
I told him that I wasn’t holding my breath. I suspected too many staff probably knew of me there. But I figured it was good to start getting myself back out there and looking. He suggested we talk more about it after he got back.
For sure, sorr
y, I said, batting the admin away with my hand.
He smiled at me—Hey, Little Bear.
Hey.
For a moment I wondered if we were going to kiss. Maybe just a peck on the cheek. Or even a hug. But as we stood there in front of each other it became clear that we were not ready for either. We probably wouldn’t be for some time.
Okay, he said.
I’ll be a whole new me when you get back, I said.
Please don’t be, he replied. I smiled. He then turned, and walked out the door. And I watched as he climbed into his car, the car that would soon be our car again, taking us to the supermarket, and appointments, and to visit Ashley on campus. Ashley sat in the front seat, waiting to go. I watched Paul knowing that, good to his word, he would be back in forty minutes with more boxes containing his things, which would soon merge back into the collective holdings of our house, and become indistinguishable again from my things. I watched as they pulled out of the driveway, and drove off down the street, before closing the front door, and returning to the silence of the house. Though of course it was not silence. I could hear the wind rustling the leaves outside. The purr of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The ambient thrum of the air conditioning as it passed through the ducts. My empty stomach made a sound like a motorcycle on the highway at a distance. I should make myself some toast, I thought.
I then remembered, with amusement, the look on Paul’s face when I told him that I had finished The Magic Mountain, and it occurred to me that I actually had no clear memory of the book’s final lines or images, and suspected that I may have fallen asleep before the actual end. I reached into the pocket of my bathrobe, and pulled out my phone. I found The Magic Mountain in my audiobooks, and scrolled to the end. I connected the phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the dining room and pressed play.
Adventures of the flesh and in the spirit, while enhancing thy simplicity, granted thee to know in the spirit what in the flesh thou scarcely couldst have done.
The narrator’s voice, as familiar to me now as an uncle’s voice or an ex-lover’s, filled the room. I leaned back against the dining table, and told Google to turn the volume up by two.
Moments there were, when out of death, and the rebellion of the flesh, there came to thee, as thou tookest stock of thyself, a dream of love. Out of this universal feast of death, out of this extremity of fever, kindling the rain-washed evening sky to a fiery glow, may it be that Love one day shall mount? And then, after a dramatic pause, the narrator concluded with Finis Operis.
The Listeners Page 24