Clarity

by Myanne Shelley

Chapter 12

  I wished I could say my work weeks were less stressful these days. Shorter than Doug’s, yes, but hour to hour too many frustrations. Falsely imposed deadlines, unreasonable expectations of just how much could happen in a given amount of time, inflexible calendars. A whole group of people scheduling their time as if meetings always ended when they were supposed to, copiers never jammed, ones own emails got immediate responses while nobody else made sudden time consuming demands.

  And so on. Talk about complacency – I’d just gotten so damn bored with our endless overly optimistic reports to funders and repeated discussions of strategic plans and barely squeaked by deadlines.

  The daily bustle of mini-crises averted and worried colleagues actually made me look forward to my upcoming little meeting. This despite how vastly my impression of Daniel had changed from before, and I cringed now, even thinking about that initial school girl crush feeling. I just told Wally I had to be somewhere Wednesday afternoon, no apologies or excuses. Our work would get done, he knew it and I knew it even if a pair of new young agency colleagues were flipped out about compliance reporting.

  I left with time to spare that day, allowing time for transit mishaps or edgy nerves. I had dressed with a bit more thought than usual in the morning. Wanting to project confidence, to be able to walk comfortably, even run if needed (and I laughed at myself for thinking this, but still put on the stylish yet cushioned black flats). Daniel – assuming he showed up and didn’t somehow intuit that Kylie and I were onto him – would see a woman who might be older but who had not completely lost the vigor and confidence of her prime.

  I nabbed a seat on the streetcar, glad to sit but also relieved not to be taking the last seat. Or worse, having been offered one from some polite young person, because of course I wanted to encourage such gracious behavior even as it bummed me out to be the recipient. I pulled out a section of yesterday’s paper to look at, though that made me feel all the more self-conscious. Talk about marking yourself as elderly: a newspaper at all, and not even today’s.

  Newspaper readers were mostly white hairs, I observed, and few and far between. Most people here had tabs or phones, or sat, faces impassive and unlined, as ear buds played a private sound track. More people crowded on at Castro and at Church, and I cast my eyes downward. The crowd made me nervous and uncomfortable. I thought about Kylie, trying to cope with this every day.

  I wondered now, if I was extra conscious of my own reactions simply from having listened to her. Empathetic listening, wasn’t that one of the terms on that website? And I’d empathized it right into my own psyche now, my nerves jangled as if wired to the tension of everyone pressed around me. Whatever you wanted to call it, some extra dimensional tapping of others, energy fields or plain misplaced anxiety, it was no fun for the person experiencing the sensations.

  The lights on the streetcar flashed off for a moment, then back on. Faces around me suddenly blared into sight, though few expressions changed. One or two people who were reading actual pages looked vaguely annoyed. The floor here, where I cast my eyes again to keep from observing anyone else’s nervous expression, was filthy. I imagined all the crap that had been dropped or tracked here, the thousands of people who had stepped on and off since this car had been thoroughly cleaned. The image of all those people compressed through time made the pressure of those present even more oppressive.

  Heat began to radiate up from my chest and I felt my cheeks turn pink and my breath grow shallow. I raised my hand to my hair, lifting it briefly from my neck, desperate to feel cool air. The young woman beside me gave me a quick hostile look and pulled away from me. Could she tell about my hot flash, or was she just giving a possible crazy lady elbow room.

  In any case, I stood, muttering a quick excuse me to everyone I jostled as I squeezed to the door. I didn’t care, I’d walk the extra blocks, arrive late, I just wanted out of there.

  Climbing the escalator to the street, the slight breeze soothed me. Never mind that this section of Market Street was noisy, cluttered and busy, at least it was open to the sky. I made my way sternly down the sidewalk, averting my eyes from the less savory sights, the wretched panhandlers and aggressive looking young people taking up too much of the sidewalk.

  At least the worst of the heat departed, and with it the grimmest of my inner turmoil. I turned, trying to remember which corner we were to meet – there were Starbucks on every one down here, it seemed.

  I located the café and Daniel sitting in it at the same time. Blushed again, from sheer nerves, I hoped, and entered slowly, purposely taking slow deep breaths. I placed a quick order and joined him in a quiet little alcove. I wasn’t a big fan of the whole faux café chain, but had to admit the pleasant décor, rich roasting smells, and lilting music made a welcome change from the chaos of the street.

  Daniel tipped his cup toward me, eyes just slightly crinkled in that charming half smile of his. He patted his netbook, saying he wouldn’t take notes but that he had emailed me some text to look at, wondering if he thought I’d captured the essence of Della’s story. So delightful, he added, he was so glad he’d had the chance to get acquainted.

  I was hyper aware of the possible visual manifestations of my reactions to anything he said. I focused on my coffee, taking tiny sips, and on the odd, kitschy artwork on the wall.

  “But to be honest, there was something else I wanted to mention,” Daniel went on, “and I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but it stems from my deep respect for you, and concern.”

  I couldn’t help it, I tuned directly back to his face, which was tilted toward me, a veritable river of compassion streaming across it.

  “A couple things came up during my discussion with the ladies, your friends at the convalescent home,” he continued. “Nothing direct, of course, but what they said and what you’ve told me – well, putting it all together with some of my research, I’m a little worried that you may have suffered some abuse. Back in your childhood, I mean. There are some fairly standard signals, characteristics, if you will, of people with repressed memories.” Here he paused, eyes sparkling.

  I blinked back in surprise. Not what I expected to hear in the slightest, and it almost made me laugh. Was Daniel unreadable, was I not as perceptive as I’d recently become convinced I was? “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I temporized.

  “Clarissa,” he murmured, voice low. “I think you do. You’ve described the sudden remembrance of physical sensations, a new awareness of painful memories, awakening with the knowledge of tragic news. Your parents were remote, your childhood seemed riddled with dark silences. I wonder if there are periods you can’t remember? Instances when, looking back, you don’t really recall the time passing, just that it had passed?”

  My mind obediently drifted back, and I swallowed the knee jerk or sarcastic responses that immediately came to mind. Could I remember all of fourth grade from forty years ago – absurd. No one could. But rather than bark that question back to him, I said, “Daniel, I realize how it must sound, that I had forgotten or set aside my own awareness of my mother’s pain. But if anything, I’ve been burdened by remembering too much. You know, mulling over whole conversations, or recalling slights that other people have long forgotten.”

  “Of course,” he said. His face said this reaction was not a surprise at all. “It could possibly be nothing. Just, I would have been remiss in not at least bringing it up. In my research, I’ve encountered any number of people who make one discovery that’s lodged somewhere way back,” he tapped his head, eyes all sympathy, “and later it leads to others. Sometimes unpleasant things, yes, but things it’s important for them to work through.”

  Things that you plan to take advantage of, I thought, things you’ll sell the damn software for. I eyed him warily – just how perceptive was he, could he tell the direction of my thoughts? “I don’t see much point in looking backward,” I quickly said. “My interest from
the start was figuring out how and why I’ve come to know certain things. Know them before I’m supposed to. I don’t want to go around feeling other people’s pain,” I added lightly, “and I’m pretty sure my memory is well intact.”

  Daniel nodded. “You may find—well, other people have found, that sometimes looking into the past can help locate a path to understanding their reactions and perceptions in the present. There are a number of emerging therapies that could be quite helpful. Revealing.”

  I glanced toward the door. Where was Kylie; she planned to ambush us within minutes of our meeting time.

  “Just something to think about,” he added. “In your own time.”

  Again, my mind drifted backwards. I felt lulled by his words, by the lack of pressure. It was the tone of that website, I thought. You’re smart and self aware, you’ll come to this conclusion on your own. “So you just thought to tell me about this,” I finally answered, taking a deep breath, deciding I would have to challenge him on my own. “That I may have repressed memories. I may need therapy. You wouldn’t happen to have any secondary financial interest in the topic?”

  The tiniest flash of anger touched his expression, which quickly blinked to an open and smiling expression of mild surprise. “Of course I’m interested in the topic. . .” his voice stopped, attention shifting to over my shoulder.

  I turned and calmly greeted Kylie, who shrugged off her jacket and dragged a chair up next to mine.

  No doubt this time – Daniel looked annoyed. He said nothing, but looked back and forth between us. I had been blind to it before, but he clearly preferred charming the ladies one at a time.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Kylie said.

  “I was just, um, broaching the topic,” I muttered back to her.

  She tapped onto her phone and held it up to him. “Look familiar?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he answered, but his blasé tone was contradicted by a sudden nervous shift in his posture. “I’m familiar with any number of organizations and websites. I’ve been researching this whole topic, as you’re no doubt aware.”

  Kylie shook her head. I could tell she was nervous being this confrontational, but she held her ground. “No, Daniel, not from doing research. From your creation. From your soliciting possible clients and writing about investment opportunities.” She glared at him. “Dan C. Lassen, financial advisor, developer of innovative new software systems, expert at convincing the lonely and rich to part with their money.”

  He and I both stared back at her. Kylie riled up was a force to be reckoned with, that was plain. She wasn’t going to back down easily, I – and presumably Daniel too – could see. “Assuming that’s even me,” he began. At her look, he continued, “Yes, I’ve published some material under that variation of my name. I’m a writer, Kylie, it’s not unusual.” (His tone was perfect, I thought – a combination of competent and gentle, with just a touch of condensation toward her presumed inexperience in life at her tender age.)

  “You’re not just a writer,” she shot back. “You’ve been out there representing yourself as this nice researcher who’s just writing his story, and all along you’re also, like, soliciting potential clients. You’re selling software to therapists and recruiting the people who’ll need it. Are you going to be a therapist too – that’s the only part we couldn’t figure out.”

  Daniel glanced my way. “So you’re in on this too?” His expression now looked weary. “Either one of you could have just asked me, there’s no need for the hostility I’m picking up here.”

  “That’s another thing,” I added. “You seem to be pretty capable of sensing other people’s emotions, considering how often you act like this is all new to you.”

  I watched his eyes narrow and then what seemed like a blanket drop across his features. Eyes and mouth neutral, body still, he answered calmly, “Naturally, I may have picked up a trick or two. As you have, Clarissa, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s not really the point here, is it? Like Kylie said, I’m not the going around pretending this is all brand new to me. While chatting up who knows how many possible clients.”

  “Get this,” Kylie added to me. “I found out he went to a big meeting of therapists, some holistic alternative conference. Collected business cards and talked about his quote research there too, when you know he’s going to be after them for business.”

  “What, are you following me,” Daniel demanded, the gentleness gone from his voice. “Do you think anyone would have a problem with me attending a public gathering and speaking to people about the topic of interest? Is it possible you have a bit too much empty time on your hands?”

  “Please don’t steer this away from our point,” I jumped in, since Kylie looked a bit stricken by his question. “Feel free to go where you want. Write what you want and invest in your wonderful therapeutic remedies. But we have a problem with how you misrepresented yourself to us. And to God knows how many other people who have genuine concerns.”

  “Listen, ladies,” Daniel said, deeper condensation in his voice and manner, “since you’re so concerned, I will be happy to delete any references to your particular stories from my articles right now. No biggie.” His eyes moved between us, and he continued, “If you ever do happen to read any of these pieces, you’ll see that my interest in genuine. The research is sound. And yes, maybe I’ve got a so called psychic side, but that only makes it easier to relate to all of you.”

  “Yeah, you relate to us, ‘all’ of us, by acting like we have the most amazing gifts you’ve ever imagined,” Kylie said. “Then you worm your way in there all sympathetic, and next you’ll be setting us up with your fine new therapy plan.”

  “Excuse me for wanting to help,” he sighed.

  I watched his face, searching for anything that would clue me in to whether his hurt tone was real. I couldn’t tell; I was too far in, too focused. Or he was too good at masking his true nature. “I can’t tell just what your motivations are,” I said, honestly. “But Daniel – neither of us want to just let this go.” I glanced at Kylie for confirmation. “I mean enough with the collection of needy sensitives, okay? We’ve got enough to deal with, we don’t need somebody trying to sell us on expensive software too.”

  He sighed again, looking put upon.

  “We’re serious,” Kylie said. “You’ve got to promise you’ll stop suckering people or we will publicly out you.” She gestured to her phone, sitting on the table between them. “It wouldn’t be hard at all. What with my spare time and everything.”

  I wondered just what nerve he had hit with her, not able to recall her having told me much beyond the sort of basic dissatisfaction with her working life that I took for granted in a younger person. Daniel, meantime, was doing that silent thing of his. Kylie’s words hung in the air for us all to examine, while he sat there, absolutely expressionless.

  Finally, he looked toward me, weary eyes asking mine if I would also be so difficult and immature. “I’m with her,” I told him. “I didn’t appreciate your barging in on my friends, or insinuating that I need therapy. And I might have been flattered by your interest at first, but not now that I see that this is just part of your business model.”

  “Let me try to be polite about this,” he snapped back, his voice anything but. “Anything you think you can do online to my name and my image and so on, will come back to haunt you as you can’t even imagine. You might be able to anger a couple old school editors or turn off a few readers. But – I don’t want to but I could – I could counter back in ways that are deep and personal.” He glared between us. “I don’t think any of us want to go there.”

  I felt a tinge of nausea on top of clammy heat rising from my core. I thought of Doug, of Daniel writing some screaming headline about the two of us, spewing his name and my craziness for all his peers to see.

  But Kylie’s expression was an absolute sneer. “Please,” she said, with a wither
ing eye roll, “you really think you’re going to put something up that’s not already up on Facebook? Or that you could get anyone to take your random postings seriously? Have you been online lately?”

  Daniel didn’t respond, at least not verbally. He tossed his cup into the compost bin and slapped his computer into his bag. He shot me a narrow eyed, assessing look. “I guess I won’t follow up with you after all, so just ignore my email, would you? And thanks,” he added sarcastically, “for coming down here for coffee.”

  Implicit, or at least so I imagined, was a caution that I’d best reason with young Kylie, lest she start some crazy bout of impugning both our images, online and in the world. I watched him stalk out the door, almost running down a pair of giggling and texting young men hovering there.

  Kylie stood up too. She hadn’t even bought a drink, and she looked almost as out of breath as when she’d arrived. Though less nervous. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” she said. “I barely got here, we had this stupid thing come up—anyway, I’ve got to get back there. I’ll call you tonight?” She yanked on her jacket. “That was kind of fun, actually. He looked pretty damn surprised.”

  “Yeah, but wait – this is kind of crazy, what he said. I can’t have him writing personal stuff about me. He’s got a built in readership. He could be putting stuff up right now.”

  She paused, shaking her head. “He’s not going to risk anything like that, I’m pretty sure. We just put him on notice. This was bound to happen at some point, you know? I’ll text him, if it’ll make you feel better. Gotta run.” She hurried out the door.

  I stayed put. Around me, airy conversations swirled. Other people sat texting or typing; I was the only one with a cup of coffee as my sole occupation. Self-consciously, I got out my phone.

  I didn’t want to be one of those people unable to just exist in the world without a device in my hand and the thumbs up following of a social media clique. But at the moment, I felt like I was headed off the deep end. My mind spinning out a thousand worries of all the things Daniel might do online, might be already doing, and how Doug would react, how to break it to him, how to go to work in the morning if my name was somehow publicized in the ominous ways Daniel had threatened. Had he specified anything? I didn’t think so, but that just made it worse – a whole world of possibilities expanded like a virus in my mind.

  Sitting alone in a public place wasn’t helping. I was conscious of my own plainly wracked nerves, my shakiness and inner body heat. Plus other people’s voices and faces intruded – the sound of false laughter, jittery tension from people waiting for their drinks, busy, late and stressed. It all seemed to compress around me. My own breath panted rapid and shallow, almost in rhythm.

  Is this what a crisis feels like, I asked myself, suddenly thinking of Mags. How she knew she was having the stroke but fell, powerless to stop it and powerless even to call for help. I pressed fingers to my forehead, willing myself to be calm. To just get through the rest of this afternoon, and take on anything else later.

  Because it did feel like a direction I could set for myself, I realized. Since Yvette had died, since that voice had come to me again, since I’d started investigating instead of ignoring its meaning, different futures had presented themselves. Now here I sat in a busy downtown Starbucks, trying to choose between my prior life of literal meanings and smooth, dull relationships, or maybe opening to greater abilities from within, to living on a deeper, more open emotional level.

  Despite how wound up and overheated I felt, it was hard to imagine returning to my old tricks of just tuning everything out. Settling back with my soothing little routines, with Doug, with only our retirement and quiet decline to look forward to. If I could just make it out of this place right now, I thought. Be quietly alone for a little while, away from the buzzing in and out of my own head.

  I picked up the phone again. A quick scroll, and there appeared numbers for Curtis, Daniel and Doug right in a row. Three people I had trusted. Two of whom I could still count on, I thought. My finger hovered for a moment before I clicked Curtis.

  He answered right away, and his voice in my ear began to flush out some of the crazy. I assured him things were fine with his mom – poor thing, that’s the main reason I ever called. And told him just the briefest outline of what had just transpired, my hand cupped around the phone so as not to broadcast it to those around me. Anymore than it already had been? Though no one had paid much attention to us, I realized. This, oddly, made me feel calmer too. You had to be seriously loud and nuts to even get noticed around here.

  Curtis, ever gracious and ever my friend, heard me out. He didn’t laugh or deny what I was telling him, and even googled my name as we talked, assuring me nothing new beyond my dull work bio and a couple references to people clearly not me were showing up.

  “You remember my parents,” I added, just to be sure. “You don’t remember them doing anything that might be considered abusive, do you?”

  He laughed. “Of course not. We saw you guys all the time. My mom never would have been friends with your parents if they’d hurt you. Anyway, you just told me the guy who said this was a fraud.”

  “Well, he’s full of it, but he’s perceptive too.” But mostly, he just wanted me to need what he was selling, I thought. I was perceptive too, and bottom line, that much was clear.

  “Was there something going on that none of us knew about, you think?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.

  “No. I’m sure there wasn’t.” Images of both my parents hovered in my mind. How shy they were out in the world, how gentle they were with each other. And with me. “I’m sorry,” I added. “I don’t think I’m really as crazy as I sound.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, you sound about as crazy as you always do.” This was teasing, and I could hear in his voice that he had judged I was okay. Back to normal.

  “Gee, thanks.” My voice sounded better, and my body felt cooler. I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say to Doug about this. If anything. He got mad when I interviewed as an anonymous source.”

  “Well, you should probably mention it,” Curtis said. “I mean didn’t you say something about being truthful to each other when you stood up and took vows?”

  “God, you remember that?” Those handwritten and heartfelt vows Doug and I recited at our wedding. It seemed so long ago now; less than a decade, but the mid-2000s seemed a bloated, optimistic, bygone era.

  “I’m thinking he will too,” Curtis laughed. “Just be straight with him. It sounds like you misjudged this dude a little bit; that might actually make Doug feel okay.”

  He had a point. We chatted for a couple more minutes, and by the time we hung up, I felt better. If not my normal self, at least on even enough keel to splash my face in the bathroom and proceed back toward home. Okay enough to face the next hours and weeks, not giving in to the temptation to just shut it all down again and go back to ignoring the pulse of the world around me.