The Liminal People

by Ayize Jama-everett

“Washington, D.C. The States.”

  “If you’re going to take the piss, come up with something better than George Washington University in Washington, D.C. Why not Timothy Leary Academy in Berkeley, California?” I wait for her to stop mocking me. “Why the bloody hell did you go to university there?”

  “I’m an American.” Tamara sits back a little and smiles. “My family, my home life . . . My brother was a lot like this Rajesh guy. He had powers and was a bully with them.”

  “Rapist?” she says, not caring who hears her.

  “No. Maybe. Truth be told, I don’t know. I . . . stopped him. Stopped him cold. But my family still didn’t trust me. Couldn’t understand what their boys had become, and why one was so different from the other. I was the good one, I guess. But they still couldn’t trust me. We barely spoke between the time I stopped my brother and when I went off to G.W.”

  I slurp down my mango lassi and start working on the soda when I realize I still haven’t answered her question. She pulls gently at the sleeves of her hoodie, containing her impatience the best way she can.

  “Because my brother was like me, and older, he taught me a lot about my powers early. I knew I was different before I was even your age. By the time I hit college, I was eager to learn everything I could about the body, how it worked. But I also knew I couldn’t have a lot of friends, or close friends anyway.”

  “Hold on, why’s that?” I hear concern for her own well-being in her heartbeat.

  “What do you think would happen if the norms of the world caught wind of what we can do? Do you think people like us would be worshipped, helped along, given a bit of a boost? Or do you think we’d get stuck in labs to be poked and prodded at until we die by norms we could take apart with a toothpick? At best, we’d be considered nothing more than freaks.” I sip on my soda, hard. When I’m done, the teenager takes the cup from me and sips some herself, nodding slowly. It makes it easier to continue.

  “I kept to myself for the most part. Took a lot of anatomy and physiology classes, neurochemistry, that kind of stuff. Learned early on how to be a paramedic. Figured it was a good way to earn money and practice my skills. One night we responded to a typical call, alcohol poisoning on campus. This guy is seizing, I mean the shakes and everything. He’s about to convulse so hard that he’ll snap his own back, but I’m not seeing him.”

  “You slipped.” Tamara smiles.

  “What?”

  “Your white screen. I just caught your first image of my mother.”

  “Watch that now,” I snap.

  “It wasn’t me. I mean not really. It was just so strong in your mind, when you look at me, you’re looking for her . . .” She stops speaking, looking away from the image in her mind and at me. “My God, you loved her from the first second you saw her.” Tamara states it for what it is, a fact.

  “For all the good it did me, yes. I loved her from the second I saw her shivering and scared, with a green beer bottle in her hand, wondering what was happening to her boyfriend. I almost blew my cover. I was looking at her for so long that her boyfriend died.”

  “What?”

  “For like a minute. Alcohol poisoning is no joke. But I got his heart pumping again. She thanked me, everybody at that party did, but that was it. I went my way and she went hers. I’d think about her. What she smelled like, how her fingers curved at an almost forty-five-degree angle, the sound of her pulse. These are the things people who can hear bodies listen for.”

  “So how did you end up being . . . friends?”

  “Smoking.” A mock look of disgust. “Yes, your mother smoked in college.”

  Tamara smiles. I’m thinking it’s a moment between us. Then I see it for what it really is, a grimace. We keep acting like the person we’re talking about isn’t dead. We keep talking around it.

  “You just walked up to her one day and said, ‘Can I bum a light?’” She’s back to the story. My history is her distraction. I let her do it. I know I won’t even start grieving until those deviant children are burnt and buried in unholy ground. But who am I to say what grieving should look like?

  “Close to it. I felt her pulse walking past my dorm, heard the sound the cilia in her lungs made when they caught nicotine. I paid attention to it all for a week, every night around the same time. I didn’t even have to look, just sensing her was enough. But then one night I felt an explosion in her brain. That’s the only way to describe it—words don’t work so well for what we do sometimes. Anyway, I ran downstairs, outside, but all I saw was her smoking. She saw me, remembered me, we started talking . . .”

  “What’s with the head exploding thing? I mean what is it?”

  “It’s what I feel whenever one of us uses their power while I’m ‘feeling’ them. I didn’t know that then. It’s not like we even talked about it until—”

  “This part I know.” She nods. “I can tell it to you, if you’d rather. Only, I get the sense it might be a different version than you remember.” It’s her kindness that’s confusing. She leans in and speaks slowly, as though I’m a child. “It’s just that my mother really and truly loved my father.”

  “Tell me what she told you.”

  “She said she was in a cabin with a friend from school. She had started fires when she was young, but an old Greek Orthodox priest performed an exorcism on her. It scared her so much she never used her powers again, until the cabin. She said you were cooking something and let the flames get too high. They caught the drapes, and it was a log cabin with a pump, and you couldn’t pump the water fast enough. So she had to talk the fire down. Tell it to snuff itself. And that was when she had to tell you what she could do.”

  “She tell you what I could do?”

  “Think she tried once, but I couldn’t really get it. Still don’t, really.”

  “She tell you we moved to London together?” Shock. She hits me on my arm. “Yes. Your mother and I were close right up until she met your father.”

  “How’d you get a visa?”

  “I told my dad I wanted to marry your mom.” When Tamara’s pulse slows back down, I speak again. “He was in military intelligence and had connections.”

  “Why did she break up with you?”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “You love her now. You loved her then. I don’t think you ever stopped loving her.”

  “These things we can do . . . we can drown in them. I did. All I wanted was to push myself, to see what I could heal, how much, how often, how much food and rest I’d need in order to perform what acts. I regrew a man’s arm muscles from almost nothing once. I slept for three days after. At the time, powers were all I cared about. But your mother was trying to get away from them. She wanted a normal life. Your father, he gave that to her. He loved her in a way I never could.”

  “Where did you go after my mum put you out?”

  “Story for another fucking time, kid. Let’s get a move on.”

  We get back to the tunnel after she makes a phone call. The next Bender party is two days away. At the squat, I tell Tamara to pack her things. It’s only after she’s done she asks why.

  “Two days from now, you and I may be dead. I’m not spending my last days in an abandoned tube station.” She nods in agreement, and we face the rain of London. It actually doesn’t matter to me where I spend my last days. But I can’t go into combat with someone unskilled and depressed. I’ve never had this kind of scrap with one of our kind, only heard about them. You ever hear about a whole town losing its memory, ships at sea that witness water doing things it shouldn’t, like talking, or ever just notice a large plot of land that never changes even though the entire neighborhood around it does? That’s my kind fighting in one form or another. Croatoan? That was us. My kind don’t fight often, because when we do, things get messy for everyone. We generally draw too much attraction to ourselves. An older liminal person (I like the name Samantha gave us), or even one my age, would know this—and we’d find a covert way to handle our differences.
These young ones blow up cars in public and attack with a neighborhood full of pets.

  We’re blunt instruments. Even one reckless blow from a hammer can cripple. So the child—no, I have to call her Tamara, she’s no one’s child anymore—Tamara is going to have to get good quick. And while anger’s not the best cure for depression, it will do in a pinch. Still, her smile emerging from the tunnel for the last time . . . I may die in a couple of days, but I’ll carry that smile with me.

  I don’t let her sleep until we’re properly installed in a new hotel, the Abbey Court in Notting Hill. It’s high-class for me, but I forget I’m carting a politician’s daughter in tow. Tamara shows an adequate amount of appreciation for a room of her own, aboveground, and giggles a little when I offer her the key card.

  “And where will you be?” I suddenly remember she’s only fourteen.

  “I’m next door. Don’t worry, I can feel if anything happens to you. I’ll be there.”

  “Promise?” She genuine. She believes the promise to be a legally binding contract. I nod. No smile. I treat it serious. She only hesitates for a second more before disappearing into her room.

  The shower feels like warm libations from Samantha’s loopy god down my back. I want to sleep in the shower. I’ve lost faith in my lack of a plan. With no backup from on high, it would seem that the simplest course of action would be to find Rajesh and liquefy his organs one by one until he tells me where his queen bee is. Then I get to kill him and . . . I don’t know what comes next. I’ve been so focused on killing Rajesh. But it will come together once we know what he does. That’s my hope, anyway, but I’ve never taken on three of us at once. Is this a mistake so grand that I’m just too small to see the flaws in my plan? Am I trying to take down a giant by breaking its toes? And what the fuck was up with the lion man?

  I dry off and go over everything that happened at Samantha’s house. Despite all the bells and whistles and sex, I was able to lie to Nordeen. I can’t take it to mean too much. We were on foreign terrain, and he was clearly not himself, but still I lied to him. Plus, he warned me against listening to Samantha, which is a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.

  Unless it’s all part of his game. Maybe he wants me with Samantha and her people; maybe he still has a drop on me that I don’t know about. I could be the Nordeen infection and not even know it. That’s how devious the man is.

  A knock on the door, and I scan the person on instinct. It’s Tamara. Her tear ducts are overactive. I race to the door in my towel and throw it open.

  “I can’t sleep. Can you put me to sleep? Like with your power?” I let her in and change in the bathroom. I’m about to use my power, but she’s already on my bed, only half awake. I sit on the side and pet her head like I used to do with her mother when finals were killing her. Just like her mom, she mumbles as she falls to sleep.

  “I know you lied,” she says, barely audible.

  “About what?”

  “No pain. Mommy was in pain.” I breathe in short and nod although she can’t see it. “I saw it all in your head. Thank you for lying to me.” She goes to sleep with those words.

  The carpet is soft enough for me to sleep on. I don’t bother with pillows. Some basic part of me doesn’t feel like I deserve them.

  “You can’t think about what you want to have happen,” I bark at Tamara. We’re in Trafalgar Square, and it’s lesson time. “You have to experience it before you see it, before you have any actual physical proof of it happening.”

  “Like imagination?” she asks, huffing to keep up. I bought her clothes. A thick white hooded sweatshirt and a pair of loose fitting black jeans make her androgynous and ambiguous in this public setting. She’s still technically considered missing by the government. Last thing I need is MI5 on my ass.

  “No,” I snap as I continue to walk, navigating around tourists. “Your imagination exists entirely in your mind. You play about in your head and expect the results of that play in your head. But you should never expect to see what you imagine in the real world.”

  “You’re saying when I turn it on, I should expect results before I see them?”

  “Exactly. If you don’t, everyone will play you for a novice.”

  “But suppose I screw up? I’ve done it before. I thought I’d pick up a table and end up picking up the floorboards.”

  “You didn’t screw up then, did you? Your act had real-world implications. You just lacked focus. Rather than putting your energy into the chair and then deciding to lift it, you focused on lifting, and when you were about to actualize, you pointed at the direction of the chair. Floorboards included.”

  “OK, got it, all good. But can you tell me why we’re walking around in circles?”

  I turn on her fast. “This is no meditation. You’ve got twenty-four hours to learn the basics of what it’s taken me years to figure out. And the first thing I learned was that you’ve always got to think on your feet. Do you understand me? They’ll always be norms around. Norms, noise, and distractions. Learn to use your power with all of it going on around you, and you’ve got the beginnings of skill. But if you’re waiting for the quiet room where you can close your eyes and focus, you’ll be dead before you matter. Get it?”

  She gives the quick nod. I feel like I just took away her favorite doll—the one named Sanity. But there’s no time to be subtle. I take the lead, and this time she stays at my right.

  “OK, across the square I want you to find a pebble, finger-sized or smaller. I want you to levitate it at eye level and bring it to me.”

  “People will see.”

  “Not if you cloud their perceptions at the same time.”

  “But this place is packed.” She’s almost whining. “I’ll get an aneurysm trying to touch this many minds at once.”

  “You wouldn’t get an aneurysm. I wouldn’t let you. And if you’re thinking ‘everyone’ is too hard, then why not just the people in direct proximity to the pebble?” What passes for a smile in a recently orphaned teenager crosses her face. It fades when she tries to sit down. “No sitting. We’re walking and talking while we do this.”

  It takes a good half hour of effort before she’s able to do it. Fifteen minutes into it I had to help. But not with the powers.

  “You taking a dump in your new clothes or something?”

  “Would you please shut up?” she growls, both with her voice and in my mind. She is powerful. A little more force and it would’ve been a command I’d feel compelled to follow.

  “Distractions are part of the game. And stop acting like this hurts.”

  “It’s hard.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s on the edge of pain. It’s uncomfortable. But you’re fine. Breathe. You’re not lifting any weight with your body, so relax your abdominal muscles. Get your heart rate to slow down. Relax into this. It’s what your mind does naturally.” She’s stubborn, so it takes her another five minutes to actually take my advice. But when she does, the pebble comes whizzing past my head.

  “I did it!” Tourists look confused as she tries to high-five me.

  “I said bring it to me, not try and kill me with it. Precision. It’s going to be the name of the game.”

  “But I got it across the square and no one noticed it.”

  “Child, if you were stripped naked and put in the middle of this square, you’d black out everyone’s memory of it before I could say ‘Boo.’”

  “But that would be different.”

  “The only difference is motivation. You’re not more powerful when you’re scared and nervous, just more motivated. Do it again, and remember why we’re here. Remember what we’re up against. You figured out that flying the pebble across the square was easier on the telepathy side, good. But I still need you to get the telekinetics tight enough to drop the pebble in my hand. Understand?” I guess it’s her turn to walk ahead of me.

  A minute later the pebble is levitating right in front of my hand. I snatch it out of the air and still feel her p
ower tugging at it until I speak. “Good job.”

  I make the next exercise harder. I cross the square and put a red X on a pebble. She’s got to use the eyes of people in the crowd to find it, then levitate it and send it to me. All without anyone noticing. Doesn’t take her long before she finds me hiding by the fountain. I’d changed my face. It didn’t delay her. She’s better at fourteen than most. Since I know she can read my thoughts, I send out a loud broadcast telling her its break time. She looks a little high when she comes to sit next to me. I hand her a soda. “You didn’t mention Prentis,” Tamara says after killing the can.

  “When?”

  “Talking about our plans. You said you’d take care of Rajesh and that I could deal with Alia, but you didn’t say anything about Prentis.”

  “What do you want to do about her?” The girl paces, not unlike her mother, rubbing the palms of her hands together as though she were trying to start a fire.

  “I want to let her go.”

  “Why?”

  “No offense, Taggert, but I don’t think a man like you will understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “She’s a victim, yeah? I mean the animal thing is cute and all, but she’s got nothing major like I do, or like that viral cunt Alia. And her whole life, she’s just been used all the time. Even before the powers. She’s more of a pet to everyone than anything else. I mean Alia tells her to jump, and she does. You can tell it’s only because she needs the protection. I know what’s she’s done, what she’s responsible for. But God forgive me, I still pity the girl.”

  “And I wouldn’t understand that because . . .”

  “Ah, look at you. International traveler, yeah? Mr. Important Man, you are. Plus, you’ve got the handle not only on your powers but others’ as well. You’ve got that shadow boss and all, but I bet he leaves you alone for the most part. Bet you don’t jump through hoops for no one.” The razor around my neck gets heavier with each passing word. I’m flushed in the face and will have to work on building up the back enamel in my teeth when I’m done grinding down on them, hard. She speaks of Prentis, and I think of myself. When this girl speaks about me . . . I am not the man she thinks she sees.