Neptune's Tears

by Susan Waggoner

  She knew Mrs Hart was telling her this for a reason. Just a few minutes ago, Zee had given her a slightly sugar-coated version of what had happened with David, tears and all.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Mrs Hart continued. ‘You’re thinking it’s easy for me to say because everything is settled. Well, you’re right in that. It’s been a century since I was your age, but I do remember what it’s like, all that uncertainty and doubt. And you’re thinking of that young man of yours, aren’t you? The one who ran off without a trace?’

  Zee nodded. ‘I can’t imagine never seeing him again.’ Even if it costs my life, she added silently.

  Ellie Hart laid her hand over Zee’s. ‘There are times, dear, where nothing short of following one’s heart will do. Give your heart time, Zee. It will tell you what to do.’

  Time? Zee couldn’t imagine spending more days in the turmoil she’d been in since David left. ‘What do I do until then?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘That one’s easy. When you can’t be of use to yourself, be useful to others. Keeps the forward momentum going.’

  Two nights later was Zee’s regular Friday overnight shift. Halfway through her three a.m. break, her handheld began to vibrate.

  Want 2 assist o.b. case?

  It was from Dr Onyango, whom she’d done a maternity rotation with. Though empaths all did a stint in obstetrics, they seldom got called in on cases until they had more experience and advanced training. Births were tricky because two lives were involved, and it wasn’t always easy to separate the tangled impulses of mother and child. Zee lost no time. B there in 5, she replied.

  ‘I was relieved to see your name on the duty list tonight, Zee,’ Dr Onyango said. ‘We only have one O.B. empath on, and she’s handling a complicated multiple birth. Here’s the bullet. Patient is two or three hours away from delivery and proceeding fine, except she’s literally terrified of giving birth. She’s so afraid of damage that she’s guaranteeing herself just that unless she can relax. You remember how the tissues have to stretch and relax to let the baby’s head emerge?’ Zee nodded. ‘Good. That’s what we need to let happen here. I sent her patient notes to your handheld. See what you can do and I’ll stop by in twenty minutes or so to check progress.’

  Zee loved the way Dr Onyango could convey information so rapidly without seeming rushed or impatient. It was her voice, Zee decided, low and musical and calm. It made her want to visit Kenya, where Dr Onyango was from, to see if everyone talked like that.

  She did a double take when she saw the patient’s name: Clara Miller. Of course, there must be dozens of Clara Millers in the UK, probably at least a dozen in London alone. But the case notes made it clear – this was the Clara Miller, the first female swimmer to win five gold medals in a single Olympics. Zee had been eleven at the time and idolised her. Now she was going to help her deliver her baby.

  Dr Onyango hadn’t exaggerated. Clara Miller’s short, dark hair framed her white, clenched face against the pillow and her knuckles, gripping the bed rail, were blotched with white. The only spot of colour in the room was a vase of fucshia-pink gladioli.

  ‘Beautiful flowers,’ Zee said, trying to gauge the vibe in the room. Obstetric empaths seldom met their patients in advance. They had to build a connection quickly and get to work as fast as possible.

  ‘They’re from my husband,’ Clara said. ‘He’s on his way, but he was coaching at the South African world finals and won’t be here in time. I can’t . . . I don’t think I can do this without him.’

  Zee didn’t argue. She already had a different strategy in mind. ‘The world swimming finals? Oh my God, is your husband Jeff McDonald? And you’re Clara Miller?’ She sounded surprised, even to herself. Some patients felt spied on if they knew you’d read their records, and letting a natural conversation unfold built trust. ‘I can’t believe it! I had a Clara Miller gym bag and a Clara Miller swimsuit and goggles, even a towel, I think. I had everything Clara Miller – except your backstroke. I never could do it. My dad was so patient – he’d float me on the water and I’d be flying along – then I’d realise his hands weren’t under me any more and I’d go down like a stone.’

  Clara’s face brightened as if to say, Oh this – THIS – is something I understand! ‘Common scenario,’ Clara said. ‘And it’s not too late, you know.’

  ‘I think it might be,’ Zee said. ‘I tend to panic on my back.’

  ‘Let me guess – your hips go down first, right? And you kind of fold up?’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ Zee said, though nothing like that had ever happened to her. She’d taken to the backstroke like a duck to water. ‘That’s just what happens. What am I doing wrong?’

  ‘You’re fighting the water,’ Clara said. ‘When you were a kid and thought your dad was supporting you, it was really the water. You relaxed into it and let it carry you. But when you realised your dad wasn’t there, you fought the water, and the instinctive move then is to fold up like a clam.’ A bit of colour had come back into Clara’s face. ‘You can never win fighting the water. You have to go with it.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that next time,’ Zee said.

  Clara gave a little laugh. ‘Call me if you need a reminder. Oh, oh, here comes another labour pain.’ She gritted her teeth and gripped the bed rail so hard Zee could see the tendons in her arm tighten.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Zee said. ‘Think of it as a wave – a big, blue wave. Relax into it and let it carry you.’

  Zee closed her eyes and used the wave to start building a healing bridge, this time a bridge with lap lanes and lots of calm blue water. When Clara’s breathing slowed and evened, Zee knew she’d caught the other end of the bridge, and when the next contraction came she winced but no longer seemed fearful.

  ‘Was that easier?’ Zee asked.

  ‘Actually, it was. Still hurt like holy hell though. Don’t tell anyone I said that. The press loves to catch celebrities swearing. Very embarrassing.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe,’ Zee assured her.

  Dr Onyango arrived in time for the next contraction. ‘You’re progressing well,’ she told Clara. ‘How’re you doing with the contractions? Still begging for a C-section?’

  ‘No, I think I can do this now.’

  ‘Great work, Zee.’ Dr Onyango glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I think you can go back now, but if you swing by the nursery in three or four hours, the baby should be here.’

  ‘You’re sending her away? Please, can’t she stay? Since my husband isn’t here, I really need someone. Please?’

  Zee felt a ripple of excitement. She’d helped during a labour before, but she’d never been at an actual birth. Three hours and sixteen minutes later, when the blue-blanketed bundle of baby boy was put into Clara’s arms, she felt as tired and as exhilarated as anyone else in the room. No wonder they call it labour, she thought.

  ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Clara beamed.

  Despite a slightly pointy head and a face like a squinched-up rose, Zee was surprised at just how beautiful he was.

  As she walked away from the room, Zee realised that her face was wet with tears. Dr Onyango said it was a common response, something that had to do with female hormones. That didn’t seem like a big enough explanation to Zee. Right now, Clara Miller’s baby was losing himself to baby concerns. I’m tired. Where did that breast go? I like the way she holds me. But Zee had been there when he’d arrived from parts unknown, wrapped in layers of mystery. Hours ago, in a place without hours, he’d floated in a firmament of stars. What kind of world had been his then? What dreams had he brought, so magnificent the merest flashes would carry him through an entire existence?

  Her tears were tears of awe.

  The next morning Clara’s husband would arrive and see his son for the first time. At this thought, Zee felt the divesting wall, the mental barrier that separated her self from her work, begin to crumble. It was impossible to imagine that reunion and not envy Clara. Her life was so settled, the path t
o happiness so clear, whereas Zee’s own life was anything but clear. She wondered if she would ever have what Clara had. Not on this planet, she thought with a sudden sense of longing. Not with David. Her longing became a knife point and her tears began in earnest.

  By the time Zee got home it was seven-thirty a.m., and all she wanted was the comfort of sleep and maybe a hologram running in the background. She activated the wall screen and scrolled through several pages before she settled for catching up on episodes of Survivor: The Mars Edition. She drifted off to people yelling about freezing temperatures and no drinking water and woke up to the same thing. Only the yelling she woke up to sounded much more desperate, and it soon became apparent that she’d left the realm of reality holovision and was getting the live news default channel.

  ‘Every building!’ a woman was saying in accented English. ‘The Corniche, the roads, every building within at least a mile inland. All of Beirut is gone. The dust and debris is so thick you can see nothing, not even the sun.’

  Zee sat bolt upright. It was the song, the one that had been playing in her head since before her birthday. Until the sun leaves the sky.

  ‘For those of you just joining us, we’re continuing with live coverage of the Beirut earthquake. Striking at eight-fourteen this morning, the quake, now estimated at nine-point-five on the Richter scale, levelled virtually all of Beirut’s buildings and caused a massive tsunami throughout the Mediterranean area. Here again is the stunning footage taken by a news crew from their studio on Mount Lebanon.’

  Zee found herself staring at a panoramic view of a beach – only the beach extended for what looked like miles, taking up the space where the sea should have been. Until the sea runs dry.

  Along the beachfront, thousands of people gathered, hypnotised by the sight. More and more people joined them, though whether it was to escape the ruined buildings or to look at the eerily empty sea wasn’t clear. A thin dark line appeared on the far horizon and rapidly thickened, sweeping towards the beach with alarming speed. The crowd now turned and tried to run to higher ground, but was blocked by the human tide still arriving. The black line of the tsunami rushed forward and Zee, unable to look away, watched as it engulfed thousands of people and slammed inland with them.

  ‘The main wave was an estimated sixty metres high, travelling at speeds in excess of six hundred miles per hour,’ the presenter was saying. ‘As might be expected, the majority of those on the beach are now feared dead. To recap, the quake struck without warning at eight-fourteen a.m. and lasted for approximately one minute, levelling most of Beirut and its suburbs. Red Cross and Red Crescent agencies worldwide are banding together to send aid. Thought to be stronger and certainly more lethal than Beirut’s legendary 551 A.D. earthquake . . .’

  Zee could not get the phrase struck without warning out of her head. There had been a warning. She had received it. But she’d been so caught up in her own concerns she’d been blind. Before she could change her mind, she found the slip of paper her adviser had written the Psi Centre’s number and address on and made an appointment to be tested.

  CHAPTER 12

  JOURNEYS

  Almost half a million people had been killed in the earthquake and tsunami. Zee wrote the number on a card and put it in her wallet as a reminder. She never again wanted to feel as useless as she’d felt watching the tsunami wash over Beirut. Empathy was a skill that many people had an affinity for and a fair number chose to develop. There was no shortage of empaths in the world. There was, however, a shortage of diviners. No matter what her adviser had said about the choice being hers, the misinterpreted song and its devastating consequences had changed everything. If she had abilities that could be developed to save even one life, there was no choice.

  She knew very little about the tests themselves. She’d been told only that they’d take the better part of a day and she shouldn’t plan on doing anything strenuous that evening. Zee, who did fine with patients but not so well as a patient, began to imagine mild electronic shocks and needles extracting blood.

  To calm herself as she walked to the building, she thought of the evening ahead. She and Rani were having a night in, just like they used to when they were students. Only now they had salaries, so instead of fish and chips – or sometimes just chips – Zee was picking up two orders of artichoke pasta, garlic bread and stuffed mushrooms on the way home. Rani was in charge of entertainment and pudding, and had told Zee she’d got in a basket of fresh strawberries, three different kinds of cream, series one of Stranded! and this year’s Best of Janies winner, Punk and Prejudice. And at some point in all this, Zee was going to enlist Rani’s help in what she’d come to think of as Plan A, the next step in her personal life. Rani already knew Zee was testing this afternoon, and the awed, slightly gobsmacked look had returned to her face. That plus a lot of whipped cream and strawberries would probably do it.

  The offices of the Psi Centre were bland to the point of arousing Zee’s suspicion. Everything in the reception area existed in a narrow colour spectrum, ranging from cream to pale caramel. But the person who greeted Zee and introduced himself as Major Hamish Dawson, Special Air Service Counter-Terrorism and Anarchy, retired, offered a completely logical explanation.

  ‘We don’t want to inadvertently seed people’s minds and skew the results,’ he said, leading her down a long corridor. ‘We work with a lot of International Anti-Terrorist Forces, you know, and have a lot of military on staff. Some government efficiency expert came around once and hung a lot of battle scenes and whatnot on the walls, to “make us feel as one”. A greater mental maelstrom you have never seen. We didn’t get reliable readings for over a month. Well, here we are then.’

  He led her into a small office and motioned her to a chair. Zee was relieved to note that they hadn’t passed any medical-looking rooms. ‘I’ll be supervising your tests today, but let’s get to know each other a bit first.’

  What followed was a conversation Zee recognised as a verbalised version of a codified personality test designed to weed out subjects whose temperament or motives were unsuitable. Did she realise the work was essentially unpaid? That any work she did would become property of the Psi Centre and/or its clients? That the government would necessarily open and maintain a file on her? That should her identity become known, she would most likely get death threats? And finally, why did she want to be come a diviner?

  ‘Actually, I don’t,’ Zee answered. She told him how happy she was being an empath, and how three incidents had intruded on this happiness – the day in the hospital when she caught the thoughts and emotions of victims of the simultaneous shock bombings, the day at Blackfriars Bridge when she’d known beyond a doubt that the fifth ambulance in line had a bomb in it, and most recently the tsunami. ‘I’d rather this wasn’t happening, but since it is, if there’s a way it can help people, well . . . at least there’s a purpose.’

  There were a dozen different tests, all of which she did more than once in what Major Dawson called ‘runs’. Some of the tests were fascinating and absorbing, more like puzzles or games, while some were so pointless they made her want to scream. Like predicting what the next card to be turned up from a deck would be, or being asked to pick five winning lottery numbers from a grid. These two in particular irritated her, and of course they were the ones Major Dawson wanted to do ten runs of each. Other tests were more interesting, like one where an office envelope containing a picture was placed in front of her and she was asked to describe the picture in words or by sketching it without opening the envelope.

  Her two favourite tests involved a large transparent box. The first one Major Dawson referred to as The Cube. Lying on the bottom of an empty plexi-glass box measuring about a half-metre on each side was a glowing, cherry-red disc. When Zee slipped on a pair of membrane-thin sensor gloves, she could move the disc by moving her hands. Major Dawson asked her to think of the box as a large area, like an office building.

  ‘A target has already been placed there at random
but is hidden from you at present,’ he explained. ‘Imagine the target is a hostage who needs to be rescued and place the disc next to where you believe the hostage is.’

  Zee did and when the disc was where she wanted it, pressed a button. A blue disc instantly appeared just a few centimetres away. Zee’s results were so unusual that after a run of ten, the Major still asked her to repeat the test. Of her first ten trials, the cherry disc was almost exactly on top of the blue one in half of them. In the other half, it was almost as far away as it could be.

  ‘I think you’re trying to predict where the target will be,’ the Major explained. ‘So if it was in the top right corner one time, you think it will be in the lower left the next. But the target is placed totally at random. It could as easily be in exactly the same place the next time. Try not to predict where it might be, just feel where it is.’

  Zee tried to follow his advice, which wasn’t easy. How could you feel something in an empty space? You had to clear your mind and act on pressures so slight it was impossible to be consciously aware of them. On the second round, she wasn’t sure if she was finding a way into the problem or simply guessing and placing the disc rapidly out of frustration. Whether it was skill or luck, she improved the success rate to seven out of ten.

  But it was the final test that was her favourite. Major Dawson brought out another plexi-glass box shaped like an oversized shoebox. It was nearly a metre in length and completely empty. Unlike the Cube, there was no glowing disc inside and no pair of gloves to wear. The test must have been the Major’s favourite too, because he set it in front of her with a flourish, as if he were a waiter serving a slice of thirteen-layer chocolate cake.