Touch

by Courtney Maum

  “Honey!” exclaimed her mother. “I can’t believe you’re on TV!”

  Sloane couldn’t keep from laughing. Nothing she had accomplished had ever really made sense to Margaret. But breaking up with Roman, being on a national news program, being joined at the hospital by a man who seemed to care about her, these things did.

  “It appears I am,” she said.

  “Well, what are you going to do now?” Margaret asked, excited.

  “There’s nothing to do,” Sloane said. “I quit.”

  “But Roman! Honey,” she said, looking over at Leila. “Jin! You didn’t say!”

  “You know he’s twenty-eight, right?” Leila said. “Did she tell you that?”

  “I thought he might be even younger.” Her mother laughed.

  Across from her, Harvey looked just as stunned as Sloane to be part of a moment that universally translated into them functioning as a family. Could it be this easy? Did Margaret only need to see that Sloane loved Leila as much as she always had to make everything all right?

  “If you’re all done making fun of me, can I get an update on the baby?”

  “Oh, he’s doing better,” said Margaret, pleasure running through her like a glass becoming full. “The doctor says that at the end of the week, Leila might be able to hold him. And maybe this weekend the breathing pipe can come out.”

  “And he’s gained five ounces.” Leila beamed.

  “Oh, Leila, that’s so wonderful,” Sloane said. “Name?”

  “We really do like Bird,” she said, “But he’ll probably be teased.”

  “Do you know they have forty-two days in the U.K. to decide?” said Margaret. “Leila looked it up.”

  “We have until we leave the hospital,” Leila said. “And with the state of this mother/son team, that could be a while.”

  “Well,” said Harvey, his attention returned to the muted television showing a clip of Roman walking through the greenmarket in his Zentai suit. “We’re not naming him Roman, that’s for freaking sure.”

  34

  That night, with Jin beside her, Sloane couldn’t sleep. It was the presence of his body, the steadying companionship that would be taken away from her with the work day’s alarm clock, but it was also the visions and the TV clips and all the visual noise that came with them.

  She’d seen more of herself on television. Everywhere, she, Roman, Mammoth . . . all difficult to avoid. Several news channels had even done interviews with Mammoth employees, and these real interviews interlaced with the fictitious ones floating in her sleeping head.

  There had been Phillip, who had declared Sloane an “enemy to reason and technological advancement,” another one with Darla who had stated, somewhat unconvincingly, that Sloane was “just old-fashioned.” Daxter had been sought—but not reached—for comment, sources said.

  Other clips, unreal and bizarre. Mina Tomar had appeared naked in the Mammoth food court holding up a percussion mallet. “You just have to go for what you want,” she said to the journalist, whom she’d convinced to strip down, too.

  Andrew Willett appeared as a teacher in a day-care, surrounded by a flock of little toddlers in business suits. “We used to be married,” he said, when asked about his time under Sloane Jacobsen. “It didn’t work out.”

  Anastasia and Deidre appeared on a walk together in the autumn woods. The scene was filmed in the style of a commercial about incontinence, where everything insinuated softness, freedom, peace. Anastasia was a redhead, pale-skinned, beautiful. Deidre was herself but she had on a flattering blouse and pumps with which she managed to navigate the leaf-strewn dirt path.

  “She does want her mother.” Deidre nodded, while the music cued.

  “I tried,” said Anastasia, sighing.

  Deidre put her arm around her friend.

  “At least we have each other,” dream Deidre said.

  There were more dreams, most gone unremembered. Something about Little Bird. Something about her mom. When she woke, Sloane remembered that she had told her sister that she wanted to do something for the anniversary of her father’s death. And in an instant she knew what it was.

  She looked at the clock on the console, decided it was late enough. Put her fingers to Jin’s cheek.

  “Hmmm . . .” he said, smiling to wake.

  “Jin?” she whispered. “Jin?”

  “Hmmm,” he said again, kissing her hand.

  “I know this isn’t what you say after a night of . . .” She paused as he put his sleepy lips to her hand again. “But I need to see your mom.”

  • • •

  Sloane arrived at Jodi’s office having no idea what to expect. When Sloane called, she’d said she was “ready for the thing they’d talked about,” and Jodi hadn’t asked any other questions than, “When?”

  The Brooklyn studio was bright and simple: wooden floors, brick walls, the corner angles crowded with broad plants. Near an iron-paned window, a colorful shrine had been built to a deity Sloane didn’t recognize. The air was filled with the scent of beeswax slowly burning.

  After storing Sloane’s coat and hat in a separate closet, Jodi anointed her with lavender oil: she rubbed some slowly, slowly on her forehead, wrists and clavicle, then she invited her to sit down on the floor in front of her. She brought her a pillow in case she felt overwhelmed or uncomfortable, and needed to lie down.

  “All right,” Jodi said, her smile wide and warm. She put her hands on each of her knees and relaxed her own posture. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  Sloane’s shoulders rose involuntarily in an embarrassed shrug. “I’m ready to clear my head,” she said.

  “Okay,” Jodi said, kindly. “Making it here is already a step you can be proud of. I try not to guide people on their individual journeys. Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

  Jodi’s voice had an alto softness to it paired with a reassuring bass that made Sloane feel supported by her words.

  “Well, I guess I’ve got some things that have been holding me down. With my father. That I’d, um, like to get past.”

  “All right.” Jodi nodded. She tipped a satchel open, and a selection of river pebbles and gemstones came tumbling out.

  “Just choose the ones that speak to you,” she said.

  Sloane eyed the gemstones, but their glittering pulsations felt too charged. She picked up a charcoal-colored river stone, unremarkable except for its heft. Next, a white stone—really just a pebble—that made Sloane think of the gravel in the driveway of her parents’ house.

  The last stone was light gray and marbled with pink threads. It reminded her of beach trips with her parents and sister when she was a little girl. All the hope she’d held within her person when she had been part of something complete.

  “Okay,” said Sloane. “I think those are my stones.”

  “Very good,” said Jodi quietly, putting the other ones away. “I want you to think of something that’s causing a negative emotion inside you, something carrying heaviness. Try to distill the feeling into just one word. Then speak it into your stone.”

  Already, just having this prop between them made it easier to delve deeper into the meaning of the memories that were rising up inside her. She ran her thumb over their smooth and jagged shapes.

  “Fear,” Sloane said, placing the heaviest stone down.

  She looked at the two stones remaining in her hand.

  “Ease,” she named the small pebble.

  “Family,” she held the pink stone, her nose pricking with heat.

  “Okay,” said Jodi softly. “Pick up the one you want to talk about.”

  She started with “ease.” Keeping her attention focused on the stone, she said she had a fear of being happy; that if she let herself sink into contentment, someone would die again. It was incredible how eager her dread was to be recognized. The t
ears came lightning quick.

  But she pressed on, reached for the next rock, representing “fear.” This was an extension of her first worry, that if she let herself change too much for the better, she wouldn’t be able to sense things like she used to. Wouldn’t be able to do her job.

  When Sloane picked up the final stone, Jodi echoed, “Family.”

  Sloane felt her throat tighten. This stone held all the others.

  “My sister just had a child, her third one,” she admitted, haltingly, the stone pulsing in her palm. “And it has all these . . . problems. But I don’t feel steady—or removed about it like I did before. I’ve always said I never wanted to have children.” She curved her fingers to the stone’s increasing heat. “But I don’t know. Maybe it was a protection thing.”

  “From what?” Jodi asked.

  “From joy.”

  Jodi made a soft sound, and then rose to her feet. Sloane listened to her putter across the room, and had a terrible feeling that she wouldn’t be back. That Sloane had disappointed her. That it was disheartening to be near someone so buffered.

  But she did return. Jodi asked her to lie down; said she was going to place the three stones where she felt Sloane was still holding on to too much energy.

  Jodi placed the “ease” stone on her throat. The “fear” stone found Sloane’s stomach, just above her belly button where trepidation churned. And finally, “family.”

  The third stone landed right above her groin, and when she felt it there, an indignation rose inside of her so strong she wanted to sit up. This wasn’t right, Jodi hadn’t “read” her, she hadn’t understood a thing. The “family” stone should have been placed above her heart, or closer to her stomach, closer to the private place where she harbored all her fear. It was presumptuous, that placement—it was like Jodi was mocking her by putting the “family” stone somewhere erotic. Sloane’s throat burned from the realization that Jodi didn’t have the kinds of instincts she thought that she’d possessed. She felt pity for Jin’s mother, and embarrassment for herself, a grown woman trying to believe that little stones could matter.

  But she didn’t say anything, and she didn’t move. And the more she lay there with the third stone burning its truth inside her, the more Sloane began to realize that this stone had been put exactly where it needed to be placed. All of the joys she had withheld from her body were suddenly pulsating underneath the heat of that third rock; her hurts had been recognized, one of her greatest deceptions seen. She’d maintained a sexless relationship for so many years that she’d convinced herself she was the kind of person who could function without love. And Jodi, somehow, had sensed this. And she disagreed.

  Deeply ashamed, Sloane turned her head to the side. Jodi bent down and put her hands on each side of her temple, her palms newly warmed with oil.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  Sloane wanted to cry. She wanted to cry out all of the damage she’d done by insisting that someone like Roman stay in her life. She wanted to cry for all the experiences she might have had during the ten years she’d been with him, cry for the boyfriend before him that she’d broken away from without explanation after her father’s death. Cry for all the times that she’d known she needed to be touched and hadn’t allowed herself to have anyone to ask. She wanted to cry because she had a new chance now with a new someone and she feared her capacity to sabotage it.

  “It’s possible that you’re feeling a lot of swirls of energy right now,” Jodi said, continuing to knead her head with warmth. “I’m going to come around and try to drive some of the troubling energy away. And then we’ll see if we’re ready to talk about cords.”

  Sloane kept her eyes closed. She just wanted to be held. But then she heard a beating, an almost winged thrush, like something had risen up and over them, born from the stand of plants.

  Sloane opened her eyes a slit and saw a wing passing over her, a large one with gray feathers as dark as her fear stone. Am I being fanned with a severed eagle’s wing? her inner cynic asked. But the better version of herself pushed aside the skeptic. Breathe into this, that person said. It’s working.

  Jodi swept at her as if she were trying to drive away her guilt. The scented air that she was pushing away from her and toward her had an almost sexually stimulating effect, and all of a sudden, in that relieved lightness, Sloane saw the way forward. All this time she’d believed she needed to come to terms with her father’s death, that she needed to move on. When in fact her wars were all internal. The huge, completed life she’d walked away from hadn’t disappeared.

  “I think I can do this,” Sloane said suddenly. She pushed herself to sitting. “I can cut the cord.”

  “You’re certain?” Jodi asked, her voice surprised, but free of judgment.

  “Yes.”

  Jodi helped her to stand. Sloane’s desire for connection was stronger than the fear. She raised her hand. She wanted to be happy. She was ready for that now.

  Right before she cut herself away from all the fears she’d used as armor, she looked the person that she had been in the eyes. The eyes were not reproachful. They looked tired and resigned.

  Good-bye, Sloane said, bringing her hand down.

  Not sorry, just good-bye.

  And the person that she had been smiled back at her. As if she had been ready to leave for a long time. As if she had only been waiting for Sloane to let her.

  35

  When you’re clear-sighted, you settle into experiences that feed you until they become so familiar and soul-filling that they’re a nourishing routine, and as the routine continues, you up and surprise yourself with your righted life.

  A year later, tactual trends were still gaining momentum. With her resignation speech a touchstone, Sloane was positioned as the figurehead for a revolution in social interaction that privileged face-to-face relationships over those lived online, and Sloane and Jin reveled in tracking the waves of these new connections.

  In Japan, people had started to wear designer straitjackets to keep themselves from reaching for their phones—there was a move among trendsetters, almost a dare, really, to see how long they could go without their devices. It was proving difficult, the fingers twitched and phantom rings were heard. The jackets helped: in addition to broadcasting to the outer world that the wearer was “digitally cleansing,” it also kept the hands from making contact with their cells.

  In Delhi, the young and well-to-do had started participating in body language clinics where older people taught nonverbal communication skills that had fallen out of practice: eye contact, empathetic facial expressions, body postures, how to use space.

  In the southern states of America, there’d been a tremendous rise in fishing: people in their twenties were flocking to cell-phone-free lakes and trout streams to learn patience and relax.

  On lodging sites, there’d been such a clamor for “deconnected” homes that public rental sites like Airbnb had created a subgenre for “pure” housing that didn’t have Wi-Fi. Most of these were in bucolic places—Montana log cabins, lake homes in the Catskills—but increasingly, the all-white vector icon that signified Internet-free zones were cropping up next to listings all around the world. Cafés, bars and hotel lounges followed suit. It was becoming not just impressive not to have Wi-Fi: it was becoming cool.

  A “free running” movement had started around the country with people going for jogs and exercising in public places without MP3 players or headphones, without cell phones or fitness trackers, without even cash. There was a proliferation of antitech street art sweeping global cities: just that afternoon, Jin had showed her a wilted flower with its head emerging from a Brazilian subway platform: the awakening of the poisoned youth.

  Jodi said she’d never had so many new patients in her energy therapy practice, and Leila reported that not one but all three of her regular babysitters were using flip phones that did nothing more th
an text. Kai had called her recently from London to tell her about a recent spate of “Contacters” who were gaining force in Leeds. They refused to sign on screens during any kind of transaction, and they only paid by cash. Adherents to the movement were putting “hand-to-hand” stickers everywhere, underscoring their belief that the more physicality that was returned to over-the-counter interactions, the less likely it would be for computers to take over human jobs.

  While all of this had been unfolding, Sloane had been considering the next iteration of her work life. As fired up as people were with the way she’d flipped off Mammoth, she’d still publicly quit an influential company, and it took time—necessary time—for the things that Sloane had predicted to start making sense to the outside world. For a long time, the calls from clients didn’t come. Until they did.

  It was with the New York Times profile on pheromone dating that Sloane started getting loads of interest from new clients. The article described the underground T-shirt–sniffing parties currently sweeping the youthsters in which blindfolded attendees chose their mates by sniffing articles of clothing that had been worn for three days and then sealed into a plastic bag. To the intelligentsia who’d been following Sloane’s predictions, this was proof that she’d been right. After years of entrusting their love lives to their cell phones, young people were ready to trust their noses again.

  None too eager to fall back into the corporate world she’d so recently left, Sloane started a new consultancy that offered emotional and behavioral trend forecasting services to companies championing an in-person agenda. She refused to consult directly on consumer trends, and only took on clients who were honestly excited to talk about the possible changes in ways that people would start to act and think in the decades—not years—ahead.

  No matter how far away they were, consulting sessions had to take place in person. Not over the telephone, not via e-mail, not even by Skype. Yes, this cut down on the amount and type of clients that Sloane could take on, but that was exactly how she wanted it. After all, she was going out of her way to make sure she had the right amount of work: just enough to be stimulating, not enough to be swamped. Little Bird, her godson, was one now. The other day he said, “Slow!!” which was close enough to her first name to make her heart double in size.