Twilight in the Land of Nowhen

by Nury Vittachi

  ‘You’ve got a little almond-shaped thing in the middle of your brain called an amygdala. We all have one. Human doctors don’t know much about it but they think it’s the part of your brain that deals with instant impulses and controls your emotional responses.’

  I frowned. This sounded like it was going to be hard for normal kids to follow. Thank goodness I’m a genius. She thought for a few seconds and then continued. ‘Let me explain it this way. If a tiger leapt through this window, the main part of your brain, the neocortex, would start thinking logically about the best way to escape. Should you dive out the window? Or run to the door? Or hide in a cupboard? Now, if you only had a neocortex to work with, the tiger would have eaten you before you had finished thinking through the possibilities. But long before your neocortex had finished fact-processing, your amygdala would have instantly sent out a fear/danger signal, taken over your adrenal system, and raced you off to safety.’

  Her face filled with enthusiasm. ‘The amygdala is a strange and wonderful thing. It works instantly, almost magically. It’s far more important than you humans know.’

  Lines appeared between Ms Blit’s eyebrows and she spoke more slowly.

  ‘People sometimes develop a . . . er . . . problem with their amygdala. They feel displaced. They are unable to connect with people, or events. Everyone suffers a little from this at some time in their lives. People who get it occasionally may describe it as “stage fright”. People who have it almost all the time are called “shy”. Some people get it only when they meet someone who scares them. But what’s actually happening in these cases is that the amygdala is becoming inflamed, the fear/danger signal is going out, and people find themselves on edge and have difficulty communicating.’

  We sat there in silence for a while. I noticed she had begun to wring her hands. ‘Is your amygdala acting up? You look all stressed out,’ I said, forgetting that I was supposed to talk in paragraphs.

  She smiled.

  ‘You know so much about this thing,’ I went on. ‘Are you sure you can’t fix it?’

  She got up and walked in circles to use up a few seconds before answering, so as to get our exchanges into the right order.

  ‘Yes. As far as I know there’s no cure.’

  I thought about this before answering. ‘Then why are you here?’

  Ms Blit sat down again. ‘It would be good to see if we can stop it getting worse. It would be really, really good to do that. And there’s a chance we may succeed.’

  She glanced at my eyes and gave a big smile. She grinned so hard I could see her bottom and top teeth.

  I looked at her face. That big, wide smile worried me. It was a brave smile. I’m not sure exactly what the difference is between an ordinary smile and a brave smile, but I know there is a difference. The first means that things are going to be fine. But the second means that things are almost definitely not going to be fine. When we talk about my problems, my dad uses brave smiles all the time. The social worker gives me brave smiles. All my life, the only smiles that have ever come my way are brave smiles.

  ‘Am I going to be okay?’ I asked. ‘What if it doesn’t work? What if I do get worse?’

  She patted my hand and looked away. ‘We’re going to have to work together a bit to see what we can do. I want you to meet me here as often as you can. Every playtime. Before school when you can. And Simon, this is our secret. You don’t have to tell anyone else about any of this.’

  ‘Sometimes part of my body disappear,’ I blurted out. ‘Is that also a symptom of displacement?’

  Ms Blit froze. Then she took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘Yes Simon, it is. We’re going to have to work quickly to stop it getting any worse.’

  I nodded. ‘You’re right, there is.’

  ‘I have a feeling there’s something else you want to ask me,’ she said, leaning forward to look me in the eye. I looked at my shoes again. It’s much easier for me to talk to people that way. ‘You’re the first person I can—I mean, it’s so nice to talk to someone. I’ve only ever talked to my dad. Is there anyone else I can talk to? It would be nice to have people I can just, like, you know, chat with and . . .’ I trailed off.

  I could hear her quietly counting to three before speaking. ‘Go on, Simon. I’m listening. Say anything you need to say. I’m here to help.’

  I took a deep breath and started again. ‘You said I could never be fixed. If I can never be fixed, will I ever have friends of my own? I can never have a normal conversation with other kids. I think maybe what I’m trying to say is: Is there anyone else like me?’

  Ms Blit smiled—a real smile this time. ‘There’s no one quite like you. Every individual is unique. But don’t worry about the companionship thing. Listen, Simon, there’s someone for everyone. The Personal Department of what you might call the Destiny Office of the organisation I come from arranges that. In every community there is at least one person who has the right qualities to match you. Maybe it will be your best friend, or the person you will marry. It’s just a matter of finding that person. In the time-space business, we call each pair Secret Sharers. That’s because each pair has shared destinies, but neither of them know it. Only we know it, because we stand outside time. It’s our secret. One of the reasons why I really like working with young people is that they usually haven’t yet paired off with their Secret Sharers, and it’s fascinating to see how each one eventually finds their chosen partner.’

  This really intrigued me. A friend? For me? ‘Is there one in this school? A Secret Sharer for me?’

  ‘Well, I’m not allowed to tell you your future. We follow really strict rules. But I know you have an unusually hard time making friends, so let me encourage you to keep your spirits up. There’s a Secret Sharer for everyone. That includes you. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a Secret Sharer your own age right here in this school in Easterpark.’ She winked again.

  Whoa. Yikes. Wow.

  There were not enough exclamation-type noises in the world for me to express what I felt.

  As it sank in, I started to feel better than I had done for months, if not years. I had always thought I would have to go through life alone, with only my dad for company. Yet Ms Blit reckoned that I was going to have a real friend one of these days—a friend of my own. This was incredible.

  10

  I stumbled from the secret lab, through the smelly toilet block, and into the playground. The bell signalling the end of recess must have rung. Hundreds of children scrambled towards the staircases. Was one of these kids my Secret Sharer?

  In a daze, I staggered to my classroom. I was the last person to enter.

  ‘Yes, I know, sorry,’ I said to Mrs Stoep.

  ‘You’re late,’ the teacher said, sour-faced. ‘Sit down.’

  I found out that day why the kid I sat next to was called Poison Cloud. He had the worst digestive system known to man. Incredibly noxious fumes emerged from him after he ate anything—from both ends. Apparently he had privately told one of the kids that he had a serious problem with his stomach, and the kid had blurted it out to everyone. Fortunately we sat near the window. Otherwise I don’t think I would have made it through the day. Mrs Stoep told us to copy stuff from the whiteboard into exercise books.

  Instead, I started writing a journal—the journal that you are reading now. I decided that it would be important to communicate with my Secret Sharer, and since I couldn’t have normal conversations, I would need to write it all down.

  While I was doing that, most of the kids were chatting. Poison Cloud tried to make conversation again but I ignored him.

  One of the things about being a miserable, hostile, silent kid is that you gradually become invisible. People stop noticing you. They talk as if you’re not there. And by sitting quietly with your ears working, you find out a lot of stuff.

  For example, I found out that one of the reasons why Eliza Marshmallow was so powerful was because her dad was director of information technology for the Easterp
ark city council. He was in charge of everyone’s computer record. That meant his daughter could find out almost anything about anyone. She was always getting her father to look up stuff about the teachers, and then telling the other kids about it.

  I don’t know if it was legal, but she’d found out that the history teacher, Mr Swallow, couldn’t get a loan from any bank because he owed money to a credit card company. And she found out that Mrs Stoep owned two apartments and was divorced. (It was a miracle she had ever been married. Imagine any human being wanting to live with her!)

  Eliza knew stuff about the teachers that even the principal didn’t know. It wasn’t clear how she planned to use this information, but everyone seemed to realise that having knowledge meant power. So most of the kids wanted to be her friend.

  All anyone wanted to talk about was the nominations for Eliza’s popularity contest. The leading nominations for School Superstar included sport teacher Mr Gong, cookery teacher Ms Mullet and six students, including Trudie Stig and Eliza herself.

  I learned some other news, too; something that made me feel a tad uncomfortable. For a bit of fun, Eliza and Trudie had also started a parallel competition among the kids. Teachers were not allowed to know about it. It was a secret, unofficial contest to find the least popular kid in the school. That person would get the title Void of the Year and the contest would be held at a students-only meeting during lunchbreak on Friday, just before the School Superstar assembly. (Eliza had booked the hall in the name of a lunch meeting of the debating society.)

  Poison Cloud was sniffing and rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t making any noise, but I could see tears splashing onto the desk. I guessed why. He must have been one of the nominees for Void of the Year. I wondered if I ought to say something to him. I decided I’d better not. I didn’t want to be associated with him. He was going to be a loser for ever, but I had this feeling that there was a chance for me. If Ms Blit could help me with my problem, things might really change.

  At lunchtime I raced off to the toilets, anxious to learn more about my illness. Displacement. My amygdala was malfunctioning, and I had to stop it getting worse. At the back of my head was a niggling little hope that maybe I’d find a way to cure it altogether.

  Care and Maintenance of the Fabric of Time, first edition

  7.1: The amygdala

  The amygdala is a small almond-shaped structure that sits at the back of the head, just above the brain stem. It controls emotions and links individuals to the space-time continuum.

  During times of stress, it sends a type of adrenalin known as norepinephrine surging through the body.

  Individuals with an overexcitable amygdala show reactions ranging from mild shyness to extreme displacement.

  There are no cures for diseases of the amygdala, but some medical physicists believe that deterioration can be slowed down or arrested by various experimental treatments in which the stress level of sufferers is lowered.

  However, no treatment has ever worked for any sufferer with a displacement level of more than one second.

  11

  I found Ms Blit in the utility block. She was holding a large book.

  And she was not smiling.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I replied. ‘That’s not very encouraging.’

  ‘Bad news,’ she said. ‘There is a program in this book to alleviate the symptoms of displacement. But it has only been used for displacement cases of up to one point one seconds. It’s never worked for longer cases. And I’m sure no one has ever tried treating a three-second displacement.’ She sighed. ‘This is not going to be easy, Simon.’ I started counting. ‘One elephant. Two elephants. Three elephants.’

  ‘Count elephants along with me,’ said Ms Blit.

  ‘Four elephants,’ I said.

  ‘One elephant,’ she said.

  ‘Five elephants.’

  ‘Two elephants.’

  ‘Six elephants.’

  ‘Three elephants.’

  I stopped.

  She continued to count. ‘Four elephants, five elephants, six elephants. Okay, stop.’ She stared at her stopwatch. ‘Fractionally worse than yesterday, at just under three and a half seconds. Oh well . . . I guess it could be worse,’ she said, biting her top lip.

  But I knew that it probably couldn’t be worse. A little grid of worry lines appeared between her eyebrows.

  ‘It’s getting serious, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Is it really bad?’

  Ms Blit tapped the book’s cover and flashed me a smile.

  A brave smile.

  ‘Let’s press on.’

  I could already hear the silence in response to my next question. I asked it anyway. ‘What actually happens if it does get worse?’

  Instead of answering, she pretended to be absorbed in her notes. ‘Now let me see,’ she said. ‘Which page do we need?’

  After we sat down at the lab table, she explained that there was no pill, no medicine and no surgery to help me. The only thing I could do was follow a set of exercises that would help to protect my amygdala from stress. ‘We are going to have to transform your personality, Simon,’ she said. ‘We are going to have to turn your tense, stressed-out, hostile self into the calmest, most relaxed, mellow fella in the history of the world. And we are going to start right now. You ready for this? This is going to be lesson one.’

  Ms Blit explained that my life was stressful for lots of reasons. The more I isolated myself, the less practice I had in coping with what she called my ‘disability’. So the situation was just getting worse and worse. My displacement factor was continuing to increase because my stress levels were high. If I relaxed it might work in reverse.

  She gave me lots of rules for how to behave in front of people. She made me repeat them and write them down.

  Breathe slowly.

  Lower my shoulders.

  Relax my neck.

  Shake my arms and let them dangle down by my thighs.

  Talk in clusters of at least two or three sentences.

  Nod a lot, but very slowly.

  Once my body was all floppy (I was sort of slumped in a chair with my arms dangling and my head on one side), we moved on to the next exercise.

  Ms Blit said I had to be aware of what my eyes focused on. ‘It’s hard for anyone with social phobia to look other people in the eye, but it’s especially hard for you because you are seeing their reaction three seconds earlier than you should.’

  She held my shoulders and stared into my eyes. ‘I want you to look up and slightly to the left for two or three seconds. Then look the person you are talking to in the eye for two or three seconds. Then look down at the table or your hands for two or three seconds. Then look back at the person’s eyes for two or three seconds. Then look up and slightly to the right for two or three seconds. Then repeat.’

  ‘How many times?’ I asked. Then I remembered that I should speak in paragraphs, so I added a few more questions. ‘And why do I need to look people in the eye? Why can’t I just look at my shoes? And why do I have to look up? What’s up there?’

  ‘It comes across as reasonably natural, and it’s not hard to do,’ said Ms Blit. ‘I want you to give up the habit of looking at your shoes as soon as possible. Looking up and to one side also helps you think. Nobody knows why, but it’s good for your brain.’

  She also taught me to point to people with my knees when I am sitting talking to them.

  ‘They call that non-verbal communication. People don’t even realise they are doing it, but it makes both people relax.’

  It was weird. My first lesson in communicating with people didn’t involve any words at all.

  ‘Relaxed,’ I drawled, looking up and left, and then looking Ms Blit in the eye.

  ‘Now, how do you feel?’ she asked.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘You’re looking less scary. A bit.’

  ‘What sort of stuff ?’

  ‘No, that’s not it. That’s just the beginning. It isn’t going to be easy to turn a porcupine
into the cuddliest puppy in town. There’s lots more stuff we need to do.’

  ‘I don’t mind smiling at people but I don’t want to talk to them. The problem is I can’t smile. I think I’d rather just pretend I am mute. Can I do that instead?’ I asked.

  Ms Blit shook her head. ‘Certainly not. You’re going to have to get used to talking to people. Talk in paragraphs. Leave little gaps in your conversations so that you are not always answering the question after the one that’s been asked. During the gaps, look thoughtful and smile a lot, as if you are considering your words carefully. You’ll get into the rhythm. You’ll be fine.’

  Every time I glanced up at her she was smiling. But I didn’t know how to smile back. I guess I had forgotten how to smile.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘We need to press on. The next bit is much harder.’

  She turned to the next section in the book and pushed her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  Care and Maintenance of the Fabric of Time, first edition

  8.7: Physiological treatments for an inflamed amygdala

  An experimental physiological treatment to attempt to halt deterioration in cases of extreme displacement consists of a three-step exercise, first defined by Dr N. S. Selvare and Dr J. L. Wozciak, as follows.

  1 The patient should be trained to habitually keep his zygomaticus muscles contracted.

  2 At the same time, he should practise lifting his levator labii superioris and activating the lower lateral orbicularis oculi pars palpabraeus.

  3 During social interaction, he should avoid knotting his superior limbs across the thoracic cage. But he should elongate and contract the upper trapezius slowly, at intervals, during receipt of auditory information.

  12

  What? This didn’t even sound like English.

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Ms Blit. She explained that these words came from Latin and Ancient Greek. ‘Doctors couldn’t agree on whose language to use for universal medical terms, so they made a deal to use old dead languages.’