Flip

  Aida sat alone on the bench, the light from the waning moon behind her. Higher up, over the walls of the courtyard, the hills and mesas cast muted shadows across the landscape. An ember, glowing yellow-orange, drifted overhead, caught on a breeze. In her left ear, as if he were just inches away, she distinctly heard Max say, “I’ll see you again.”

  32 Healing

  A soft snow fell on the peaks and mesas of northern New Mexico. Timid, tender flakes clung to the evergreens and, with their purest white, dressed them for the holiday season. Aida spied the still-falling snowflakes through the kitchen window and smiled on this Friday morning. She poured herself a cup of coffee and immersed herself in the experience of it. It was the simple, everyday things she appreciated the most now, after her “trip.” That’s what they all had decided to call it. The innocuous name made it easier to talk about, and talking about their shared trauma seemed to help the most. Little by little, over the eighteen months after her trip, a sense of normalcy was returning to their lives.

  She sat down at the kitchen table, the warmth of the mug making her fingers tingle. There was time enough before Natalia and John’s arrival this afternoon for her to have a leisurely morning. Tomorrow was the twenty-fourth, and they were throwing their annual Christmas open house, so their home would be almost manic with preparations in a few hours. She and Greg were expecting a houseful, though some would be missing.

  Max and Miguel…you said we’d meet again, Max.

  After Max’s funeral, the four of them had gone back to University City to get Natalia settled back into school to finish the semester. Aida and Greg had suggested Nat take the rest of the semester off, but she thought getting on with life would help ground her and from there she could better work through everything that had happened. Nat did leave the dorm and move back home, though. Being back in the house was like being wrapped in a warm blanket for all of them. Too soon, though, they had to contact Agent Kozlowski. At least Nat had been able to watch the house in their absence.

  Washington state…The Project.

  The thought of what they’d found still sickened Aida. Only the fact that she and Greg had a direct hand in shutting it down eased her conscience—that and their agreement on the flight to Seattle not to be as forthcoming with the government as they could be. She remembered whispering into Greg’s ear as the plane accelerated down the runway and the engines filled the cabin with their roar. “We have to steer them away from the Wave World.”

  He nodded and leaned into her ear to reply, “We can keep them focused on the neurophysiology of Michelson’s work and ours. They don’t know about the quantum mechanical implications of the altered perceptions.”

  Revealing those implications was what they had to guard against. The ability to transparently see causes before they coalesced into significant events and thereby be better able to predict those events couldn’t be entrusted to any government or corporation. Or anyone, really. The first part was easy enough; their research had been in the field of brain-function mapping with concomitant therapeutic applications, and they could play off Michelson’s work as a rogue investigation into the nature of human consciousness.

  Not revealing the second part was the trick. They both knew they’d be under observation themselves, particularly Aida. Theresa Waters had made it clear that she knew it was Aida who had appeared to be in different places nearly simultaneously and, by extension, that there was more to all this. Plus, the Feds had Gilden in custody and undoubtedly were questioning him. The FBI and the other agencies that Waters and Kozlowski were fronting for were extremely interested in what Aida had experienced while she had been unconscious and in why The Project had been so determined, to the point of committing multiple murders and international terrorism, to get their hands on her. The government was watching Matthew and the monks of the Chama Valley Zen Center as well, though they hadn’t taken any intrusive actions there yet.

  Aida and Greg had to sign stacks of federal secrecy forms, swearing not to reveal or discuss their work at The Project to anyone, under penalty of federal prosecution, and to fully cooperate with the ongoing federal investigation. This got them both a top-secret, special-compartmentalized clearance, and they set to work.

  Kozlowski tried to split them up to work on analyzing different technical areas: Aida the biomedical, Greg the imaging system. They saw this as an obvious ploy that would result in their both being surreptitiously examined by the assigned team members over the coming weeks. They instead proposed, then insisted, that they work together, analyzing a single project area at a time.

  “We’ll make faster progress if we work together. Our research, after all, has always been a joint effort,” they reasoned with Kozlowski. After a day of contentious discussions, Kozlowski and the project overseers to whom he reported relented. Four and a half months later, after they had disassembled, identified, cataloged, and analyzed every bit of equipment, data, and computer code that hadn’t been destroyed, they were released from their capacity as consultants and allowed to return home. Their final report was accurate, detailed, insightful, and entirely truthful in every aspect that could be empirically quantified. They expected to be put through lie detector tests and had prepared for that eventuality.

  From the records, data, and analysis, Aida remembered that the final report had shaped up like this.

  The Project was attempting to understand human consciousness. Under the direction of Dr. Beverly Michelson, it had identified individuals who were gifted at using their natural ability of covert attention—that is, they were good at paying attention to things they weren’t consciously focusing on—and performed highly illegal, immoral, and unethical procedures on them. This line of query was logical, as it is well known that focus and consciousness are intimately related at a neurophysiological level. The report didn’t venture into what had motivated The Project into taking these horrific actions, as, one, it would have been pure speculation and therefore unprovable, and two, it was unnecessary. Here the report was blunt. Gilden was in custody, so the Feds should get their information from him.

  The report continued:

  Once the victims had been subjected to the experimental and ultimately fatal procedures, The Project was then probably attempting to visualize their consciousnesses via a live feed. The report could arrive at no definitive conclusions in this regard due to the complete destruction of the programs, storage hardware, and data.

  The report did speculate on the course of events, though. It said:

  “Given the dozens and dozens of victims The Project killed, it is highly likely that their efforts didn’t meet with the intended success. The Project might have started with a marginally intrusive surgical procedure they hoped to pass off as some type of therapeutic brain surgery. But when they didn’t get the desired results and the victim subsequently died, they chose to pursue ever more abhorrent and drastic paths.

  “End of report.”

  Their work was lauded, and the report impressed the project leads, though they could never publish it. During their time at The Project, Aida and Greg and the university had mutually agreed to part ways. Not at all coincidentally, they were both offered top research positions at Los Alamos National Laboratories. Moving to New Mexico made sense. Aida needed to be near Matthew so she could practice focused meditation, and the onus of what had happened in their lab made staying in the tight-knit academic community in University City untenable. Greg accepted his position, but Aida declined hers and instead became a consulting neurologist at various hospitals and clinics across northern New Mexico.

  And so here we are…

  The doorbell rang. She hadn’t been expecting anyone for a few hours. Greg would be home at noon, and Nat and John weren’t due to land in Albuquerque until a little after two. She looked out the front window and saw Matthew waiting on the stoop, stomping his feet and rubbing his hands together for warmth. She welcomed him in.

  “Matthew, come in before you freeze.”

  �
�I hope it’s okay that I came a little early,” he said. “I wanted to beat Mollie here. She’s been cooking for days. She’ll be bringing a truckload of food along soon.”

  “Of course it’s okay. Can I get you anything? The coffee is still hot,” she offered as she took his coat and he doffed his boots in the entryway.

  “Coffee would be wonderful. Thank you,” he said, following Aida to the kitchen. “How is your practice going?”

  She knew he wasn’t referring to her budding medical activities. “Very well, I think. I’m able to stay attached to the moment without purposely occupying myself with some activity. I haven’t had any near flips since…” She thought about that as she poured him a mug of coffee. “Early spring, around Easter.”

  The near flips had been unsettling. They started when things in her life had calmed down and Aida’s mind wasn’t so caught up in dealing with the trauma of her trip, The Project, or their relocation from University City to New Mexico. They happened when she was falling asleep and sensory information associated freely with unorganized thoughts, putting the mind in the middle of a scattered, chaotic kaleidoscope of reality. She would have a moment or two of feeling as though reality were slipping away, and sometimes she’d catch a glimpse of the darkness and the lights. Then she’d awake fully, startled and breathing heavily. Matthew had been watching her during one of these episodes and nudged her focus back to the Particle World.

  “That’s good. Keep at it. The only way to strengthen a mental habit is to practice,” he said, and took a sip from his mug. His bright eyes rested on her, observing her in excruciating detail. She hated when he did that; it undermined her confidence in her own ability to judge her state of being. He was looking for something.

  “I’m fine, Matthew. Why are you still eyeballing me? What is it?”

  He put down the mug and sat back in his chair. “It’s Beverly Michelson. I didn’t want to bring this up now, right before the holidays and your party. But I had to see you for myself.”

  “Tell me,” she said, the morning’s leisure evaporating from her voice. “Is she awake?” Aida, who had been leaning against the counter, now stood rigid.

  “No, she’s still in the Wave World, but she’s becoming more active. Her consciousness is gathering itself, reassembling. She’s unbalanced, though. Her psyche never integrated the reality of her experience. I’d say at best she’s only partially conscious of herself and her surroundings.”

  “That sounds pitiable but not threatening.” Aida was still working on feeling compassion for the woman.

  Matthew continued. “Even in her current state—which I think must be something like a delirium, as you’ve taught me—her mind is reaching out to grab on to something, anything, to anchor itself to. She holds you responsible for many of the problems that are of her own making, so it’s natural that you’d be a target. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t seeking to latch on to you.”

  Aida shrugged. “I haven’t noticed anything unusual.”

  “That’s good. We haven’t seen her try to focus on you, but we can’t be as vigilant as we used to be.”

  “Then let’s let it be,” she said, and put her mug in the sink. “Besides, I just saw Mollie pull up. Wow, you weren’t kidding. The whole back of her truck is filled with coolers and boxes.”

  ***

  Later that night, Aida, Greg, Nat, and John were in the Santa Fe Plaza, where people had been celebrating Christmas for more than four hundred years. It was a frigid night; snow crunched under their feet, and their breath condensed in moist clouds as they moved with the crowd following the Las Posadas procession around the square. Both Mollie and Matthew had told them not to miss this celebration.

  Las Posadas is a re-creation of the journey the pregnant Mary and her husband, Joseph, took through Bethlehem looking for a house in which Mary could give birth to Jesus. The troupe of actors went from door to door, singing in Spanish and asking for shelter. Above, on the rooftops and balconies, devils dressed in red with horns on their heads and pitchforks in their hands sang out, setting the hearts of the homeowners against the holy family.

  The crowd booed and hissed against the devils as they sang their part, and then the group proceeded to the next house. After a dozen or so, the crowd would arrive at the church or another large area where they would be welcomed, and all would come inside to warm up and eat and drink.

  Arm in arm, Nat and John strolled ahead of Greg and Aida. The two of them had been a couple pretty much since their return to University City. This was their second Christmas together, and they were unmistakably happy. Uncharacteristically, John had been a little twitchy since they’d arrived that afternoon.

  Natalia turned around to speak to her parents. “Hey, Dad. I’m going to get some hot chocolate. Do you guys want some?”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Greg. Nat flashed a wide grin at her mother and walked off, taking her time. Greg whispered to his wife, “She’s not being too obvious, is she?” which earned him a poke in the ribs. Aida took John’s arm and maneuvered him between her and her husband, and the three of them continued down the street. Aida saw that John was sweating under his wool cap.

  “Greg, Aida,” he began, then caught his toe on the edge of an upraised brick in the sidewalk and stumbled. “I…uh…well…I love your daughter very much and you two as well. I know I’m only a medic, but your daughter has convinced me to go back to school. I’m working on a bachelor’s part-time, and I want to go into the physician’s assistant program when I finish. But I have to keep working, and—”

  “John,” Aida interrupted, “is there something you want to say?”

  John stopped and took a deep breath. Underwater demolition was easier than this, he thought.

  “I want your permission to propose to Nat.”

  “We take this very seriously,” Greg said. “This is a lifetime commitment for both of you.”

  “I know,” John responded. “That’s not the part that worries me. Asking you two is the hard part. She’s my world. I don’t ever want to be without her.”

  “Greg, be nice,” said Aida. “John, honestly, we were starting to wonder what was taking you so long. Of course you have our permission and wholehearted blessing.” She embraced him and kissed his cheek.

  Greg beamed at his future son-in-law, shook his hand, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, son. Does Nat know you’re going to propose?”

  “We’ve been talking about it for a while, but no, she doesn’t know anything about this. I want it to be a surprise tomorrow night,” said John.

  Later, Aida would tell Greg how sweet she thought it was that John believed Natalia was completely in the dark about his intentions this Christmas.

  “She just finished her last semester of undergrad work,” Greg said, “and then she’s moving straight on into her graduate work. And you’re in school too.” He looked at his wife, who nodded. “We only ask that you wait to have the wedding until after she finishes her master’s.” Nat was in a five-year bachelor’s/master’s program in neuroscience that she would be finishing in a little more than a year.

  “That’s about when I’ll be finishing my undergrad. We were thinking of that time frame too.”

  Nat emerged from the crowd holding a drink carrier with four steaming cups. “Here we go…everything okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re good,” said John, and they moved to catch up with the procession. “So when do they get someone to let them in?”

  ***

  The day of the Christmas open house was clear and crisp. All the monks came, along with many members of Mollie and Francisco’s family. Aida had invited some of her coworkers, and Greg had asked his team members to come as well. The advantage of an open house was that the guests could come and go as best fit their schedule. The food, an odd mixture of traditional New Mexican and Greek fare, complemented each other well. The sweetness of baklava or Christopsomo after tamales with coffee was a new experience for all. At the en
d of the day, with the piñon fire burning in the kiva fireplace and the Christmas tree lit up, John pulled Nat out in front of everyone, got down on one knee, and presented her with a small box.

  “Natalia, will you marry me?”

  She pulled him up off the floor, gently took his head in her hands, kissed him, and said, “Of course.”

  Both Greg and Aida teared up as applause, shouts of congratulations, and several excellent gritos filled the house. Their lives were indeed whole and healthy again.

  ***

  Three hundred miles to the north, a man was screaming in the night.

  “Get away from me. Stay away from me. No!”

  The guards at the federal Supermax in Florence, Colorado, had seen this all before. In fact, it was pretty much expected. Lock up a person in isolation for twenty-three hours a day for months that stretched into years and they broke down. This one had had it worse, though. His only human contact, if you could call it that, was with a voice he heard while sitting alone in a room staring at a one-way mirror. What the man saw in the reflection didn’t remotely resemble the face he had known eighteen months ago. The time had been hard on Jerome Gilden, aging him prematurely. The bitter, rapid decay he had fought against with his considerable will now ate away at him, both inside and out.

  This torment, this unwelcome visitor in the night, though, was something new. It usually came as he was trying to fall asleep, which was his only true escape from this place. When it came, he felt as if something was clutching at his mind, trying to dig itself into him. He would lie there, fully aware, watching the room spin around him, and sink further into his terror. It would have provided him scant comfort to know the cause of his anguish was that someone was thinking about him or that a nameless, faceless monk had been wrong on one crucial point. Aida Doxiphus wasn’t the last person who had been on Beverly Michelson’s mind.