I had read that when people who have been blind from birth are given sight, their first perceptions of the world are meaningless to them. Ignorant of the language of vision, all they see are incoherent patterns. It takes them awhile to acquire the skill of translating these abstractions into images that convey useful information. Entering the brain of another mind reader like Grandma was much the same for me.
“OK, OK,” Grandma responded to Annelise. “But please do me a favor and don’t start lecturing me about skin cancer like your boring parents. That can’t be what you came in here to talk about.”
I concentrated. A picture began to form, swirling particles gradually stabilizing. It was like beginning to see what’s really going on in a splotchy impressionistic painting.
I was in a midnight forest, moving through the mist and the trees toward a warm light. I could hear Annelise’s bombs like thunder in the distance. The ground was uneven, but I couldn’t risk falling, or Grandma might notice me. Don’t cling, don’t grasp, touch delicately, delicately, I whispered to myself, stumbling. I reached the thick stucco wall of the cottage. I peered into the deeply embrasured window.
“Of course not, Grandma,” Annelise was saying. “I think your tan looks great.”
Firelight flickered over the beamed cottage ceiling. My vision expanded, like a camera coming into focus. Warm peasant rugs on the floor; beautiful woven tapestries on the walls; soft, inviting furniture piled with homespun cushions. I longed to go inside—especially because I suddenly noticed a bookcase and table in the corner. But could I really get this far—into the coziest place I had ever seen—without Grandma noticing it?
Grandma shrugged, pulling her glasses off and tossing them onto the cluttered desk. She flicked cigarette ashes onto her blouse. “Thank you, dear,” she said dryly to Annelise, her eyes fixed on her. “By the way, you know the Winstons put their house on the market? Your friend Bruce must know something about it. He’s their nephew, and his family practically runs the neighborhood.”
Annelise’s reaction to this remark set off another roll of thunder; she obviously didn’t want Bruce mentioned in my presence. Grandma’s cottage beckoned me. I hoped the thunder was loud enough to cover the sound of my knees scraping on the windowsill, my feet dropping lightly onto the floor.
I was inside Grandma’s inner house. I stood without moving, waiting, in the orderly, spanking-clean room. There was still no awareness of my presence, no alarms going off, no sudden change at all. I heard the hiss of the fire and, from another room, a faint pleasant clacketing sound, like someone operating an old-fashioned mechanism.
I took a careful step, then another. Everything kept getting clearer. I felt the thick rugs under my feet, I was aware of the intricate patterns woven into the tapestries on the walls. I reached the large table. There was nothing as obvious as our notebooks there. But there were other notebooks, and papers and envelopes, all meticulously arranged. Holding my breath, I picked up one of the papers.
“I don’t know what Bruce knows. I haven’t seen him for a while. He’s kind of boring.” Annelise spoke offhandedly, continuing to behave normally on the surface.
But the furor was still going on inside her, lightning flickering in the sky outside the cottage. Grandma must be glancing at the sky from another window while she was working; I sensed that it was Grandma who was operating the clacketing device I could hear in the other room.
Even though she seemed to be occupied, I still had to hurry. There was no way Grandma would ignore me for much longer. In a moment she’d leave Annelise—fascinating as she was—and peruse my mind. I had to get out before she did that, or she’d catch me.
But first I had to find out if she really did have the journals. I poked around the desk, reading neat lists of things—yarn, dyes, other weaving equipment—trying to put everything back in its exact place. And then—my vision constantly improving—I became aware that one volume in particular seemed to pulse with life, with emotion. I picked it up.
“You’re not saying much, Jared. What’s on your mind?” Grandma said, leaning toward me, her elbows on her desk, among overflowing ashtrays and crushed cigarette packs and her momentarily discarded knitting.
“Uh …” It was an effort for me to respond to what was going on in the outside world. “I was just thinking about how … how Amy said Bruce told her she was a good runner—after she almost made it into the ocean today,” I managed to say, hoping Annelise’s discomfort with the subject of Bruce would keep Grandma fixed on her a little longer.
It seemed to work. Grandma had been on the verge of picking up my brain like a magazine at the checkout counter, but my mention of Amy and Bruce sent her back to Annelise.
I quickly opened the glowing notebook. It was a photograph album. Nervous about being caught, I flipped the first pages hastily, old photographs, when Grandma and her children were young.
Then I began to notice something very peculiar about the photographs and turned the pages more slowly. As Grandma’s children grew older, into adulthood, their pictures shifted back and forth, changing from the way they really looked into almost monstrous images. Was this Grandma’s real opinion of them? Uncle George was corpulent with greed, Aunt Grace gnawing away at her own body with self-absorption. Aunt Maggie, surprisingly, was almost emaciated, but that was because she never stopped running, always trying to keep ahead of everybody else. I was offended by the picture of Mom as a fluffy little lapdog with no mind of its own.
Suddenly I noticed that the clacketing noise had stopped. And then I heard approaching footsteps.
“I’m so worried about Amy,” Annelise said, sounding quite sincere.
But Grandma was no longer interested in Annelise. She was after me now.
I flipped frantically through the album. I had to find the answer, after getting this close. I might never have another chance.
And then there was a photo of me and, across from it, a photo of Annelise. They shifted. And I knew that Grandma had read the journals.
The footsteps stopped just outside the door; I heard the doorknob turn. I dropped the photo album on the cottage table. I had no time to close it or put it back in its place. I turned and fled through the window and burst into Grandma’s untidy study just as the footsteps entered the room.
But I wasn’t safe. I had just been in Grandma’s mind. Grandma, entering mine, would see what I knew. I struggled to avoid thinking about these things—just as I had avoided Dad’s hangover at breakfast.
And I had another defense. I concentrated hard on exactly what I had written in my journal, imitating Annelise’s panic reaction, hoping to blot everything else out.
Grandma nodded. “I know how very devoted to Amy you are, Annelise dear. Now where did I put my glasses?”
“They’re right there on the desk,” Annelise told her.
“Oh, that’s right.” Grandma found the glasses and slipped them on. For a long moment she sat there staring at us, her head tilted thoughtfully to the side, her long, thin hair trailing white over her blue blouse.
I concentrated on my journal. I was sweating with the effort it took not to think about Grandma’s mind. It was the most difficult thing I had ever done.
What made it so hard was that now I wanted Grandma to know I could read minds, too. I had seen the cozy welcoming warmth of her cottage, her true inner self. It was only some kind of innate caution, some self-protective mechanism that I didn’t understand, that kept me from telling Grandma all the secret information about my own mental powers.
Being a reader, Grandma would have known all about Annelise even before reading her journal. And the picture of Annelise in her mental photo album showed me that she was worried that Annelise would play more of her dangerous tricks on me. She saw Annelise now as a hungry parasitical worm, feeding on others.
I, on the other hand, was better-looking in Grandma’s photograph than I was in real life. She was on my side, a deeper friend and ally than I had ever imagined. If I let her know ev
erything, she would be able to help me more than anyone else in the world.
So why wasn’t I opening up to her? Why was I paying any attention to that paranoid nagging warning to watch out? It was like a fragile, overinflated balloon, holding in my secret.
But in the instant before I popped it, Grandma spoke.
“Actually, it’s adorable that you two came in here together just now,” she said, her eyes moving quickly back and forth between Annelise and me. “I’m impressed with you both. Your journals are better written than I expected.”
Annelise and I turned to each other, equally stunned, though for different reasons.
“Just the right moment for a little chat,” Grandma went on, so interested in observing our reactions that she wasn’t even lighting another cigarette. “Nothing to worry about, really. You two will enjoy my terms. And once you’ve done what I want … then no one else will need to read your journals.”
Now I understood the balloon that had warned me not to give my secret away to Grandma.
I had wondered before why a person who could learn people’s secrets by reading their minds would go to the trouble and risk of physically stealing their journals.
Now I knew.
eight
“How did you find them? How did you even know about them?” Annelise whispered, her face pale despite her permanent California tan.
“Tut-tut, child. You needn’t be concerned about those trivialities. Just do your grandma a little favor and you’ll have your journal back in a jiffy.”
“I don’t know anything about Jared’s, but my notebook isn’t a journal, Grandma,” Annelise said, flinging up a protective scaffolding with her usual speed. But this situation was so extreme that her little laugh was unconvincing. “It’s a novel I’m working on. You thought it was real? I’m so flattered! I had no idea it was that good.”
Grandma beamed admiringly at her. “Well, I guess there’s no reason for me not to show it to your parents then, is there? Just think how proud they’ll be to find out about their little girl’s literary skills.”
Annelise’s scaffolding swayed, great sections toppling. “I know you’re just teasing us, Grandma. You’d never do anything like that. You’re just … I mean …”
“Of course I won’t let them see it, darling,” Grandma soothed her, pursing her lips sympathetically. “It hurts me to see you upsetting yourself so. Believe me, I’ll give it right back to you—”
“You were just teasing! I knew it!” Annelise cried, clasping her hands together.
“—as soon as you complete your amusing little task,” Grandma finished. “Nothing to it at all, I promise you.” She turned away to light a cigarette.
It was hot in the small room. A spider was busily weaving a web on Grandma’s lamp shade, moving toward Annelise, who shifted her chair away from it. A clock ticked. Voices outside shouted happily over the rumbling surf.
“What do you want, Grandma?” I said softly.
“Good boy, Jared,” she complimented me, blowing out smoke. “Getting right to the point without shilly-shallying around. It shows up in your writing, too; your directness and economy of style are most impressive.” She waved her hand; ashes spilled all over. “One entry in particular about certain fantasies I found especially …”
But she wasn’t getting to the point; she was intentionally avoiding telling us what she wanted, taking pleasure in prolonging our discomfort.
I was still managing to keep my mind securely ignorant. I honestly had no idea why she needed us to help her; my curiosity about it was so overwhelming it helped me bury and disperse my newly discovered information about Grandma, knowledge that would have exposed my powers to her. I was really getting the knack of how not to think about specific things now. Only later, safely away from her, would I allow myself to snap all the pieces together.
Grandma had moved on to Annelise’s “novel.” “Your manuscript is such a convincing depiction of an utterly amoral, manipulative person, totally self-involved, with a chilling lack of any concern for the feelings of others. A real literary achievement, my dear, especially coming as it does from such a sweet and thoughtful child as yourself.” Grandma smiled lovingly at her. “I’m so impressed with all your hard work, Annelise. Clearly it must have taken a great deal of research in psychology texts for you even to be able to conceive of such a character, let alone portray her so realistically. Jog my feeble old memory, darling. I know the psychologists have some term for the serious—but often undetectable—mental problem your imaginary protagonist suffers from. ‘Sociopath,’ ‘narcissistic character disorder,’ something like that. Is it one of those, dear?”
“Er … um, I think so,” Annelise managed to mutter.
“What do you want us to do, Grandma?” I said.
“Oh, that!” Grandma opened her spidery, thin arms with a casual shrug, as though her motive for blackmailing us was far less important than this discussion of our literary talents. She concentrated on stabbing out her cigarette. “It’s just that they’ve finally gotten around to dredging out that toxic waste dump, thank heaven. The fence went up today, sooner than I expected. It’s all terribly hush-hush; they don’t want anybody to get near the place.”
I could only hope that Annelise’s utter bafflement was strong enough to be more noticeable to Grandma than the revelation it was now quite a struggle for me to keep wrapped up and out of sight.
“You’re talking about that old factory swamp you fell into last month?” Annelise said, her features twisted in puzzled disgust.
“Such an embarrassing experience that was!” Grandma exclaimed, pausing to cough briefly. “I had such a time getting out. I’d feel like an old fool going near that place again. Not to mention I’m too old to climb over that fence—especially in the middle of the night. But the two of you together, so young, in such good shape. I know you won’t have any problems. I’ll provide you with everything you need.”
“I still … don’t understand what you’re asking us to do, Grandma,” I said.
“I thought it would be amusing to keep a sample, you know, a kind of historical memento, that’s all.” She shrugged again in an attempt to convey once more that her request was a mere trivial whim. “A half gallon will be plenty. Nothing to it, really. OK?” she said brightly, nodding, smiling, picking up her knitting. “You give it to me, I give you your notebooks. Agreed?”
nine
“The old lady’s completely out of her mind, senile,” Annelise whispered in the dark hallway, the study door closed behind us, our interview with Grandma over at last.
“She has our notebooks,” I said, wondering how far I had to be from Grandma before my mind would be protected by distance. Hiding my thoughts from her had been like holding my breath underwater; I was dying for a gasp of air.
“But it’s just so crazy!” Annelise was making an effort to keep her voice down. “Going to all that trouble, stealing our notebooks, blackmailing us—because she wants some of that swamp water?”
It only made sense that Annelise would see our task as senseless, incomprehensible. And I knew I must not give her any reason to think otherwise. I shook my head and sighed. I couldn’t lie, even to someone like Annelise, but that didn’t mean I had to tell her everything. I just wanted to run from the house and let my stifled thoughts out. “You know Grandma’s always been an oddball.”
“That’s for sure,” Annelise muttered, giving me a sidelong glance. Of course, the worst thing for her would be for her parents to see her journal, but she was also worried about my getting an inkling of its contents. She assumed I was curious; she wondered how much I might have guessed from what Grandma had said about it. “The crazy things she imagined about my … uh, novel were just as out of touch with reality as everything else she was talking about,” Annelise said earnestly as we entered the kitchen. “She’s really losing it. All these yucky spiderwebs!”
“Mmm,” I said.
She stopped, suddenly grabbing my arm. “You t
hink we can trust her? What if we do what she wants and she still doesn’t give them back?”
I had to get out of Grandma’s range fast; the balloon that had protected me before was about to burst. “I don’t think she’ll do that.” I tried to sound sure of myself, wanting to howl with impatience. “I mean, she knows we don’t care about that swamp water. All we have to do is show her she has to hand over the journals first or we’ll throw it away. She knows we have no reason to double-cross her. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“I guess so,” Annelise said, puzzling it over with maddening slowness. She knew Grandma was clever. Grandma had gotten her hands on the journals; she knew exactly how to manipulate us. Despite what Annelise had been saying, she did not believe Grandma was totally out of her mind. She was even wondering if there really might be something special, precious even, about the swamp water.
The value of the swamp water was the last thing I wanted Annelise to suspect. Grandma’s assessment of Annelise had been right on target. She was already cruel and amoral, delighting in hurting others. Given the power to read minds, she’d be a monster. I tried to assure myself there was no way Annelise could figure out what the swamp water actually did.
But what if she fell in the swamp?
It would be dark out there, it was slippery, the fence might be very close to the water.…
I was sweating profusely now, my unleashed thoughts battering at my skull more painfully than Dad’s hangover. “Listen, Annelise. That swamp water must be pretty disgusting,” I began.
“How do you know?” she asked, eyeing me curiously.
I clenched my fists. I couldn’t tell her I had fallen in; then she’d be even more curious about why I had kept it a secret from her and from Grandma. “It’s toxic waste, isn’t it?” I impatiently demanded. “Toxic waste is disgusting—and dangerous.”
“Then why does Grandma want it?” Annelise said, frowning, thinking hard.
“You said she was crazy,” I argued, with difficulty. The blood vessels in my face were dilating with the intense effort of smothering my real thoughts about Grandma. “I mean, I don’t want you in any danger, being exposed to it or anything. So I was just going to say I’d be willing to get the stuff myself, if you’re afraid.”
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