by Sarah Noffke
When I couldn’t take it anymore I dream traveled to some of my favorite places, but they all seemed lame right now. The hipsters in Portland were especially irritating. A nasty green moss kept washing up on the shores of the Florida coast. And the locals in my most loved Istanbul coffee shop weren’t flirting, fighting, or doing anything of particular interest. Most of them read their newspapers and sipped their coffees like they were intentionally trying to be boring. Again and again my mind returned to my troubles, without any suitable distraction. Morning brings a small bit of relief. At least another night has passed and I’m that much closer to leaving.
♦
The familiar rap at my door sounds as I’m pulling my brand new racerback tank—another present from Bob and Steve—over my head. I answer the door, looking forward to seeing that white mustache and the man on the other side of it.
“Hey, Patrick,” I say with a small forced smile.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles and plays his air guitar with a letter in his hand. “I’ve got a note for you.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, surprised. Bob and Steve and I’ve been exchanging emails, not letters anymore.
“It’s a good thing you’re still getting hard copy correspondence, otherwise I’d never have the pleasure of bugging you.”
“You aren’t bugging me.”
“Of course I’m not.” He waves his hand at me. “Everyone likes the mailman. Hopefully today I’ve brought you good news.” He lays the letter in my hand.
“Thanks,” I smile.
“Well, sweetie, duty calls.” He tips his hat and trots away.
My stomach flip-flops when I realize who the letter is from.
Dear Roya,
You won’t listen to me if I’m standing in front of you. Maybe you’ll listen to me now. I told you before that our situation was complicated. I fear that because we have to be discreet about our relationship you doubt how much I really care about you. Please come by my lab today so we can talk about this.
Yours (and I mean it),
Aiden
I wad up his note and throw it in the trash. We don’t need to talk. Aiden and I need space. I’m thinking a few thousand miles should do the trick.
♦
At the breakfast table I find George eyeing me with a sensitive compassion, which is quickly threatening my firmness. He doesn’t say a word. Instead his eyes roam over me, like he’s trying to mend the emotional bruises with his gaze. My shield is down and I know he feels the dull ache in my heart. The disappointment. The sadness. The loss. And all I see in him is the same, like he’s mirroring my emotions. I almost want to feel this pain so I can allow him to fix me, which is what I think he’s offering, with his quiet stares.
“Do you want to talk now, Roya?” he says, pushing away the food he never touched. “If so, I’m here…but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, George. There’s nothing we can say that will make me feel any better, so no. I don’t want to talk.”
“We don’t have to talk about what’s bothering you,” he says, letting the obvious truth be known. “Maybe something else, something that takes your mind off of things.”
I release a long exasperated sigh. That’s what I spent my entire night trying to do: take my mind off my worries. “I’m game for anything at this point,” I say, mashing my peas with my fork.
“When I was a kid, and I heard people say they had a sixth sense, I thought they said sick sense,” he says, staring off, recalling the long-ago memory. “After that I actually wanted to get sick. There was a long period where I didn’t wash my hands. Luckily I didn’t contract a fatal disease. Pretty ridiculous, huh?”
“That’s adorable actually. How old were you when you thought that?” I ask.
“Last year.”
We laugh.
“Actually, I wasn’t more than eight-years-old. Then a couple years later my empathesis developed, and I actually thought I was sick. I thought I was going crazy. Schizophrenic. I couldn’t understand how all of a sudden I felt so much around me. It took a little while for me to realize it was other people’s emotions I was feeling.”
His intimate admission jolts me. George rarely talks and when he does it’s not like this. He eyes me again like before. And I realize he’s trying, really trying, like there’s something major riding on this moment. He’s pulling out all the stops, trying to repair things between us. And if he could read my mind, he’d know it’s working.
“It’s interesting that you wanted to have a sixth sense so badly and you ended up with one,” I say, thinking of all the kids who wish for special powers and grow up to be accountants.
“Yes, surprising to say the least,” he says, a satisfied expression in his eyes.
“The first clairvoyant flash I saw was of an owl,” I say.
George raises a curious eyebrow at me.
“I saw it in a tree, then a few seconds later it flew into the same tree from my vision. This was followed by a flash of a leaf falling off the exact same branch where the owl was perched. Then the leaf fell, just like in my vision. Like you, I always wanted a special gift. I was pretty disappointed to discover that my power was so lame.” I laugh, remembering the memory clearly.
“That’s ironic, actually,” George muses.
“How so?” I ask.
“You’re the most powerful person I know.”
“You need to get out more then,” I say.
He chews his lip. “You have more power than you realize.”
I clasp the frequency adjuster, feeling suddenly heavy from its weight.
With a deliberate shake of his head, he says, “Not only in that way.” His voice is tormented.
Tense silence fills the space.
“Roya, your power isn’t solely in your clairvoyance. I can’t even tell you what it is though. I just feel it.”
Nerves clamp my throat shut.
“Maybe you know what this hidden gift is within you,” he continues. “But my guess is you don’t. My guess is that it’s waiting to be revealed. And when that happens I think you’ll feel more confident than you do now.”
How do I respond to that? All my words sound cheap in response to his heavy insights. Finally I meet his quiet eyes and say, “Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
“That’s not why I told you this.”
Why did he tell me I had some veiled gift? Is this a game? A way to keep me intrigued? George doesn’t play games though. I never have to doubt his words. Question his integrity. “Yeah, I know,” I finally say, my voice awkward.
♦
“I’ve made up my mind to leave the Institute on the twenty-seventh,” I say to an impassive Shuman. “But I’d like to work here until then, if that’s all right.”
She gives me a cold stare. “Your reports are interesting. You have been picking up something new. That is why it is unverifiable. I have been able to confirm them though. They are authentic events.”
“The French girl, you mean? And the man?”
“Yes, although I do not know the significance yet. But you are picking up on these events for a reason and I believe it to be important.”
“The girl’s the one who was going to kill Ren, right?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he knows the significance,” I offer.
“He has been consulted.”
“Oh. So do I need to focus on finding more events linked to these people?”
“No, let your intuition guide you. It will always deliver the event of most importance to you and the Institute.”
“But you said before that sometimes reporters are asked to find specific events, right? And if you think these are important then maybe—”
“I did, but in this instance that is a job for investigative reporters. Your job is to pick up on original stories or whatever comes to you naturally. Is that clear?”
Why does Shuman make me feel like an eight-year-old child? I swear I sense pigtails I’m not wearing
swing beside my head when I nod.
“I will be disappointed to lose your talent,” she continues. “And yes, I would like you to continue to report until you leave.” She points at the chair. “Your station is open.” With a quick pivot she trudges away.
I sink into the chair. When I’m in position I clap the headphones on and focus. The process is becoming second nature, automatic—like driving a car. A few seconds later something flashes in my vision. The gasp that falls out of my mouth is audible over the static filling my ears. An image of Joseph in his room crying fills my mind. He’s clawing at his bed sheets like there’s something underneath them that might provide sustenance. I watch this for a few seconds, but it tears my chest into little aching pieces. It hurts worse than anything I’ve felt recently and that’s saying a lot. The image of my brother drenched in tears and sweat is too much to bear. I force myself to wake up. At the computer terminal I type two words: no report.
There’s no answer at Joseph’s door. I consider breaking and entering, but decide against it. Feeling lonely and disappointed I hide in my room for the rest of the day, skipping all meals. I spend my time reading the books that Bob and Steve had sent. Most of them I’ve already read, but even still their messages are deep and can use a second reading. I do everything I can to distract myself from the pain I know Joseph is experiencing. I don’t know what to do for him. I’m so lost and he’s further gone than I thought. I know most twin sisters would be twisted by the pain I witnessed. Hell, wouldn’t most people be distraught by the heart-wrenching letter from Aiden or the sweet attempts from George? But I’m the girl in the center of the country, the one who’s already so far away from here. The one they’re talking about in the past tense. The one who defeated Zhuang, or didn’t, however the story is written, and I’m in there somewhere. I’ve already visualized myself as the girl who isn’t here anymore, because more than anything that’s who I need to be.
Chapter Ten
The next day when my alarm tells me the sun has risen I awake. I slap on clothes and go to breakfast like a zombie would, if they did such formal things instead of eating brains.
“I’m leaving the Institute,” I say, not making eye contact with anyone at the table.
“Why?” Samara asks, dropping her fork. “You can’t!”
“I think my time here is at an end,” I say, feeling George’s penetrating stare. He’s already plunged into my emotions and explored them layer by layer. I push my oatmeal around with a spoon.
“But,” Samara argues, “there’s so much more to do. Your news reporting, aren’t you going to miss it?”
“Of course, and I’ll miss you all too, but I can’t stay here right now.”
“Girl, I guess I’ve been ignoring you,” Trent says, batting his long black eyelashes at me. “If you need me to give you a bit more attention in order to stay then all you need to do is dress provocatively.”
I laugh. “Whose attention I could have really used was Joseph’s. Will you please keep an eye on him? I’m worried.”
Samara lays her hand on mine. A gentle squeeze. “Yes, of course.”
“Thanks,” I say, sounding exactly how I feel. Wounded.
“When?” George’s voice is rough. “When are you leaving?”
I look at him directly. He’s mirroring my emotions again and it’s enough to almost make me fall apart. “The twenty-seventh,” I say, shoving tears to the bottom of my being. “I’ve got to get to work,” I lie and rush off from the table.
♦
The Panther room is the only place that holds a real mission for me these days. A new apprehension creeps into my thoughts as I settle in at my station. I brace myself to see something devastating, something about Joseph, or something about someone else I know. However, what I actually see is ordinary and not at all disturbing. It’s a scene of a man in a black knit cap playing chess with another gentleman. The entire exchange is neither terrifying nor of obvious importance to my life, unlike my recent visions. For that I’m grateful. Other than a few oddities, what I witness appears to be a typical game of chess between two people.
After several minutes the man with the black knit cap moves a chess piece across the board and smiles at his opponent. “Échec et mat,” he says. I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure he’s just won the game. Then he swivels and looks directly at me, where my “camera lens” is anyway. His wrinkled face arranges itself into something between a smirk and a scowl. “Are you enzertained? No?” the man says, looking too pleased with himself. A laugh like a car’s rattling engine. “You von’t get anyzing from me. So off vitz you.”
I stiffen with sudden dread. This man knows I’m there spying, just like that awful girl in the previous vision, but how?
I awake from this report feeling exhausted and a complete failure. After I input this information I’m not the least bit surprised when the results say, “Information unverifiable.”
My mind combs over the report I just logged. Who are these French people? What do they have to do with the Institute? They seem so familiar and yet also a complete mystery. I sink deeper into these curious thoughts trying to find a pattern, a clue I’ve missed. Do the French people have anything to do with me? What’s their connection to Ren? Nervously I tap the elevator button a dozen more times than is necessary. What’s the connection? Why do I get the impression these people are more than just deranged? They’re fatally dangerous.
The elevator doors are almost closed when a hand reaches in and forces them back open. Aiden steps in, but doesn’t give me the slightest look. I straighten with dread. Once the elevator begins to ascend he steps forward, scans his key card, and presses a few buttons. The elevator halts swiftly. Stuck. Aiden turns and faces me, his sapphire eyes intense. Breath hitches in my throat.
“You can’t leave,” he says, arms crossed.
“I can and I will,” I say, regaining my composure.
“This is ridiculous. You belong here,” he argues.
“How do you know where I belong?”
“The Institute needs you.”
“No it doesn’t.”
He searches me, looking injured. I can’t believe he even has the audacity to speak to me.
“And since when did you care? You’ve got your projects.”
“I’ve always cared,” he says, pushing his dark brown hair out of his eyes. The air grows stiff in the tight space. “Don’t do this,” he urges. “You’re trying to push me away. You’re running.”
“You know,” I say, taking a sip of air, “this might be a surprise, but this isn’t about you. I’ve got other reasons, better than you, for wanting to leave this corrupt place.”
Scorn flashes on his usually happy face. I’m being cruel. And I want to take it back, but my pride won’t let me.
“Look, I really need to get out of here,” I say, panic creeping into my head, creating dizziness. “Now,” I add.
“George said you were staying until the twenty-seventh, that’s four days away.”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “I need to get out of here.” I point to the floor to indicate the elevator.
He looks at me earnestly. “Roya, please reconsider this whole—”
“No.” I shake my head, cutting him off. “I’ve made up my mind.”
His blue eyes, his face pleading—they’re threatening my resolve. I wish everything was as simple as he tries to make it. “Why do you have to make me so crazy?” I ask in desperation.
He smirks, but still holds his arms across his chest. “What you’re feeling is completely mutual, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Good,” I say, hostility saddling my tone.
He glares at me.
“Why are you trapping me in this elevator?” I say, enunciating each word through clenched teeth.
He draws in a breath and loosens his arms. “Because you ignored my note. You’re so stubborn and I love that about you, but damn it,” he says with a growl low in his throat.
I’m s
tarting to feel lightheaded. Please don’t pass out here. Please. The walls are closing in on me. I wish he’d start the elevator back up. I never thought I was claustrophobic, but in this tight compartment, overflowing with all our emotions, I am.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“No. I don’t want to, not after that whole Amber fiasco.”
“I fired her.”
The words strike me with coarse surprise. I expected a dozen different responses, but not this one. “What?” I say in a hush.
“You were right,” he says, softening. “Her intentions weren’t professional, and I learned that much when I confronted her. I wanted to know why she lied about the massage.”
“Oh,” I say, floored. “So you really didn’t give her a massage?”
“Of course not. I may be a guy governed by certain urges, but I’m truly not an idiot.”
Guilt courses through me at the mention of that word, at the memory of insulting him with it. “Aiden, when I called you that I thought—”
“I know what you thought and completely understand why. Roya, if the roles had been reversed, I’d have been beyond jealous.” He hesitates, on the verge of saying more. My heart beats slowly, hanging on his every word. Beating by it. Living for it. “I would have been enraged to think anyone had their hands on you in that way,” Aiden says, a bitterness in his voice. “It would have driven me crazy.”
“So you fired her?” I ask, still in frozen disbelief.
“Yes. She has seventy-two hours to pack up and get out of the Institute.”
“Wow, that seems harsh,” I say, locking my eyes on the floor.
“Roya,” Aiden begins, “she’s a liar, and making advances toward her superior is not even the top reason I terminated her. I don’t know exactly why she lied. Maybe she was hoping to get me in trouble with the Institute. All I know is what she did hurt you and I won’t stand for that.”
My eyes eagerly find his. In this oxygen-deprived elevator his desire is tangible, like an electrical current pulsing through a wire. Aiden grips my elbow and I don’t resist when he tugs me closer. He tilts his head and seems to marvel at me, like I hold some truth to life’s mysteries. And for a moment his expression startles me, but in this stuffy elevator that’s all I see. His affection engulfs the space. I feel his loyalty in every touch, every breath. And I can’t believe I questioned it.