Darkest Minds

by Bacon, Stephen

  When you can no more hold me by the hand,

  Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

  Remember me when no more day by day

  You tell me of our future that you plann’d:

  Only remember me; you understand

  It will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  And afterwards remember, do not grieve

  For if the darkness and corruption leave

  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  Better by far you should forget and smile

  Than that you should remember and be sad.

  Breaking the news to their friends was horrible.

  One morning, a few weeks after the funeral, their phone rang. It was Jane, a woman Holly had worked with, before Holly went self-employed. After a few pleasantries, Jane asked, "Is Holly there?"

  A month after Holly’s death, he met his friend Mitch for lunch. Mitch opened his menu, premature white hair, peering over the top rims of his black glasses at the choices. "Was Holly too busy to join us?"

  "She’s dead."

  Mitch kept reading menu selections over the rims of his glasses. Absent-mindedly he asked, "What?"

  Nate’s menu lay flat on the white tablecloth, spoon and knife on one side, on the other, two different-sized forks. "Holly is dead. She had a heart attack."

  Mitch lowered his menu, mouth open. Looked at Nate through his spectacles, weak blue eyes magnified. "What?"

  Nate’s life flattened. During the morning and early afternoon he’d do his work, over the Internet. With only one income he couldn’t afford to lose the job. If he did, he’d lose their house, this quiet box of memories.

  Once his work was done, he’d start drinking.

  He planned his meals far in advance. Frozen and canned foods, so he’d only have to go out once a month. Pushing a metal cart down the aisles in a brightly-lit supermarket, feet splaying apart as he pushed, like a pregnant woman, eyes red, like a rabbit, clutching his pathetic list of abbreviated words (he didn’t have the heart any more to write "lettuce", just "let"), a list written now in his hand, rather than hers, was horrible. Never more so than in the produce department, where he couldn’t avoid couples gaily carrying clear plastic bags of tomatoes, string beans, carrots, to a common cart. Everything he observed in the supermarket, he observed in absolute silence. People’s lips moving, but no sound. He had to lean way over the check writing ledge at the cash register to hear the clerk’s muffled small talk.

  The first time he saw Holly after her death was on a local morning newscast.

  The reporter was standing on a suburban street, microphone to her mouth, at the front of a driveway, mailbox to the left. A car had jumped the curb, rolling across the lawn. You could see, behind the reporter’s shoulder, two wet dark tracks in the green grass. The car had crashed into the home’s living room, heavy jigsaw pieces of orange bricks lying on the car’s crumpled blue hood. No one was hurt.

  Neighbors were interviewed. Was the street safe? Should a speed bump be placed in the road? One woman made the point that neighborhood children run out in the street all the time, chasing balls. Several other neighbors stood near her, watching her interview. One of them was Holly. The way she looked ten years ago.

  Nate put his cup down on his bed table, sloshing coffee. Reached for the remote, pressed the rewind button, hit Record.

  Once the weather report came on, he stopped recording. Located the news show in his list of recorded events, hit Play.

  The reporter led the camera over to the dark-haired woman standing on the sidewalk. "One of the Pax Street neighbors, Mrs. Cortazar, has a concern about the children who play in the street once they get home from school."

  Microphone tilted towards the woman, camera moving left, probably to get the trunk of a large elm in the left side frame, and there she is, his Holly, standing quietly in the background.

  He played the recording over and over.

  And there she is. And there she is.

  He freeze-framed on her image. Used Holly’s digital camera to photograph the TV screen. Downloaded the image to Adobe Photoshop. Printed a dozen copies.

  Went on the Internet to MapQuest, found the easiest route from where he was to Pax Street. Dressed, got in his car, drove over there.

  Started at one end of the street, working his way down the quiet, sun-lit blocks, both sides of the street, asking each person who answered the door if they recognized this woman. He explained he was an insurance adjuster, fingers crossed behind his back, and the woman in the photograph might have been a witness to an accident, a horrible, tragic, unexpected, completely avoidable accident. "My company is ready to pay her a substantial compensation for her eyewitness account."

  This is crazy, he thought, as he left each closing front door, heading towards the next door, knowing in his heart she was dead. She’s not living on Paxton Street, ten years younger. But he kept ringing doorbells.

  Most of the people he talked to didn’t know who she was. One asked for a way to contact him if she thought of anything, which suggested to him he was getting close. The door answerer after that, overalls and an old shirt, cheap white cloth cap on her head, red splatters on her clothes, said, "Yeah, that’s Julie. Next door." She pointed with a paint brush.

  Holly answered the door, except it was Holly from ten years ago, except it wasn’t Holly, she didn’t recognize him. But the match was close enough to be an identical twin. He had to come up with some reason why he had rung her doorbell, so he asked this almost-Holly if she knew how to get to Balcony Drive. He raised his shoulders, sad, defeated. "I’m lost."

  The next time he saw Holly was in Feckless, a new thriller, one of the nightclub scenes. Again, he froze the image of her, bare-armed, in a long green gown, printed it.

  And there she was, in the TV comedy series First In Line, in a yellow slicker, holding a black umbrella that kept popping open at the worse possible moments, picking up four coffees at the takeout place where the series” stars worked.

  And again, in the background of a black and white newspaper photo of the annual Celebration on the Hill festival. And again, in a seventeenth century painting by Rathiers of bathers sitting by the river, this time in the foreground, pink and yellow and blue paint.

  He bought face recognition software, the same type used by the United States government to patrol the borders.

  Ran all thirty-eight images he had collected through the program, from newscasts, TV shows, movies, newspaper and magazine photos, old paintings, a postage stamp from Guatemala.

  They all came up as a match. All thirty-eight.

  Her.

  He sat back. Fuck.

  Why would Holly, and a meteorologist at a North Dakota TV station, a farmer in Oregon who ran a heritage pig ranch, a woman in New York City who witnessed a purse snatching, a marine biologist in Bermuda who was concerned about the lowered reproduction rate in moray eels, a freedom fighter in Central America, and every other woman he had discovered, all be the same person?

  As a control, he chose faces at random on the Internet, hundreds of them, ran them through the software. None matched the thirty-eight, but some matched each other.

  He met his friend Mitch again for lunch.

  Mitch asked how Nate was holding up. "Make sure you’re still doing your job. No one’s irreplaceable."

  In the next aisle over, waiters and waitresses had gathered to sing someone Happy Birthday.

  Nate ignored his menu. "I’ve found one hundred and eighty versions of Holly in different women."

  Mitch looked over the sample prints Nate handed him, one after the other, Nate watching his friend’s white hair, black-rimmed glasses.

  When Mitch finished, he looked up at Nate. "Are you serious?"

  "Why wouldn’t I be serious?"

  Mitch’s face was troubled. "It’s not uncommon to see someone you love when they’re away from you. Especially after…." He spread his old hands a
part. "It doesn’t mean anything. You’ve got to realize that."

  "Then look at this." Nate put a new manila folder on the white tablecloth, next to Mitch’s shrimp appetizer.

  Mitch flipped the front of the manila folder open.

  Men’s faces. About twenty.

  He looked up, reaching for his fork. "What’s this?"

  "It’s you. Twenty different versions of you."

  Mitch chewed on a shrimp, head lowered, flipping through the first few photographs. Didn’t bother with the rest. Swallowed. Patted his lips. "But it’s not." He smiled kindly. "Come on, Nate. These guys look like me, but they’re not me."

  "You honestly don’t feel any connection when you look at their faces?"

  Mitch, chewing a new shrimp, shook his head.

  Nate found a bulletin board on the Internet, What Does It All Mean?

  Scrolled through the different discussion threads for ghost sightings, alien encounters, messages from men who were from the future, or were vampires.

  Posted his own message.

  "I have photographic proof that more than one version of each person exists in the world at the same time. Has anyone else done research on this? Can you help me?"

  He checked the bulletin board a few times each day. There were few responses, most of them talking about alien replicants.

  On the seventh day he received a one-word entry on his thread. An e-mail address. Signed, John.

  He e-mailed John.

  A day passed, nothing, then he got a response.

  Send me your telephone number.

  He did.

  Another day passed.

  He was boiling rice for his dinner, already pretty drunk, when the phone on the white kitchen counter rang.

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded like a regular guy. "Are you NateandHolly999?"

  Nate took a deep breath, watching, across the kitchen from the phone, the steam rise from his blue pot of rice. Since the caller had used his bulletin board name, it could only be John. "Yes."

  "Do you want to learn a truth? Do I sound pretentious?"

  "A little."

  "Meet me at the Hotel Noel, tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock. Room 18. If you want to learn a truth."

  Nate woke early in the morning, to finish all his day’s work before the meeting. He sensed he wouldn’t want to do any work afterwards, regardless of how the meeting went.

  He refrained from drinking.

  The hotel was located in a run-down section of Dallas, south of the Trinity River.

  Although it called itself a hotel, it was really a two-story motel. You could park outside your room.

  He walked away from his Mustang, turning half around, as he continued to walk forward, to beep the doors locked.

  Facing forward again, he saw a woman standing on the second floor walkway, outside an opened door, hands on the walkway’s rail. She looked like Holly.

  He went left across the parking lot, up a flight of stairs, wondering if she’d still be standing there when he got to the second floor.

  She was.

  She waited until he was halfway towards her, his heart beating at angles in his chest, then turned and silently went through the opened doorway, back into the motel room.

  He kept walking forward, a bit slower, more cautious, wondering if he were being set up.

  When he reached the threshold of the doorway, the number 18 on the inward-opened door, he stopped. Looked inside.

  She was sitting by herself on the edge of one of the two king-sized beds, looking quietly at him. She looked a lot like Holly.

  He stayed at the threshold. Trying to think of what to say, to reassure himself. "Do you know John?"

  "I am John."

  Mitch put his left hand on the side of the open doorway, to steady himself. "You don’t look like a John—"

  "—you don’t know what John looks like."

  "—and you don’t sound like a John."

  "Do you want to come in?"

  He hesitated.

  Her lips broke out in Holly’s familiar smile, that smile that always had a self-deprecating quality to it, like she knew she was smiling when she shouldn’t, this was serious, whatever they would be talking about, but it always took his breath away, that smile, those red lips, white teeth, that smile so uniquely hers. How unexpected, that that would be how you would positively identify a person, not by their face, or fingerprints, but by the way they smiled.

  And seeing that smile now, on another woman’s face, knowing his wife was dead, in the ground, silent, face motionless forever, broke his heart. He went inside.

  She patted the side of the bed next to her.

  He sat down, so close he could smell her. Feel the warmth of her body. She let him look into her eyes. He sighed. "You’re not Holly." He surprised himself by suddenly sucking in his breath, eyes getting hot.

  She gently shook her long-haired head.

  He had a good, long cry, the type of cry, sobbing like a child, face bright red, eyes terrified, he hadn’t permitted himself since her death.

  The Holly who wasn’t Holly held him, not as the real Holly would, as a lover, but as a not-Holly would, as a mother.

  Eventually, he raised his head, accepted her facial tissues, blew his nose. The knees of his slacks were wet from his tears.

  "Why am I here?"

  The woman stroked his hair. "You saw something. In your grief, you saw a truth most people don’t."

  He blew his nose again, looked around for a wastebasket. She took the used tissues from him.

  "I saw a lot of women who looked like Holly."

  "They are Holly."

  He wiped his eyes, sideways. "But you’re not Holly. You said so."

  "I am, and I’m not. I’m not your Holly, your exact same Holly, but Holly and me—and all the other women you identified, and millions upon millions of others—are all the same person. I want you to meet someone."

  The bathroom door at the rear of the motel room opened, light illuminating the hangers of the closet alcove.

  Nate’s face jerked up.

  A man walked into the motel room, short, dark, sunglasses, plaid short-sleeved shirt.

  Nate felt his heart pumping faster, in fear.

  The woman put a calming hand on his shoulder, smiled Holly’s smile again. "It’s okay. Just keep an open mind."

  The short, dark man advanced, with the deferential politeness of a foreigner, dark glasses in his direction. "How are you, Nate?"

  Nate sat up on the side of the bed. "I’m good. Do I know you? I don’t think I do. I don’t know."

  The man slowly raised his right arm, like someone trying not to startle an animal. Pointed at Nate. "I’m you, partner."

  "You’re who?"

  The man’s round head lowered towards Nate, dark-complexioned face getting closer, crow’s feet outside the dark glasses, lips splitting, showing small teeth, in a smile. "Yes."

  The woman put her arm around Nate’s waist. "Tell him who you are."

  The man rose to his short height, walnut face grinning. "Cleopas."

  "Who?"

  Cleopas pointed at the night table beside the bed.

  The woman slid open the table’s one drawer, pulled out the gold-stamped bible put inside by the Gideon Society. "He’s in the bible."

  "Who is?"

  Bible on her lap, she flipped through the thin white pages. "Luke 24. Verses 13-35." She found the passage, slid the opened bible onto Nate’s lap. "You don’t have to read the whole thing. Just read fifteen through eighteen."

  Nate looked down at the heaviness of the book on his lap, located, with the woman’s polished fingernail, the passage.

  [15] While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them,

  [16] but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.

  [17] And he said to them, "What are you discussing with each other while you walk along? They stood still, looking sad.

  [18] Then one of the
m, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, "Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place in these days?"

  The woman took the bible off Nate’s lap. Pointed at the short, dark man in their motel room. "That’s him. Cleopas. He met Jesus. Cleopas is you."

  Nate stood up, walked away from the bed, the woman, Cleopas. Looked at the short man. "You’re saying you were alive two thousand years ago, and you’re still alive? You never died?"

  The man shrugged his muscular shoulders. "None of us die and go to Heaven. We’re always in Heaven. Our bodies are down here on Earth, but our spirits, our true selves, are always in Heaven. There are many, many people who are alive for thousands of years down here on Earth. We wear sunglasses, or pretend to be blind, so people cannot see our eyes. The eyes betray us. Our bodies look normal, but our eyes, if you look into them…The age of our eyes can’t be hidden."

  Nate shifted his weight. "Bullshit."

  Cleopas walked up to him, smiling. "If I remove my sunglasses, you can see my eyes. Should I remove my sunglasses?"

  "Go ahead."

  Cleopas reached his right hand up, right side of his plaid short-sleeve shirt crinkling, pulled the sunglasses off his face.

  Mitch looked down into the ancient pupils.

  Shuddered.

  Cleopas put his hinged sunglasses back above the bridge of his large nose. "So now you know."

  "And you’re me?"

  The not-Holly put her hand on Nate’s left bicep. "There are only eighteen people in the world."

  "What?"

  She bit her lip. "There are only eighteen people in the world. Those eighteen people take different forms, some very similar to their other forms, much like you spotted obvious forms of Holly in your grief, but there are also Hollys that look very different from the form you knew."

  Nate looked at the not-Holly. "There are millions of me in the world? Millions of Holly?"

  She grinned. "Tens of millions. Hundreds of millions. Take the world’s population, divide it by eighteen. That’s how many of you or Holly there are in the world."

  "Why are there only eighteen people in the world?"

  "That’s all God created. Possibly, it’s all the different people God could create. Creating a unique person, different from all others, that’s incredibly hard. God managed to create eighteen."