HEAR

by Robin Epstein

  “Hilarious,” Mara replies, unamused. In one fluid movement, she scoops up the cards on the table and pushes them deep into the deck.

  Brian snaps his folder shut and clears his throat.

  “Good. Now that the introductions have been made, let’s get down to business, shall we? I need you to clear your minds of any distracting thoughts.”

  “What if there’s nothing else left, Professor?” Alex jokes.

  “I’m hoping for nothing left,” my great-uncle answers seriously. “I’m going to lead you through a guided meditation before we begin the experiment. So I want you to relax and turn inward. Feel free to stay in your chairs or take a seat on the ground and make yourself comfortable. Just be sure to keep your head and spine upright.”

  “Eyes open or closed?” Dan asks.

  “Half open,” Brian replies. “Gaze down the line of your nose. Start shuttering out exterior interference without shutting down entirely. Then start concentrating on nothing but the sound of your breathing.”

  Ugh, the focus-only-on-your-breathing business. I’ve never been able to do that successfully. Even in yoga class I’m always too keyed up to calm down. Whenever the instructor announces in her most soothing voice that we are to balance on our “sit bones” and “think about nothing but your breath,” my brain revolts, and goes into overdrive, thoughts spinning fast and furiously. I sneak a peek at the other four HEARs, perched on their lab stools, already motionless.

  Needless to say, I’m a thousand times more relaxed at yoga than I am here now.

  Twenty minutes later I wonder if I’ve fallen asleep.

  Brian brings me back to the antiseptic reality of the lab room with a quiet command: “ You may open your eyes.”

  I blink at the others. They’re all wide awake.

  “Now, who’s familiar with the term ‘remote viewing’?” Brian asks.

  An impish smile comes to Pankaj’s face, but my great-uncle shakes his head. “I do not mean watching TV and using a remote control.”

  Pankaj rolls his eyes.

  Dan raises his hand. “It is a technique used to gather information about an unseen or unknown target.” The words sound memorized.

  “A target?” Mara repeats, curious. “That seems aggressive.”

  “It’s not,” Brian says. “Think of it as the bull’s-eye you’re trying to zone in on. I’m going to give you three prompts. They will vary—a string of letters and numbers like a license plate number, or a proper name, or an object. Write the prompt down first. Then record whatever comes to mind afterwards. Ignore no detail that comes to you. This is vital: you must record absolutely everything. If it’s easier to sketch what you see, by all means feel free to draw it instead.”

  Nobody asks any questions. Again, I feel as if I missed some orientation or was denied some introductory packet of information—something that has put me at a competitive disadvantage with the others. Then again, aside from the admissions gold card to Henley, it’s not clear what I’m competing with them for.

  Brian hands each of us a graph-paper notebook and colored pencils. “Write your names on the front of your books. I’ll just add one more time, please be as specific as you can be in your descriptions. But if nothing comes to mind, write ‘NA’ on the page. The goal isn’t to create something out of thin air or to use your imagination. What you want is for the prompt to lead you to the target, and for that target to give you feedback. Clear?”

  I raise my hand.

  “ Yes?” Brian says.

  “Can I speak to you in the hall?” I ask, scooting off my chair.

  His lips turn down, as if he’s disappointed. But then he nods and follows, shutting the door behind us. I feel the others’ eyes on me, even out here.

  “Is there a problem, Kass?” he asks. He sounds genuinely puzzled.

  “I’m just not clear on exactly what you want me to do.”

  “It’s just as I explained: I want everyone to—”

  “I know, I know.” I shake my head. “But it’s not like I think I have any extra-special talent for this stuff, so I don’t know how my responses are supposed to help you. Am I the control or whatever you call it?”

  He sighs and pats my shoulder. “ You simply need to keep your mind open. That’s all I ask of you. Can you do that?”

  “Really?” I press. “Just keep an open mind?”

  “That’s it,” he says.

  If that’s all it takes to get the gold card from my uncle, an open mind I shall give him. “ Yeah, I can definitely do that.”

  “Good. Let’s go back inside then.”

  Keep my mind open. Keep an open mind.

  How hard could it be?

  As soon as brian gives the first prompt—“9492MD”—my brain starts spinning in concentric circles. I scrawl the numbers and letters on the page, but all I “get” is a null set: zero, zilch, zip, bupkis. I glance around the room, and see Alex’s hand is in motion, as is Dan’s. Mara quietly taps the edge of her pencil on the table. Pankaj just sits there, his eyes half closed.

  I stare at my notebook: 9492MD.

  And then something happens.

  To my utter surprise, my thoughts stop swirling. A picture begins to emerge in my mind’s eye: two men in white lab coats walking down a hallway. I can’t explain it, but it doesn’t feel like I’m just imagining things, or being creative for the sake of the experiment . . . It feels more like a memory. Which is weird, since I can’t place it in space or time. I start jotting notes.

  Bright light reflects on the shiny tile floor. The men wear green scrubs underneath their lab coats. They’re talking quickly and quietly to each other as they rush through a set of doors.

  I stare again at the numbers and letters, but nothing more comes. My thoughts whirl: to Mara and her tarot cards; to the mysterious pictures on Uncle Brian’s mantel; to Pankaj and his eyes, hidden behind that scrim of black hair. After a few more minutes, everyone sets their pencils down. I glance back at the prompt and then reread my description. I actually think I got it.

  “All finished?” Brian asks, and we murmur assent. “Good. Now how many of you saw something to do with doctors or a hospital?”

  I raise my hand. I can’t help but feel relieved and happy when I see Mara raise her hand too. A moment later Alex also raises his hand.

  “ You guys saw the gunshot victim?” Alex asks. His expression is uncharacteristically grim. He glances between Mara and me. “That old guy bleeding out as he was being rushed into the ER? That’s what I saw. Came through really clearly, like the opening scene in a TV medical drama.”

  I shake my head. “No, mine wasn’t—”

  “I saw nothing so tragic,” Mara says, cutting me off.

  “Me neither,” I add, quickly trying to reassert myself. “Just doctors walking down a hospital hallway.”

  Brian nods. “ Yes, that’s a fairly common reaction to this prompt, since it ends with the letters ‘MD.’”

  “Oh.” This comes out more loudly than I intended. My eyes fall back to my notebook. That momentary feeling of pride crumbles into embarrassment.

  “That’s not a value judgment, Kass,” Brian soothes. “It’s a trap that I want everyone to be wary of. Our brains rely on patterns to make connections and assumptions. That’s how we conserve energy and get through daily life—and survive. You see something slithering on the ground ahead, its tail rattling, you don’t get up close to investigate. You just start moving away from that rattlesnake. But the trick here is to try, as best you can, to empty your mind of preconceptions. To register nothing but the target’s inherent feedback, aura, or pulse.” He takes a breath. “Okay, your next prompt: 4NFUSQ.”

  After I scribble the string of numbers and letters, an image forms once again, with the same immediacy as the last. I see an airport security line, the X-ray scanner ahead of me. Several bored TSA
agents chat with one another across the carry-on bag conveyor belt and pat-down area. A visibly relieved-looking man collects a briefcase containing the components of an explosive device. I stiffen.

  Yoga breaths. Yoga breaths . . .

  I breathe in and out deeply in an attempt to shake this image free. It must be wrong. It’s stupid. I must have associated “4N” with the word “foreign.”

  But this feels like something else. This set of impressions isn’t like the last; these images flashed at me vividly, fully formed.They streaked through my skull in bright detail. I’m probably just thinking about my parents’ trip to China; I’m nervous about their travel. They already feel very far away to me. Or maybe it’s that all of this stuff feels so “4N” to me, and the image reflects the truth of how much I want to go home.

  My breathing steadies. I stare at the notebook. Think, Kass! No, that’s not right . . . Free-associate, Kass!

  But nothing else comes.

  Brian waits another minute, then says, “Spotted tiger.”

  I see Henry, the stuffed bear I carried with me everywhere until I was seven years old. I loved Henry so fiercely that patches of his fur wore off, effectively making him look spotted. It’s obvious why he came to mind, but Henry was no tiger. He was a teddy bear. I write NA under the prompt.

  After another few minutes, Brian collects our notebooks and sits on the edge of his desk. “So,” he says, “ Your impressions?”

  “I mostly saw colors,” Mara replies. “Very few images, more like . . . washes of pigment. Very Jungian.”

  I blink at her, wondering if she realizes how pretentious and full of it she sounds. Or maybe it’s just that I suddenly feel ignorant. Or both.

  “What do you mean by that?” Alex asks.

  Mara tilts her head, as if disappointed that Alex doesn’t get the reference. “ You know, Carl Jung, the psychiatrist-philosopher? He focused on the unconscious, dreams and symbols. He believed our senses could turn inward, and when that ‘introverted sensation’ happens, you don’t necessarily see an image, but you get reflections and shimmers of events that are still unborn.”

  “I saw a few pictures,” Dan says. I am grateful that he doesn’t pause to reflect on Mara’s psychobabble about the unconscious. “One really distinct one was a cargo plane.”

  “The one taking off from some rain forest or something?” Alex asks.

  Dan looks surprised and nods. “ Yeah. But I couldn’t figure out exactly where—”

  “Colombia,” Alex interrupts. “From some of the other details I got, like the flag and the shoes people were wearing, it must be Colombia.”

  Dan stares back at him. “That’s really specific. I only saw the plane and the trees surrounding the runway.”

  Alex shrugs and smiles. No big deal, apparently.

  “What else came through clearly?” Brian asks.

  “Well, the tail obviously,” Alex says.

  “The tail?” Mara repeats. “Like the tiger’s tail?”

  “No,” he replies. “The first prompt.”

  Dan blinks. “Do you mean t-a-i-l like what’s at the butt end of an animal or t-a-l-e like a bedtime story?”

  “I mean tail like the person—or people—following us,” Alex answers quietly.

  I realize I’ve begun twisting my pinkie ring as I stare at Alex, wondering exactly how pronounced or problematic his “people are always watching” paranoia really is.

  “ You think people are actively spying on us?” Pankaj asks, a smile playing on his lips. “I mean, aside from the NSA?”

  Alex nods, his own smile gone, his eyes serious. “ Yeah, I do.”

  “Mm, well, this is all very interesting,” Brian interjects coolly, his tone at odds with his sudden fidgeting. He takes a three by five card out of his breast pocket and scribbles something down before blowing on the ink then returning the card. “Thank you, Alex. Okay, anyone else?”

  Pankaj raises his hand, but it sags. He runs his fingers through his hair. “I got something that came through really clearly,

  but . . .” He winces. “But it’s kind of lame.”

  Mara smiles. “Now you have to say it.”

  “It was for the one you mentioned, the spotted tiger?” Pankaj has lowered his voice, like he’s disappointed in himself—which is odd, seeing as he’s only projected dangerous confidence till now. “I saw this old teddy bear. Its fur was worn away in circular patches. So it kind of looked spotted.”

  I nearly fall off my stool. I hold my breath.

  “But it definitely wasn’t a tiger. It was a teddy bear. Ratty and weird looking. Not the kind of teddy bear any kid would want—”

  “Maybe that’s what being well loved looks like,” I hear myself blurt in Henry’s defense.

  Now everyone is staring at me. It takes a beat or two for me to calm down. Once again, Brian is furiously writing on his index card. When he looks up, our eyes meet, and he smiles.

  “Well, this was a very productive first session,” he says. “We’ll be repeating this exercise. When it comes to remote viewing, repetition and training should have a great impact. The more often you allow your mind to go to a place of receptivity, the more you’re likely to see. And regardless of how familiar or common the image, don’t dismiss it. Don’t dismiss anything. We’ll filter things later. Your job is to be the medium for the message.” He looks at his watch. “Okay, why don’t we break and meet back here in an hour? I want you to relax for a little bit before we begin again.”

  “Bathroom?” I ask.

  “Down the hall to the right.”

  I nod and head for the door.

  Outside, I break into a run. I push hard on the bathroom door then lock myself in the far stall.

  Rules are generally made for a reason; I get that. And generally I try to follow them. But I’ve always been unafraid to break the bad or inconvenient rules, and so I yank my cell out of my bag and call my dad. I need to share the questions festering in my mind—share them out loud, possibly in the form of a rant. How did Dan and Alex see the same plane? Did my airport security thing have anything to do with it too? What was Alex talking about when he said someone was following us? And craziest of all, how did Pankaj see and describe Henry, my teddy bear?

  After a few interminable rings, a click. “ You’ve reached the voice mail of William Black. I’m out of the country at the moment, but kindly leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as I’m able.”

  “William Black, this is your daughter, Kassandra Black. We need to have a little chat about your uncle and this place you sent me, so call me back as soon as humanly possible. Thank you and goodbye.”

  When I put the phone away, I wonder what he and my mother are doing in China. I think of Brian’s description of time as spherical, and since it’s already tomorrow in China, I’m hoping my parents have some idea of what happened today. At this point I’ll take any insight I can get . . .

  I head back to the lab. It’s empty.

  They’ve all left me behind, my uncle included.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “One with everything, please,” I tell the counter lady at Einstein’s Bagels.

  I can’t help but wonder what Einstein would say about being the pitchman for a college town bagel joint. Probably, The food’s not bad, relatively speaking. Wait . . . did I just make a physics pun? Somebody shoot me.

  “ You’re going to smell,” I hear Dan say over my shoulder.

  “I’m okay with that.” I decide not to turn to acknowledge him or his rudeness, and I smile at the counter lady instead. “And give me some of that scallion cream cheese too, please.”

  “I am not sitting next to you when we get back,” he says.

  “ Your loss.” I pull cash out of my purse. “How much?”

  But the cashier is not paying attention. She’s focused on the small TV
hanging from the ceiling.

  I wave a five-dollar bill in front of her.

  She quickly eyeballs my order. “Four dollars even,” she says. “Hey, Jim, can you turn up the volume?” She takes the bill without looking at me and hands a dollar back, eyes still glued to the screen. When the volume rises, I hear a reporter saying, “We don’t yet know how many dead, but we’re expecting more casualties to come.”

  My eyes dart to the TV. A police officer is standing in front of a bank of microphones. “What happened?” I ask.

  “Some asshole went on a rampage just up the road in the Bridgestone Mall,” the cashier mutters.

  “Oh my God.” I whirl around to Dan, who’s still scanning the bagel selection. “Did you hear that?” I point to the TV, wondering if his mind is flashing to the same thing as mine: Alex’s response to the “MD” prompt . . .

  The officer seems to forget he’s on camera. He looks directly at someone in the crowd of reporters. “At this point we have only one confirmed fatality. The victim was pronounced dead at Henley Medical Center. Identification is pending. But the gunman is still on the loose, and we have every reason to believe he is still armed and extremely dangerous.”

  I stare at Dan.

  “Plain bagel with plain cream cheese,” he says.

  Once we’re out the door, I grab Dan’s shoulder and spin him around. “ You’re not at all surprised or upset by the news?” I ask.

  He shakes me off. “No. I mean, what are you going to do?”

  I have no answer for that. I stand there, stunned, as he sits down at one of the picnic tables outside the restaurant. With stoic precision, he removes his plain bagel from the wax paper. I slide into the bench on the other side. “ You aren’t the tiniest bit freaked out that the shooting happened so close to here and the gunman escaped?”

  “Not really, I guess.” He shrugs.

  I stare at him for a moment. “Why not?”

  “People die all the time. I don’t have the same reactions to things that most people do.” Dan picks up his bagel and starts chewing.

  This is not news to me.