The Enlightened

by Dima Zales

  It’s red.

  There’s also a razor covered in something red, lying on the white tiles of the bathroom floor.

  Then I take in the figure in the water.

  It’s Lucy. Dressed in her robe, she’s submerged in the tub. The right sleeve of the robe is rolled up, and there’s a red line on her exposed wrist. The water is redder around that line.

  In stunned incomprehension, I notice the water faucet sound is gone. The water is frozen on its way into the bathtub. I must’ve phased into the Quiet without even realizing it.

  My brain is still struggling with what my eyes are seeing.

  It looks as if Lucy cut her wrist... which would make the strange note I found in the office a suicide note. Only that doesn’t compute—Lucy would never kill herself.

  The key question is whether she’s still alive. Judging by the color of the water, she’s lost a significant amount of blood.

  I approach her, and without hesitation, place my palm on Mom’s forehead. Getting into the state of Coherence is the longest, most difficult mental effort of my life. As I slow my breathing in an effort to relax, I have to constantly remind myself that while I’m in the Quiet, no time is passing for Lucy. The situation, though dire, isn’t getting any worse as I’m doing this.

  After what feels like an eternity, the familiar state overcomes me, and I’m in Lucy’s mind.

  * * *

  I’m sorry, we write.

  I, Darren, instantly disassociate. She wrote the note herself, which I knew was likely from the handwriting, but since writing can be faked, it’s still a revelation.

  Feeling sick, I fast-forward the memory.

  We’re standing next to the bathtub, checking the water. It’s nice and warm. We get in, pick up the razor, and wait until our body adjusts to the temperature.

  I, Darren, can’t watch the rest. I know she’s going to cut her wrist. I know, without doubt, this isn’t a staged suicide.

  I jump forward to the moment I entered this room.

  We’re floating in a river of relaxation. The earlier nausea is gone. Bright white lights dance in our vision. Our eyes feel like they do after we get our picture taken by Sara’s damned overzealous camera with the super-bright flash. It also reminds us of the days when we used to stare up at the sun as a little girl. Memories of being that little girl in a village in China appear in vivid details in our mind. But then these memories dissipate, taking with them all the cares of the world. Only a sense of contentment remains.

  I, Darren, disassociate with a slight sense of relief. She’s alive, though I have no idea for how long. When I first saw her in the tub, surrounded by her own blood, my initial instincts told me that mobsters had staged this ‘suicide’ as payback. But I was wrong. My mom committed this act herself. She wrote the letter herself. She cut her own wrist. And she’s letting herself bleed to death. But this doesn’t make sense. Could she have been Pushed? That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Perhaps, as a small mercy, the Pusher had blocked her from feeling any of the horror of what she did. But this ‘mercy’ is also causing her to let go of life that much quicker.

  That’s not going to fucking happen. Not on my watch.

  Laser focus overcomes my mind, and I begin Guiding my mom.

  You will fight for your life.

  No matter what it takes, you will hold on.

  If pain helps you stay conscious, allow yourself to feel pain. If pain will make you go into shock and lose your grip on life, then it will flow out of you as though it were never there.

  Live. Survive. You have people who love you. You have people who need you. You can’t fucking give up...

  After what feels like hours of pouring jumbled instructions into Lucy’s struggling mind, I get out.

  * * *

  I walk up to my frozen body and don’t even recognize my face. My expression isn’t mere horror; it’s something that makes my face look aged and deformed. I didn’t think grief could do that. And I didn’t even fully understand the enormity of what was happening then, not like I do now.

  I reach out, and ignoring the insanity of the gesture, I give my frozen self a hug. As soon as my hand touches his neck, I phase out.

  As soon as the sound of running water is back, I spring into action.

  I run up to the tub, the razor crunching underfoot, and reach for Mom.

  A moment later, she’s in my arms, her bathrobe a wet, bloody mess. Her body is tiny, and for the first time in my life, she seems fragile.

  As I lift her, she takes in a ragged breath, looks at me incomprehensibly, and tries to speak.

  I walk as fast as I can. I can’t drop my precious cargo, so I make sure my steps are even. With all this adrenaline running through my veins, she feels weightless.

  I enter the bedroom, leaving streaks of blood on the carpet. When I place her on the bed, the white sheets instantly turn pink. I take one of the sheets and rip it into strips. I then tie off the makeshift bandage around her wrist, creating a sort of tourniquet to staunch the blood flow as best as I can.

  She opens her eyes and focuses on me for a moment. Then she whimpers, saying something unintelligible, and her eyes lose focus.

  “Hang in there, Mom.” When I speak, I realize I’m crying. “Just hang on.”

  She feels cold, so I wrap her in blankets. Carefully but swiftly, I carry her down the stairs.

  I have to lay her on the ground to open the car door. Thank God for those blankets.

  The car is locked, so I have to waste valuable seconds running back into the house to get the keys. I’m now grateful for Lucy’s obsessive neatness. As always, the keys are on the little hook by the front door.

  I lay her in the back of the car and enter her mind. I don’t let myself experience her trauma, not because I’m gutlessly avoiding feeling her pain, but because I don’t trust myself to not take it away. Taking away her pain might cause her to give up, and I need her to fight.

  That’s what my Guiding reinforces: Fight. Survive.

  When I phase out, Lucy moans.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Please stay with me, Mom.”

  My voice seems to soothe her, or maybe she only had the strength for that one outcry.

  I get behind the wheel. Part of me knows I need to get myself together. Driving while in this severely distraught state might cause an accident, and if the accident doesn’t kill her, the delay surely will.

  I take a calming breath, but then I hear some mumbled whimpers from the backseat.

  Fuck calm. I floor the gas pedal.

  My heart is pounding in my ears and the streets are all a blur as the car is pushed to its very limits. My foot doesn’t move off the gas pedal. If Mom’s little Toyota could speak, it would be begging for mercy.

  I’m not completely reckless. I use an approach that won’t slow us down, not even for a moment.

  At regular intervals, I phase into the Quiet, and while time stands still, I clear the road ahead of us.

  I make a jaywalking teenager change his leisurely gait into a mad dash for his life. I make every car up to a block ahead of us pull over. When someone is about to cross the road, I change that person’s mind.

  I’m halfway to my destination when I hear a siren.

  Shit. Not that.

  I know I can tell the police officer that I have an injured detective in the back, which should resolve the situation fairly quickly, but I have an even better idea.

  I phase into the Quiet and enter the cop’s mind.

  I Read him first. He clocked me driving at 120 miles per hour and was planning on giving me a Breathalyzer test—to start. I Guide him to forget about the speeding and forget about me too. What he will do is rush to check out reports of gunshots near the crossing of Seaview Avenue and Hylan Boulevard, which is next to the hospital.

  When I phase out, I let the cruiser pass me and tail him. He’ll clear the way for us. This works like a charm. The rest of the way to the hospital is even quicker, thanks to our
escort. In less than ten minutes, I’m running into the Staten Island University Hospital ER with Lucy in my arms.

  “I need help!” I yell.

  No one responds.

  I look around and make eye contact with a nurse or a clerk who’s sitting behind a desk. She clearly heard me. I run over and stare her down.

  Her face is stern and she looks at me unsympathetically. “Can I help you?”

  “Do you need to fucking ask?” I say. “I’m holding a person, in my arms, who’s clearly injured.”

  “I need you to calm down, sir,” she says with attitude.

  I’m overcome with so much anger that I phase into the Quiet. Entering her mind, I frantically Read her for any useful information.

  Dr. Jaint is the best surgeon in this hospital. Great. He’s going to help us today, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

  Next, I pilfer her mind to learn the codes and procedures regarding this type of situation. Then I begin Guiding her.

  Officer down, I mentally tell the disgruntled nurse. As I Push this into her brain, I realize it isn’t even false information. My mom is a detective.

  Just in case, I continue: The fucking governor’s daughter is hurt. If you fuck this up, you will never work again. Hell, the governor will hire a hit man to kill you if this woman dies. Dr. Jaint has to be the one to save her, and it has to be this hospital’s quickest rescue in history.

  I add a few more crazy details along those lines. I don’t care if the story adds up. I don’t care if she has amnesia afterward. All I need is swift and immediate action.

  I finish with one last instruction: When this is all over, you will look for a different job. Try something in the janitorial industry.

  Then I get out of her head and leave the Quiet.

  I see an expression of genuine concern on a face that seemed to have lost this ability. Good. She makes phone calls, announces codes and names over the intercom, and even pulls out a walky-talky. I hear something about a ‘code ten’ and something along the lines of ‘Dr. Jaint, please prepare for surgery.’

  In less than a minute, a nurse shows up with a stretcher. Unlike the woman whose mind I just violated, this one looks extremely competent. Still, I’m not willing to rely on the presumption of competence. I give this one a Push too. Help her like your life depends on it.

  I follow the stretcher and clear our path from people the way I did with the cars.

  Yes, I’m allowed to be in here, I make everyone believe as we enter the operating room. You’ll answer my questions as though I own this hospital.

  “Where’s the doctor?” I ask.

  “I saw him in the cafeteria,” a nurse answers, looking confused.

  I transition into the Quiet and run to the cafeteria. I’m moving so fast that I trip and fall twice. This is the Quiet, I remind myself. Time is standing still.

  I recognize Dr. Jaint by his nametag. I get inside his head and sear a list of simple but potent Guiding instructions into his brain:

  Run to the operating room.

  Everything you hold dear—your family, your life—depends on saving this woman’s life.

  I phase out and watch as the nurses prep the OR. Lucy is hooked up to a bunch of wires and machines.

  I have to Read someone because, in my current mental state, I don’t understand the medical jargon they’re spewing at each other.

  She’s in critical condition, one nurse’s mind reveals. She’ll need a blood transfusion.

  From another nurse’s mind, I learn they have the blood they’ll need. Good. For a moment, I wondered whether my blood type is a match for Lucy. If it weren’t, there would have been a record number of volunteers lining up to donate. I make a mental oath to learn what my blood type actually is, as well as the blood types of the people closest to me.

  This is when the doctor slams through the doors. Concern edging toward terror is evident on his face. I’m clearly getting better and better at this Guiding thing. Maybe too good.

  I get inside the doctor’s mind to calm him.

  Take a breath, I Guide him. And do your thing.

  Chapter 16

  I watch them work their magic.

  I’ve always been squeamish. When I’d see surgery on TV, I’d look away, cringing. That’s not how this goes. I watch every bloody detail, unable to look away. I’m afraid that if I look away, or even so much as blink, something irreversible will happen. Irrationally, I feel as if my gaze alone is keeping Lucy alive.

  The clock tells me the whole thing takes twenty minutes, but I feel as though I’ve been watching this macabre dance for days.

  “She’ll be fine,” Dr. Jaint tells me when he’s done. “She just needs to rest. Let’s take her to Room 3 in Intensive Care. We need this room for other patients.” He sounds apologetic.

  “No problem,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Take her there, and I’ll follow.”

  On our way, I make the first phone call. “Mom, drop whatever you’re doing, and come to the Staten Island University Hospital,” I say and placate her as best as I can, ignoring her million questions. I finish with: “Everything is okay—she’s fine—but you need to get here now.”

  The dreaded conversation with Sara over with, I call Mira. I couldn’t go into freak-out mode with my ‘easy to give a heart attack to’ mom. I had to be strong for her. With Mira, I can let some of my tension out. But to my disappointment, my call goes to her voicemail. She must be in the air.

  “Mira, call me as soon as you can,” I say. “This is urgent.”

  As a poor alternative to speaking with Mira, I sit down in Room 3 next to Mom’s bed and focus on my breathing, trying to calm my overactive nerves.

  I look at Lucy as I breathe. She’s still deathly pale, but her breathing seems more even.

  After a minute, I start thinking more rationally. How could this have happened? There’s no way Lucy would ever commit suicide. I recall my earlier thought about potential Pusher interference, and I know that I need to find out for sure.

  If someone attempted to murder my mom, that person will pay dearly.

  I phase in. The hum of the hospital is gone. I walk up to Lucy and place my hand on her forehead. It’s easier to calm my mental turmoil now that I know she’s going to be okay.

  When I get inside her head, I make sure my Reading begins with what happened an hour ago...

  Chapter 17

  “Sorry to leave you with this messy kitchen to clean up,” Sara says to us, smiling. “I’ll clean up after dinner.”

  “No worries, hon,” we say. “You have to run. I understand.”

  “You’re the best.” She gives us a peck on the cheek and noisily descends the stairs to the first floor.

  We feel one of those quiet moments of joy and contemplation, moments when we marvel at how lucky we are when it comes to familial bliss.

  We hear the door bang shut but don’t hear Sara lock it. The little happy moment almost fades. She forgot to lock the door—again. Our wife, the absentminded professor. Stoically, we climb down and lock the door.

  With that done, it takes us a few minutes to clean up the kitchen. Then we take out the files from the nearby cardboard box and spread them out on the kitchen table.

  The now-dead Russian mobster, Arkady, fucked up when he killed the Tsiolkovsky family. The explosives he used were traceable, which is how we solved the case. Granted, we looked up the explosives data in a newer database than the one that existed when the crime was originally committed. But still. The case wasn’t worked properly because of the false impression that this was a mob-on-mob hit. Who provided the misinformation? And why? The only explanation that fits is that someone on the inside was covering something up.

  It was a form of torture to put this aside when Darren requested it yesterday. Now that he’s about to stop by and explain whatever the problem is, there’s no harm in being ready to resume the investigation, seeing how we’re itching to do so. So far, we just hinted at our discoveries to Kyle, the only person in Orga
nized Crime we know we can trust.

  We’re distracted from our thoughts by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. We get up and look out the window. Think of the devil.

  “Hi, Kyle,” we say, opening the door. “What brings you here?”

  “Hi, Lucy,” he says. “Sorry. I couldn’t wait till later to learn about that case you mentioned.”

  “That’s funny. I was just reviewing my notes on it.”

  We make our way to the second floor. Kyle sits down at the table and looks at the printouts we made and the papers covered with notes.

  “Want some coffee?” We turn the coffeemaker on without waiting for an answer. Kyle is clearly preoccupied with the file.

  “Please, take a seat,” Kyle says in a strange voice.

  We sit down across from him at the table.

  And then I, Darren, disassociate when I feel someone else entering Lucy’s mind.

  It can’t be. It just can’t. The Pusher is inside Lucy’s mind, but that would mean...

  Stunned, I let the memory unfold.

  Relax, comes the first instruction. Forget what you’re doing. You will sit still until I leave. You can’t move, given your shock. Given your grief. When I talk to you, just listen, but don’t remember any of the words. Instead, I want you to realize how shitty life has gotten lately. How depressed you’ve been. How senseless everything is and how pointless. Let yourself remember what happened to Mark. Remember what happened to the baby. The guilt, the depression—it’s so overwhelming, and you can’t take it anymore. When you get the urge to slit your wrist, don’t fight it. Fill up a warm bath and do it there. Warm water improves blood flow. You will not feel any pain. Instead, you’ll relax and float like you’re riding a cloud.

  I, Darren, let these horrendous instructions ring in my mind.

  A few things the Pusher said don’t make sense, like the mention of my father, Mark. What does he have to do with anything? What did the Pusher mean by ‘let yourself remember’?