by A. L. Knorr
He blinked rapidly, like he'd gotten dust in his eyes. "Telekinesis is also a pseudoscience." He rubbed the bridge of his nose where his specs sat, like they were pinching him. It was a tell. He didn't believe me. My heart felt heavy. The one adult left in my life that I thought I could go to with anything was probably now questioning my sanity.
"Have you been under a lot of pressure lately?" he asked, hooking his interlaced fingers over a knee.
"No more than usual." I sighed. I went to get up from the chair. "I guess we're done." As far as I was concerned, if Noel couldn't offer me any additional information about my condition, then I wasn't going to find what I needed here.
Noel got to his feet as well, and rather quickly for a portly chap. "Petra, please sit down. You can't drop a bomb on me like that and not explain. I promise, I will try to help you."
I sank back into my seat, hesitantly. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. Disappointment wormed its way into my gut. I tried not to let it show on my face. Noel was the only card I had to play; there was no one else that I could go to for help.
"I knew it could be a mistake telling you," I said. "But I thought that you of all people might have some idea how to stop it. After all, you see all kinds come through here. People with all sorts of mental health problems."
He gave a chuckle. "Not like this. Why do you want to stop it?" Now he was mining for gold. Keep the patient talking. Psychology 101.
I was game. It was what I'd come here for.
"Because it's annoying," I said. "The movies make telepathy out to be some sort of great power, something that's supposed to give you a one-up in this world. The reality of it is much different, let me tell you."
Noel scooted forward on the couch and propped an elbow on the arm of his chair. "What is the reality of it?"
I made a face and crossed my arms over my chest. "Do you have any idea how unintelligent most of humanity is? How selfish, simple, and vapid? I have no interest in sharing my mental real estate with someone else's idiotic thoughts."
It had been agonizing as a child, before I had a strategy in place to protect my mind from other people's self-talk and mental images. The wall I had put up was better than it had ever been, but sometimes random thoughts not of my making would leak through, usurping my own thinking.
"Other people's thoughts are almost never enlightening. They always take me backward. Do you have any idea how quickly I'll devolve if I go around picking up other people's mental garbage? It's like..." I paused, searching for the words to explain how it felt. "Pollution. Noise cluttering up a library that's supposed to be serene and peaceful. When I was a kid, I thought I was crazy. I was seven years old when I finally figured out what was wrong with me."
Noel’s face was alight with an expression of fascination, and I could almost believe that he believed me. "What happened? What happened to make you understand?"
"I was able to match up a random image that had popped into my head with the thoughts of the caseworker who was interviewing me," I explained. "We were supposed to be going over my report cards and talking about how well I was integrating into a new school. She'd ask me questions and I'd answer them. But whenever I began to talk, the image of a man wearing a navy uniform and black horn-rimmed glasses would materialize in my mind and completely derail me. I didn't know who he was. I had never seen him before. It was frightening."
I didn't say it out loud to Noel, but it had gotten even worse when the man began to kiss me passionately and then swept me off my feet. Somewhere in the midst of the shock of all that weirdness, I could sense an underlying urgency and pleasure that didn't belong to me. I had been too young to understand it.
"It wasn't until after the session was over," I continued, "and I watched the caseworker greet her husband in the parking lot, that I understood what I had been seeing." I shifted in my seat, folding my hands in my lap so I didn’t fidget. The memory still made me uncomfortable. "He had just gotten back from overseas and she had missed him terribly. She couldn't wait to see him, and her mind kept drifting to him during our conversation."
"That's very sweet." Noel’s expression was soppy.
"Not when you don't know what the hell is going on," I snapped.
He put his hands out. "Fair enough. Do the thoughts always come through in images?"
"Not always. Sometimes they come through as words. I guess it depends how the person is thinking in that moment."
"Could I ask you to show me?"
I knew that this would have to be part of it. "Okay," I said, already resigned. "Give me a moment."
Lifting the wall I had placed around my thoughts was a strange feeling, unpleasant. It was like my eyes had been focused on something very close to my face for hours and when I finally lifted them to the horizon, everything was horribly fuzzy. It might take a second or two for eyes to adjust and there might be a little vertigo to go along with it. But it took my brain longer than that to home in on his thoughts. I closed my eyes as my vision blurred. The old, familiar pain throbbed low at the base of my neck. "Are you ready for this?" I asked, opening my eyes.
Noel looked relaxed, interested, unconcerned. "Okay." He leaned back against his chair. "What am I thinking about?"
I received his stream of consciousness and images began to form into my head, creeping in at the edges at first. Then they expanded like balloons in the middle of my skull, fully formed and in technicolor. Apparently, Noel was thinking visually.
"I see a rose garden." I closed my eyes. I couldn't help but smile at the beautiful image. "Looks like tea roses, mostly in pastels. They're at their peak and they must smell amazing. At the edge of the garden is an old stone railing with curved spindles and carved faces sitting on top. About a dozen of them, all with their backs to a very blue ocean." I opened my eyes. "Some of the faces are cracked and worn, missing their noses."
Noel's complexion had gone pale, dewy with sweat. He had to believe me now. He was clearly shaken.
"It's a beautiful place," I added, still smiling. "Where is it?" I tried not to feel smug at his reaction. At least now there was no doubt that I was telling the truth.
He tried to reply but it came out as a dry wisp of a word. He coughed to clear his throat and tried again. "Ravello, Italy," he said. "The Terrace of Infinity. It was once owned by Beckett, the poet."
"Lovely," I murmured. I was about to congratulate him on how steady his imagination held the place he was thinking of. Most people's minds skittered from seemingly random images, to random worries, out of control like a runaway elephant. But just as I opened my mouth, the image of the side of a black handgun came flying at my face and seemed to bounce off my forehead. The weapon was gripped by a meaty, masculine hand. As the gun made contact, there was a flash of red. While I didn't feel any physical pain, I jerked backward, startled, as I picked up the violent memory from Noel.
"What was that?" I gripped the armrests of my chair, alarmed. Fear riddled the image with wavy lines, like heat coming off blacktop on a summer day. I had never seen terror warp a thought so badly.
So, even Noel had trouble controlling his thoughts, as that was definitely something he wouldn't have wanted me to see. Thoughts were strange. If you try not to think of a giraffe, the first thing that will pop into your head is a giraffe. Obviously, Noel now believed me and the fear of me seeing one of his worst memories came rushing to the forefront of his mind. I'd picked it up precisely because he’d been afraid that I would.
"Stop, stop!" He put a hand out. His eyes were wide.
I slammed down the gate between my mind and his. The feeling of it was so violent, it jarred my molars. The foggy images filtering into my mind ceased. The dull pain at the base of my skull eased and disappeared, but my heart was pounding.
That last thought I had picked up was the most shocking, disconcerting one I had ever picked up from anyone. Why was my mild-mannered therapist being beaten by a man with a gun? Fury flared hot and hard inside me and I had to take a deep breath. Noel wo
uldn't hurt a fly. This was another reason I didn't like to know other people's thoughts, especially if it was someone I cared about. If they were in some kind of trouble, I couldn't help but get involved. For all I knew, that thought was thirty years old and had long since been resolved. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
He shook his head as he pulled at his tie, loosening it from around his neck. "Don't worry about me," he wheezed. As though he were the one who could read minds, he added, "It's a very old memory. Resolved a long time ago." He was a little out of breath and wouldn't meet my eyes. "I apologize," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you." He said this while shucking his suit jacket. Sweat circles darkened the fabric of his purple shirt. "Would you like a drink? I need a drink."
"Yes, please." Now that my mind was sealed, my heart was slowing down.
Noel went to the sideboard under the window and poured two glasses of water from the pitcher sitting there. I watched his hand shake and the water slosh. He returned to our little circle of furniture and handed me a glass.
"Thanks." I took it and drank. I set the glass on a coaster on the coffee table between us.
"Can you still read my mind?" Noel crossed over to his chair, looking down at me. He tapped his fingers against his glass, nervously.
I frowned. His voice had a tremor I didn't like. He was afraid of me. "No, you asked me to stop and I did." Reading minds was an invasion of privacy at the deepest level. Doing it made me feel sick, not physically, aside from the dull headache, but emotionally sick. I felt like a criminal, a voyeur, someone with a serious mental health problem.
He settled back in his chair, his shirt damp and his necktie gaping. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone. His eyes met mine for the first time, narrowing as he stared at me. His gaze was laced with suspicion.
"I'm not." I held his gaze. Then I realized that my defensive words made it sound like I was. "I can tell by your face that you don't believe me. But I'm not. I swear on Beverly's memory." I put a hand over my heart.
His mouth twitched. "You don't have to do that. I believe you." His face relaxed and he took a kerchief from his chest pocket and mopped his brow. "How are you able to control it?"
"Years of practice." I relaxed as Noel relaxed, sitting back in my chair and letting my shoulders fall. "Mostly it involves not thinking about the fact that I can do it and genuinely not wanting to know what people are thinking. If I find myself wanting to know someone's thoughts, that's when it takes real effort. It's like holding up a stone dam with your bare hands. It’s tiring, and if you have to do it for a long time eventually some water will leak through. If that makes any sense."
Noel nodded, still pale. "It does. Why didn't you tell me earlier? Why now?"
"I don't like being looked at like I'm nuts. Not that you would." I put up a hand. "But most people would. And I'm not interested in having to prove myself. I just find I still have leakage sometimes. As I prepare to go into university, I'd like to get rid of it. You can imagine the battle of will that ensues during an exam," I explained. "It's the reason I always studied so hard. I didn't want to put myself in a position where I'd be tempted to cheat." I shrugged. "I was hoping you might have some experience with it from other patients. But I guess not."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Petra," Noel said. "This is a first for me." He took a breath. "And the telekinesis you mentioned?"
"Yes. What about it?"
Noel looked uncomfortable. "You have... you are..." He adjusted his glasses. "You have this ability, too?"
I nodded. "It's not as much of an issue, but I brought it up because I thought the two might be linked."
"Can you...?" He invited me to demonstrate with a gesture.
I nodded and picked up my glass, drained it of water and set it back on the table. On the wood this time, not the coaster. I sat back in my chair and folded my arms over my stomach. Without taking my eyes from Noel, I gave the glass a gentle mental shove at its base so it didn't tip over.
My glass slid across the table and clinked into his.
Noel's hand flew to cover his mouth.
"Cheers," I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
Noel's gaze flew to my face. I watched him make an effort to get his shock under control, but his complexion was waxy and he was still sweating. The sound of his palm scraping against his stubble was loud and filled the room.
I sighed and glanced at the clock on his desk. "We're out of time." I got to my feet. "I hope I haven't ruffled you too much. I know you have another patient right after me."
"No, no." Noel made a ‘calm-down’ gesture. "I—I'm fine."
But he wasn't. It was plain on his face. No one needed telepathy to see how much I'd shaken him.
"I'm sorry, Noel," I said quietly. "If I had known..." I bounced a fist off my thigh, feeling awkward. "I wouldn't have..." I sighed. What else could I say?
"It's fine, it's fine." Noel got to his feet as well. "I've just never seen anything like it. Would you like to make another appointment?" He followed me as I walked to the door. I plucked my rain jacket off the coatrack and picked up my purse. "There would be no charge. I'd really like to help you with this."
But he couldn't. He'd already shown me that. I gave him a smile but it felt stiff and unnatural on my face. "I don't think so. Thanks anyway." I reached for the door handle.
"Wait, Petra—" But he seemed to be out of words for now. Couldn't blame him.
I opened the door. "Nice to see you again, Noel. I wish you well." I stepped out onto the landing and closed the door quietly behind me. As I stepped out of Noel’s office building and into the driving rain, I wondered if I was doomed to alienate anyone I ever let in. Sharing my true self seemed like an impossibility.
Chapter 2
Passing through the museum foyer for my shift early the following morning, I stopped to scan the community bulletin board like I did every week. Rarely was there anything more interesting than an afternoon seminar on navigating by the constellations, or someone hawking their grandmother’s pearl jewelry. But when my eyes fell on a new posting, one that I was certain hadn't been there the day before, I felt my world shift on its axis.
Are you passionate about ancient history? Looking for excavation experience to add to your resume? University students of archaeology are welcome to apply for a volunteer position on our summer dig team. Must be available for a consecutive six-week period. Airfare and accommodation will be provided. 3 positions available.
I snatched the posting from the bulletin board like it was seconds from going up in smoke. My eyes devoured the words three times and the name and phone number at the bottom was now emblazoned on my memory for all time. Field Director—Ethan Rich.
I often joked that I knew everyone in Saltford who had any connection to the museum or so much as a passing interest in archaeology, but I had never heard of Ethan Rich. Who was he? The phone number was local, but the logo and the association were completely foreign to me. Society for the Preservation of Archaeological Treasures, sponsored by The Group of Winterthür.
I left the foyer and made a beeline for the ticket desk where Danielle sat chewing gum and filing her nails. Danielle was a twenty-something university dropout who had won the job in ticketing through, well, I called it nepotism, she called it her "family network." Danielle's aunt had been the museum’s curator for over a decade.
"When did this go up?" I held up the bulletin.
Danielle drew her eyes from her thumbnail with what seemed like monumental effort. She gave a loud snap of her gum and lifted a shoulder. "Don't know. People stick stuff up there all the time. It's free."
"Yes, I know it’s free. But do you know who put it up? Did you talk to them?"
She wrinkled her brow. "There was a guy. Day before yesterday I think."
This is why I didn’t like to read minds. Even if I had been interested in probing Danielle's mind for a face or an interaction linked to the posting, she'd remember it all wrong and it would just throw me off. Th
e human mind was a fallible thing. I didn’t trust the capabilities of human memory, not even my own.
I passed Danielle and went into the office behind the ticket counter. I closed the door, hung up my jacket, and sat at the desk. I pulled the phone toward me, selected a line, and raised my finger to punch in the number on the advertisement.
The door cracked open and Danielle's pale freckled face poked in. "Mr. Hatley doesn't like you making personal calls on the museum phone."
"He won't mind this one," I replied, shouldering the receiver. "It's work-related."
Her statement was untrue anyway. Mr. Hatley knew I didn't have a cell phone and had personally invited me to use the phone in his office anytime I needed it. Mr. Hatley was nearly as invested in manifesting my future career as an archaeologist as I was. Once he'd seen how careful I was with money and my single-minded desire to get to Cambridge, he'd thrown all his oars behind me.
I shot Danielle a look and she rolled her eyes and shut the door, leaving me alone.
I dialed the number on the ad and the line rang in my ear, once, twice.
"Yes?" A man's voice.
"I'm looking for Mr. Ethan Rich, please."
"At your service."
My heart did a somersault and my fingers gripped the receiver. "I'm calling about your post requesting volunteers for a dig this summer."
"Ah. We've one position left to fill. Are you a student of archaeology?"
"I'm hoping to attend Cambridge University's Archaeology program next January."
"Cambridge. Well!" He sounded suitably impressed. "But you haven't begun yet?"
"No. I took a year off to save money."
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen." I had just turned only three months before.
"Mmmm. You're a little on the young and inexperienced side. Perhaps if you wait a year or two. We will have openings for volunteers every year."