Clarity Read online

Chapter 11

  Doug and I – was it possible just from the bit of momentum I had going into the weekend? – began an unusually entertaining weekend. Friday night he got home early, and we watched a funny old movie, a DVD we’d had sitting around for ages. Saturday, his firm had an out of town client, a fellow he particularly liked, and Doug invited him and his wife to lunch.

  And rather than feel resentful, I took it almost as a sign. New people, new topics of conversation, new places to go. We ate down at the Ferry Building. They marveled at the Farmers’ Market which was still rollicking into the afternoon, teeming with the kind of diverse and mellow San Francisco crowd that we took for granted. But who charmed these folks. The obedient dogs on leashes and in tiny carriers, the precocious kids clamoring for organic veggies, the chance meeting of friends and the exchanges of recipe ideas between strangers – it got the two of them exclaiming and laughing, and put all of us in a good mood.

  They were maybe a decade younger than us, and also pretty cheerful about having left their teenage kids with her sister for several days. All of us traded funny stories about our kids, a friendly competition of who’d had the angriest one, which had told the biggest whopper and expected us to believe it.

  We decided, spur of the moment, to take the ferry over to Sausalito. Just because it was there and such a pretty day. Standing out on the deck – they wanted to stay outside in the breeze the whole way over – I felt my chest expanding and the standard jangling of my nerves just float away. It was suddenly so comfortable: the warmth of the sun, the good smell of the bay, leaning into Doug as we braced ourselves from the sway of the boat. And our upbeat conversation, the subtle flattery from this new couple and the pride we both took in our home region.

  We ambled with the other tourists and weekenders up and down Bridgeway, pausing to admire the shorebirds and native plants and unusual artwork before settling near the landing. We bought frozen yogurt treats, telling ourselves they were healthy and we weren’t blowing all our diets.

  Patti, the wife, and I talked a little more seriously as we waited for the ferry back. She could joke about her kids, but she had genuine worries too. The internet age just brought so many things right into their house that it was hard for a parent to compete anymore. I listened to her, sympathetic. And glad I could reassure her about my experience with Sam. That kids pull away, a lot, but then they come back. They will, I told her, they’ll still surprise you with their sensitivity.

  The guys were deep in conversation about work matters. Patti rolled her eyes. “It’s been amazing he lasted this long not talking about it,” she murmured.

  I nodded, though it occurred to me I rarely went around like this with Doug to know whether he talked too much about work.

  I asked her about her job, and she told me about it, both proud and rueful that her small city offered such limited opportunities for intellectually satisfying work. Or so I interpreted, I realized – her actual words had been positive and mentioned nothing about her intellect or dissatisfaction. I turned away for a moment, purposely taking my eyes off her face and openly readable expressions. I guess I just did this all the time without really thinking about it. Put my spin on what someone was right in front of me saying.

  We all four walked down the gangway toward the ferry, and for a moment all the conversations stopped amidst the noisy engines and general clanging of the dock. Once seated up towards the front, Patti asked about my work. I gave the brief outline, the overarching mission of research and disease prevention, and the frustration in the face of slow progress, but steered away from my own dull day to day number crunching. I wondered if she could read any of that in my face; if so, she gave no sign.

  It’s part time, I added, explaining about my regular visits to Hillside, the Austen reading series I did there.

  “That’s so great,” Patti enthused. “I would love to do something like that. Love to have the time to.”

  Her eyes ducked away for a moment, and I knew she was thinking about her kids again, her daughter in particular. “You’ll be surprised how much time opens up. She’ll head off to college before you know it.”

  Patti laughed. “That’s what we’re telling ourselves.” She smiled toward her husband, but he and Doug were still involved in their own conversation. “Am I that obvious about my worries?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I took a deep breath. “That’s actually another thing I’m working on, outside of my job I mean. I’ve been investigating— well, I guess you’d call it psychic abilities. Nothing that weird,” I quickly amended at her expression of surprise. “Just being able get a sense of other people’s emotions. Or rather coming to terms with my having done this and not even realizing it.”

  “Huh,” she exclaimed, brightly but minus the genuine enthusiasm she’d had just moments before.

  “Like just now,” I tried to explain. “You didn’t mention your daughter, but I had a strong sense that she was on your mind. I’m kind of practicing paying attention to those cues, things people might not even be aware of expressing beyond their words.”

  Her face went blank, consciously so, I thought. “It’s just a side thing,” I added. “Not something I’m trying to do all the time or to bother people. But it’s pretty amazing how much information can be shared amongst people through unconventional means. Actually I have a friend who shares this sort of thing, and she gets bombarded with other people’s emotions like it or not. She hates going to crowded places because of it.” I trailed off.

  Patti had a polite smile frozen on her face, and I realized our husbands were watching us too, clammed up and silent. Doug’s face had gone from sunny to brooding, sure as if a sudden storm had come up.

  “I just love this view of the waterfront,” I gushed, so phony anyone must have been able to tell I was just trying to get three sets of eyes off of me.

  Doug pointed out a couple landmarks, and we all looked away. But the wind was gone from our proverbial sails, no doubt about it. They departed with hasty goodbyes as soon as we landed, and Doug turned immediately toward the Muni station. Saying nothing, not needing to announce either his annoyance or his wish to go directly home.

  The quirky characters of the city were just annoying down here. We waited, then sat side by side, shoulders almost touching but not really making contact, on the streetcar.

  I waited to speak till we were all the way out in our neighborhood, walking home, and no one around to possibly overhear us. “I didn’t mean to freak anyone out,” I began, sure this was on his mind but not wanting to call any more attention to myself. Nor distress him any further by commenting on his obvious annoyance. “They seemed to enjoy all the other eccentrics.”

  Doug at least let a sliver of appreciation cross his face; I knew he got what I was saying. “They’re just regular people,” he said, stern again. “I like the guy because of that, he’s not always looking over your shoulder, he just takes the work seriously.”

  I took an extra long stride to catch up with Doug, who had increased his pace. “He had a good time today, both of them. All of us did.”

  “Clarissa, I don’t want to have to tell you what to talk about. Or not, or to keep you away from my colleagues,” here he gave a mildly derisive glare, “any more than you already keep yourself. But come on, you start talking ESP and it reflects badly on me.”

  I kept walking fast, face forward. Thinking how ridiculous that was – none of those people, even the most conservative among them, would like a Stepford wife. But of course that was not an argument to have right now. Regardless of the truth, it was clear that Doug felt the way he felt. Wife talking about psychic abilities took away his lawyer dignity, even more than his reading glasses and unease with new technology did. I couldn’t argue him out of it, and I knew from experience that trying would only make him dig in deeper.

  We paused at our corner, waiting for a car to turn before we could cross. I stole a quic
k, assessing glance at his face, which he held aggressively neutral. “You could just tell them I’m menopausal,” I suggested lightly, “and I’m getting no sleep and coming up with some new crazy thing every other day.”

  “You know, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t care,” he shot back, angry. “Let’s just drop it, okay? No more about the mind reading, and stop watching me that way. I need to be alone for awhile.” He unlocked our front door, and it was only his completely ingrained politeness that allowed him to hold it for me. The minute I was inside, he strode off to the office and pointedly shut the door.

  I had messages on my phone, and I listened to them, staring out our front window, my back both figuratively and literally turned from Doug. Kylie took several choppy sentences to say that nothing was wrong but could we talk. And there was a brief, crisp message from Daniel saying he hoped I hadn’t forgotten to get back to him about meeting up again soon.

  I clicked the phone shut and eyed it for a moment. Remembering back to the days when these little devices didn’t accompany us everywhere, and when people didn’t assume you were available to talk at any moment in the day. Daniel and I had spoken on Friday. When I’d signed off with him, I was thinking I’d need to check my work calendar, which in my head meant not until Monday at the earliest. But in his world – and who was I kidding, in mine now too – it was all available on our little devices.

  Nonetheless, I called Kylie first. She answered right away. (Had she ever not been instantly available, I wondered.) I explained about the lunch, Sausalito, that I’d had my phone off. Because I knew, from Sam, from everybody young, that they didn’t understand being comfortable in a world where phones were off. Sam would sooner leave the house without his pants on.

  “That’s okay,” Kylie said lightly. “This can wait. But I guess you talked to Daniel? Or you guys are going to hang out again? Which I’m not saying in a judging way, I mean I wouldn’t even have mentioned it, but,” here she paused and I could almost picture the shy expression she was wearing, worried to offend but anxious to speak further.

  “But what? We can talk about it. In fact, I wanted to get your opinion; I’m surprised you already know we’re supposed to meet. Did he tell you he went to Hillside and interviewed my friends at the nursing home?”

  “What? No. That’s kind of weird. And that’s not the impression I got at all. No, the thing is, Daniel invited me to talk with him, in person, at this little juice bar. I mean, it’s probably the sort of place he thought I’d like, it’s very quiet and everybody’s sort of spiritually oriented.” She paused again, catching her breath. “But that’s not the point. The thing is, we had a very weird conversation. He was really trying to draw me out, and then acting like I was so special, and so unique, but also that he was really getting me. Like he was saying he understood but it must be so hard in my life when no one else does.”

  “Yeah, he said something sort of like that to me,” I said.

  “Exactly. He gets it where, say, your husband really doesn’t. Only I’m not dating someone who doesn’t, or, you know, that’s not really been a problem for me. But as he was saying this stuff, all leaning forward, making all this eye contact, I really got the impression he was reading me. The way we’ve talked about, I mean.” She laughed. “And okay, I might have purposely misled him. I mean it was very head trippy, I was trying to make him think something different from what I was thinking and he was pretending not to but trying to read it on my face.”

  “You’re losing me here, Kylie,” I confessed. “Are you saying he can do it too? Pick up on people’s emotions?”

  “I think he can. I think he’s got the skills or he’s developing them, but not admitting it to any of us. And at the same time he’s gone out and found a whole bunch of so called sensitives like us. For his quote research. And every one of us, he’s got some game going where we’re supposed to feel like we’re the most special person he’s met and we hold the key to his understanding.” She stopped, drawing a long breath. “It might not have even struck me, except for what you’ve told me. The way he’s talked to you. And when I brought up your name,” she added, “he was just like, oh, sure, I guess I’m going to see Clarissa again just because she’s nervous about her privacy or whatever.”

  “Nothing about how he went to Hillside. Or that it was him who suggested we talk more in person.”

  “No, but that doesn’t surprise me. The dude’s got a different story for everybody. And I don’t think he knows we talk to each other.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Doug enter the room. I wondered what he had overheard; did he think I’d called Kylie as a result of our little argument? Our eyes met just for a second. He was still annoyed, or perhaps freshly annoyed. In any case, he mouthed Zoe, and held up his car key.

  “Clarissa?” Kylie’s soft voice spoke in my ear.

  “Sorry, I was just—“ I watched Doug shut the door. Presumably driving down to see his daughter. “Doug was on his way out,” I told her. “He got mad, at lunch, because I mentioned this stuff to the people we had lunch with.”

  “You talked about Daniel?” she said, surprised.

  “No, just the concept in general. Just to the wife, but then they were all listening and kind of looking at me like I told them I believed in space aliens.”

  “Yeah, I pretty much don’t like to mention it, unless I’m talking to someone who gets it.”

  “Well I understand that,” I said. “But the more I think about it, the more I think it’s stupid to have repressed so much of this ability, then discover it, then just cover it up again. I mean, it may be strange, but it’s who I am. It sets me apart from being an obscure administrator at Gallagher, from being Sam’s mom, from being middle aged and boring.”

  “You’re not boring.”

  “Not to you – because you understand this stuff. I can talk openly about it.”

  “Which, again, makes me wonder about Daniel,” she said. “He must have noticed what a relief it is for us to talk to him. To not be judged, to be, like, admired.”

  Della’s words now came to mind – how she’d been happy that someone was interested in what an old lady like her had to say. But then she had gotten suspicious of him almost immediately.

  “We don’t really know very much about him,” I said to Kylie. “I remember thinking, back at that thing downtown, that a lot of people there seemed to know each other. Like he already seemed to know the speakers. I know he said it’s long term research, but how long? What else is he doing?”

  “Can you go online? Enable chat?” she asked.

  Together, me alone in our office, Kylie probably cross-legged in her bedroom and tuning out her roommate’s music, we started digging. It didn’t take long before we found another version of his name, Dan C. Lassen, and Kylie quickly linked it back to one of his old newspaper profiles.

  Same guy, but this one sat on the Board of a series of obscure software companies. Or maybe the same company that kept morphing to new names and urls? But the latest, Empathy Ventures, apparently had a range of software – exorbitantly priced, I thought – to train people to advance their psychic abilities.

  Unlike all the loud, wacky astrologers and mind reader hotline stuff I had initially encountered online, everything about this website was serious, sensible, scientific. Nothing even salesy or pushy, and no gimmicks about the prices either, it was more like, of course you’ll need to drop a bundle but of course you can already tell it will be well worth it. (It appeared to be “branded,” according to Kylie’s crypic chat at the bottom of my screen, to be a reassuring alternative for smart people. Smart people with money, I typed back.)

  Its website had a small reference to an organization called Mindful Therapeutics. This one wasn’t launched yet, or at least didn’t have an obvious web presence. But supposedly would be a one stop shop for those who provided therapy for those who suffered from hyper-sensitiv
ity and disorders associated with extrasensory perceptions.

  I called Kylie back; I couldn’t type fast enough in chat mode. “Are you seeing this?” I asked. “Ground floor investment opportunities, tremendous growth potential?”

  “I’m looking at something that has a roll out date of November. Because that’s when people traditionally start getting the most depressed. ‘Traditionally,’ jeez. And so they’ll be most receptive to these services.”

  I clicked back, looking for this page. Instead, I saw Daniel’s name again. He was quoted talking about 21st century isolation, and the increased need for interpersonal connection. How desperate people have become to give their empty lives some sort of meaning, how they’ll grab onto therapy like a life preserver in shark infested waters, that whether they actually have the gift is often beside the point. They want to feel, at the same time, special and a part of something.

  “They’re going to have a massive roll out,” Kylie said. “Scroll down. All the social networks, new apps, interviews on daytime TV.”

  “Who?” I exclaimed. I scanned the pages. Except for the occasional quote of some supposed expert, the language was all the inclusive we. We will bring these services, we will help the people. We will make lots of money, unspoken but clear.

  “You don’t think it’s Daniel?” Kylie asked. “You know, it’s probably one of those women from the earlier place, the empathy one. They had pictures up. They looked more photogenic as far as going on camera.”

  “And Daniel, like he said, does research. And finds likely candidates for the therapeutic services, I’m guessing. He’s really playing both ends of this,” I added. “He’s recruiting people who might buy the software or go to therapy, and then turning around and selling, what, names and products to the other side? Maybe opening a side practice?”

  “But he’s a journalist. I mean he’s done stories about other stuff, right? You think he’s going to turn into a therapist?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea,” I answered. “You know what you said about trying to fake him out? Maybe he’s been doing that to us. Making us think we have something special when we don’t.” I sighed. My head felt heavy for a moment, and I pushed up my glasses and pressed gently on my forehead. “It makes me question just how confident I should be in any of my perceptions.”

  “You have something, Clarissa,” Kylie assured me. “I do too. I mean, whatever it is, we’ve each known about it for a lot longer than we’ve known him.”

  I had to agree with that. Nothing that happened this week, or that Daniel had said or done, negated those oddities from my past.

  We talked a little longer, and Kylie said she would keep digging about Daniel’s role in all these quietly inter-linked ventures.

  I put the computer in sleep mode after we hung up. It’s not that I wasn’t curious, but there was only so much sitting like this, shoulders hunched and squinting at the screen, I could take on a day off. I thought about Doug for a moment, the extra hours he had to put in just to stay afloat. I shouldn’t wonder that he got irritable about things related to work.

  Hell, maybe Daniel wasn’t being exploitative so much as just doing what he had to do to make a living. How else could he take care of his rent and health care, not to mention save for retirement, on a freelancer’s income when nobody wanted to pay for content anymore?

  A couple hours later, I logged on again. Kylie had sent a message with a couple more links, both pointing to Daniel’s clear involvement in the Mindful Therapeutics launch. One was deep in an upscale investments advisory article. And while his quote seemed innocuous enough, the context around it was a bit disturbing. With the continuing drop in manufacturing output and uncertainty in commodities, here was a growth market: stupid needy people and the professionals who needed new tricks to help them. Play them off each other and double your money.

  Kylie was still online (doing other stuff with friends, she assured me via chat, not just obsessing on this). But all her suspicions has sure been confirmed, and more. Another article actually had recommendations about how to convince so called borderline individuals that they are indeed psychic and in need of regular “mental exercise” to increase their abilities. It all seemed to be nakedly market driven, and both of us felt both regret and annoyance at the way we had been pulled into Daniel’s net.

  We tapped back and forth further, deciding that I should set a time and place to meet with Daniel, late afternoon downtown, and she would just show up. We would confront him together because neither of us wanted to alone.

  It was late, I realized, stepping away from the computer again in that fuzzy and unfocused haze from staring at the screen. I wasn’t hungry after the big meal earlier, but we should have something for dinner. I did a quick turn through the house to make sure Doug hadn’t quietly returned. The place was empty except for Clark, who pattered after me and tried to steer me back to the kitchen until I gave up and fed him.

  Where the heck was Doug, I now wondered. I’d been feeling so guilty, like I’d ruined our day, but he’s the one who had marched out in a huff with no word on his plans. No wonder his first wife got so mad at him if that was his everyday behavior. Of course they were married in the days before cell phones, while I could call him any time.

  I picked up my phone, marveling for a moment that something so small held so much information and power. But I hated to do that, to check up on him, about as much as he hated being checked up on. I could just casually call Zoe, I thought, then quickly thought better of it – that backhanded strategy was even worse.

  In my mind’s eye, I played back our brief exchange. I had become aware of him coming into the room, coat on and keys out, and we’d barely made eye contact. He had mouthed Zoe, then his eyes darted downward and he’d stepped through the front door. I took a deep breath and then consciously relaxed my shoulders and clenched jaw. I saw his face again, and saw that in addition to the annoyance about my phone call (and presumed obsession about the occult) he had carried in that frown a flicker of concern, not for me but for his daughter.

  He maybe had promised to call her or help her with a brief or something, and forgotten, and his way of making up for it was to do something bigger and better for her in person. I let my train of thought wander, and pictured him down there at her little place. Teasing her about some extravagant outfit she’d bought, quizzing her on earthquake preparedness. He would let go of his worries about work and about me – basically this was exactly what he needed for the rest of today. Ha, tell that to the therapy investors: spending time with your kids beat all their software and special skills sessions. Zoe therapy.

  I poked around the fridge, uninspired. We’d splurged so much already on food today; salads tonight. Whenever Doug got around to returning. He wouldn’t stay mad, I was pretty sure. This time. But was this going to be a burr on our relationship’s side for ever and ever now?

  Because frankly, that would suck for both of us. Sure, it wasn’t on the scale of Keith realizing true love was in the arms of his secretary. But Doug’s visceral discomfort and anger at what was apparently such a fundamental part of me was pretty disturbing. This might be the most conflict we’d encountered in the marriage, now 9 years old.

  I dropped into my kitchen chair, the one that had been mine so long it nestled to my body like old jeans. Part of a set Keith and I had picked out, not long before we promised death do us part. I guess not surprising that the chairs lasted longer. One day Sam would probably have to haul them out of the house when Doug and I were gone. Would he tear up looking at my chair? Wonder how much he could sell the set for? They were excellent quality, after all, yet simple enough not to seem old fashioned.

  Don’t go there, Clarissa, I told myself. No maudlin imaginings of adult Sam missing his mom, wondering as I had wondered about the things I forgot to ever ask.

  Outside, the sky was darkening. A light marine layer draped over th
e sunset in the west. I opened the back door for a better look, and saw the whole sky dappled in pink and scarlet clouds. One or two bright stars were just visible, and each moment offered a new color palate.

  I wondered if Doug’s friend and his wife were seeing this from their hotel room. Standing there arm in arm, awed maybe, then turning towards each other. Sneaking back into their hotel room, passion rekindled in this lovely place and without the pressure of their kids down the hall.

  And Doug? Looking up from Zoe’s or from the road? I shivered in the soft evening breeze, and pulled the door shut, turning to the window. I felt another glimmer of that sense of peace I’d had earlier, with Doug on the ferry. The glowing sky and faint stars were a pretty reminder of just how small all of us on our little blue and green planet were. How insignificant our many worries really were, in the grand scheme of things.

  Darkness fell. Doug and I had, what, 20 strong healthy years left together? If we were lucky enough to avoid cancers and coronaries or sudden unexpected dips into poverty? Anyway, we really didn’t have the time to waste on repeated disappointment in each other.

  Could I say that to him, I wondered. Say, Doug, look, I don’t give a crap about your online fantasy team’s prowess, it’s nothing I would choose to do on my own – yet I listen and smile when you update me on your victories. Even your stats. Have you ever met a woman who cares about stats? But I accept it as part of who you are. Can’t you do the same for me? Maybe working through some of this can make me seem interesting to you again, like the old days. Make us both drop some of this dull middle aged complacency we’ve developed with each other.

  Instead of carrying this one sided conversation further in my head, I put on the radio. Just a few minutes later as I still sat there, pleasantly entertained by some offbeat story, the car pulled up.

  “I don’t know how it got this late,” Doug exclaimed, already talking as he came striding in. “I was going to call, but I didn’t want to pull over and take even longer…” He trailed off, eyes on mine, a hesitant smile on his lips as he assessed my mood.

  “Zoe okay?” I asked, not offering a judgement on his timing or semi-apology.

  She was fine, he assured me. Just needed a pair of strong arms to help her bring home a new entertainment unit; he’d been meaning to go with her some evening during the week and it kept slipping from his calendar. The store was mobbed on the weekend, she needed to pick up some other stuff, the whole thing took longer than he thought. And so on. Pretty close to what I had guessed.

  “Hey, I had this on the radio too,” he exclaimed. “Funny stuff.” He leaned over to flick up the volume, kind of bumping cheeks with me as he did so. “Is that for dinner?” he added, indicating the stuff I’d pulled out from the fridge.

  I nodded. “Wasn’t sure when you’d be back. I’m not that hungry yet anyway.”

  “Sorry I ran late.” He set aside his coat and examined the colorful peppers on the counter. “And about that thing before. Zoe said I was being a jerk.”

  I laughed. Zoe was the only person in the world from whom Doug would cheerfully hear this. “I’ll try not to ever bring it up to your work people,” I told him. “But you’ve got to try and accept it, this whole thing, as something I’m interested in. Something I’ll pursue.”

  He was nodding eagerly before I could give my whole speech. Eyes shining with relief that things were back to normal again, that we could have a peaceful evening before yet another stressful work week kicked in. I let it go at that, and stood to help with dinner.