Clarity Page 7

Chapter 7

  A week or so later, I started wondering whether that easy sense of open awareness would ever come naturally. For now, it took effort. I was like a poorly moored ship in a rough harbor, bobbing amongst the emotion currents. Not always able to distinguish whose was whose.

  I’d chatted with Kylie a couple times and meant it when I said I felt all right. Meaning I was not getting swamped by unwanted feelings, my own or those of people around me. But the tickles of awareness were stronger than they had been in years. Since I was a teenager, really, since – I now realized – I had learned to block it all out.

  Day to day, I’m sure I must have seemed a bit odd. Jumpy at work, easily startled. Eyes unusually dilated – I saw that myself when I caught a look at myself unexpectedly. It wasn’t, however, a bad look, I realized. Hard to pinpoint what this did for me outwardly except give me a more lively appearance.

  Doug, if he noticed any changes, choose not to mention them. Our lives trotted along in parallel paths as usual, no rocking of boats. It did occur to me to wonder, though. I knew he was always busy with his work. He’d always been meticulous with his cases, his mind on the more interesting ones even when his body was home on the couch.

  But he must have been aware on some level. My friendship and frequent phone calls with Kylie. That I was newly, weirdly energized, that I was much more frequently on the computer, looking things up or jotting things down. I had started keeping, not so much a journal as a memory book. I had begun with the strange stuff, the unexplained knowledge and premonitions and physical sensations. Then it had morphed into a more conventional recording of observations, about strangers, friends, family, myself. Oddly enough, this material ended up being at least as insightful as anything pre-cognitive.

  Still, in one rambling passage, I questioned the whole thing, attributing it to a belated mid-life crisis, congratulating myself on having saved the expense of a sports car or second nasty divorce. Later I reread this and almost deleted the whole page. But I didn’t though. It seemed like all my questioning was part of a bigger process. I tuned out the cynical inner voice that muttered about what the hell kind of process and this is why the rest of the world hates American baby boomers.

  Booting up the computer on one of those quiet, introspective evenings, I found a message from Daniel. He had attached a whole section of his draft that profiled so called real life stories, mine and Kylie’s among them. Just reading his brief physical description made me blush, alone as I was in front of my computer. We were “C” and “K.” C was “an attractive slender woman whose forthright demeanor of middle age was tempered by probing blue green eyes, flowing long hair, and sudden, impish humor.”

  He didn’t mention my glasses, or outdated style of clothes, I thought, which certainly confirmed middle age. (But what had I been wearing that evening? I couldn’t even recall. Jeans, probably – yes, ones that flattered my slim waist and hips. A plain sweater, and my hair – “flowing” – in its usual wide clip at the nape of my neck.) He brought a simple picture of Kylie to life with a couple sentences too.

  For all the notes he’d taken, he was, as he had said, able to summarize quite well. I read the whole piece, but came back again to my part. C and her early perceptions, the simple story of her sudden awareness of the death of her grandmother. Other sudden knowledge via dreams, the certain quality these dreams and dream voices took, just as described to him, and her decision to learn more. How that in itself possibly was triggering new awareness.

  Had I shared that part with him, I wondered? Not in so many words. But it must have come up toward the end, when we had just been chatting. He had put his netbook away, Kylie and I were just mentioning things that might or might not involve extrasensory awareness. He had been sitting right there, part of the conversation, obviously. But perceptive to have understood, perhaps sooner than I did, that I was questioning whether I too had learned to block certain things. Just as Kylie had her dreams.

  I stood, and paced around the small office for a moment. Several things popped into my mind to share with Daniel – feedback on what he had written, confirmation that my exploration was indeed launching both new memories and perceptions. I thought about emailing, but it seemed too slow, too inefficient. I had the impulse to call, followed by a flash of guilt: my sudden hope that he would answer and have time to talk, how rewarding this conversation could be, versus, say the dull back and forth at dinner with Doug.

  Poking my head into the hallway, I could hear the TV, the soft volume but high excitement voice of an announcer calling a game. I took my phone out of my purse and gently pulled the door in behind me. So as not to disturb him, I told myself, checking Daniel’s email signature for his number.

  “Hi Clarissa,” he answered after just one ring. “I had a feeling it would be you calling.”

  “That and caller ID.”

  “Well, that too. But I hoped we could actually have a conversation. Email only reveals so much.”

  “I already revealed plenty,” I countered, laughing. “You have no idea.”

  His voice turned serious, and he thanked me again, assuring me he understood that such confidences were challenging. And appreciated.

  I matched his businesslike demeanor, and provided my feedback. Really it wasn’t so much – just highlighting the aspects of my story that he had really nailed, and suggesting reigning in a little on the dream voice part. His description made it sound like I’d been having whole conversations with a representative of the great beyond, where in fact it had just been a disembodied voice speaking a few words at most. What made them disturbing or amazing, depending on your perspective, was the wallop of knowledge the simple words unloosed in me.

  “Your understanding of a small phrase, or even a couple words,” he repeated back. He paused and I imagined him leaning forward, typing silently and furiously. “What you gleaned from them,” he added. “It’s interesting – a number of people have made the point that they don’t think anything all that unusual has happened, whether they’re dreaming or observing somebody talk. It’s what they figure out as a result, the way they’re tipped off to something.”

  “’Sudden awareness,’” I said, quoting his writing. “Becoming aware of something maybe you already know on some level. Drawing conclusions. Making intuitive jumps.” I thought about the dreams – was it possible I had been having similar ones regularly, about Yvette, for example, and just remembered the one so vividly on the morning she died? But then how to explain the physical sensations, the visceral memory of my mother’s miscarriage?

  “Clarissa, come back,” Daniel’s disembodied voice spoke warmly in my ear. “I can’t tell what your thinking even when we’re face to face.”

  “Sorry. I was just wondering about the physical aspects of that sort of awareness. Like how Kylie said she hates airports because of the tension she feels from others? I realized I’ve been blocking out some of that – or maybe the same thing’s been getting stronger for me…” I faded out, inarticulate and unable to put it into words.

  Another call was coming in. I squinted at the phone: Sam. My standard mom impulse was to take my boy’s call immediately, but quickly I overrode that with the comfortable knowledge that he’d been an independent young man for some time now. If it was urgent, he could call the land line.

  Daniel meantime eagerly asked if I could explain about the whole physical manifestation thing, as he called it. He said he could hear my call waiting and asked if he could possibly meet for lunch or come by my office. “I don’t have the gift of extra perception,” he said again, “so it would really help if I could see you in person while we’re talking.”

  He laughed awkwardly, as I did too, because it sounded like he was making excuses to get together in person. But I agreed to a lunch time walk around the campus, rationalizing to myself that our discussion could help clarify things for me.

  We said our friendly and
non-flirtatious goodbyes, and I jotted the date in my calendar. Then quickly called Sam.

  “Sorry I missed you, I was on another call,” I told him.

  Sam chided me about not understanding the simple technology of putting somebody on hold. I gave a vague murmur. It seemingly didn’t occur to my son that his call could be less than my highest priority any minute of any day. I smiled to myself as I listened to him. Despite his now deep and resonant voice, his intonations and pauses reminded me of the much younger Sam. My boy, for whom I would stop traffic if need be.

  Sam’s point, when he wound around to making it, was that he wanted to take a camping trip with some buddies before he came home for the summer. He was already working a six week internship, so this would mean cutting into the abbreviated time he would have at home. Which was truncated additionally between time here and time at Keith’s.

  I did feel a pang of disappointment. A familiar one – and not from any other worldly reasons. It was the same pang I’d felt when he marched cheerfully into kindergarten without a backward glance, or when he’d cautiously suggested that we limit our goodbye hugs to strictly inside the house. By the time he’d reached that phase, early in his sophomore year, when he kept pointedly referring to Davis as “home,” I had steeled myself pretty well: he needed his independence.

  I could feel that little bump, but bounce right back. Of course I understood, I told him. He should go and have a great time – just make sure they left word about their route and brought plenty of food and water.

  Sam assured me his GPS could track him to the centimeter, and as for food, his friend was a master camping cook. I envisioned the young men marching into the woods laden with electronic gear, fancy coffee makers and cartons of REI boil in a bag meals.

  We chatted for a few more minutes about his plans. I told him, as always, that he was welcome to show up anytime, but that if he let us know beforehand, we could make sure we had enough groceries on hand.

  “I’ll text you,” he said. “So how are you guys? How’s Clark – fat as ever?”

  “Listen to Mr. sneak-him-food-under-the-table,” I teased him. “Clark misses you every day at dinner time.”

  It crossed my mind to say something more about myself, my recent activities. He had asked, if you can consider a polite how are you such an invitation. I hardly knew how to start though. As Daniel had just said, some conversations were easier face to face.

  We said goodbye. I heard Clark’s feed-me meow, as if he knew we’d been talking about him. Doug was in the kitchen – that, not my voice, had roused the cat.

  I opened the office door, wondering how long he had been in easy hearing range.

  “Was that Sam?” he asked.

  Yes, I told him, outlining the revised summer schedule.

  “Well, we’ll still get to see him,” Doug said gently. “Let’s have a barbecue some weekend he’s here. Maybe for some of his friends, too.”

  I nodded in agreement. Doug was sweet about Sam. He knew I’d be a little disappointed. He had been through it with his girls, all the more since they had spent less time with him since his divorce.

  He and Sam had had an easy relationship pretty much since they met. Bonding over computer systems and games (I had cued Doug about the boy’s obsessions, but he had taken it from there), even liking the same types of foods. The initial worries I’d had about Sam living under the same roof with a new step-father had been unfounded.

  If anything, having Doug there made it easier. He had reassured me, when Sam was uncommunicative, that it was nothing personal. He could point out the little ways Sam had of demonstrating his still simmering affection for me. (Things one might say about himself, I sometimes thought.)

  By now, it hardly occurred to me to think about their relationship, things they might do together while Sam was home. When it came down to it, Heather and Zoe, especially Heather, were much more challenging as far as step-relationships. We liked to get all of them together when we could. We liked it, but it often left me with a bit of a stress headache, I had to admit.

  I followed Doug back into the living room. My mind still a bit on the conversation with Daniel, but feeling maybe a little guilty too. Doug happily planning what foods to cook for my son, while I was sneaking calls to someone who saw me entirely differently than he did.

  I emailed Kylie from work as soon as I got in the next day. Curious about her reactions to what Daniel had written, but respectful of her time. We were both at work, after all. (Had she been tempted, as I had, to call last night? And then been respectful of my time, ie that I was home with my husband who wasn’t exactly on board with any of this?)

  She got back to me quickly on her cell, voice animated. I pictured her walking up and down the back corridor by her office, where she and her co-workers could take calls without interrupting each other.

  “I thought it was interesting,” she said right away. “Really, seeing the patterns in all the profiles and everything. But my bit seemed a little, I don’t know, precious. For one thing, I’m not ‘delicate.’”

  I laughed. I had to admit that I thought his physical description of her was dead on. “He means your bone structure,” I added. “Your small stature. It’s not an insult.”

  “Well, I emailed him some things to change,” she said. “I guess he did a pretty good job on explaining how I get bombarded with other people’s stuff.”

  “I talked to him last night. Suggested he tamp down the dream voices, that it’s just a voice in my ear, not a conversation with another realm.”

  Kylie laughed. “I caught that too. I’m glad you said something. I thought about calling him too, but I didn’t really want to get into it, you know, further explaining of the unexplainable.”

  I told her, a bit sheepishly, about my plans to meet with him in a couple days.

  “What does Doug think of that?” she asked, neatly delving into the heart of things.

  “I didn’t really mention it,” I confessed. “I mean, it’ll be during work, we’re just going to walk around the campus.”

  Kylie’s long and polite silence said as much as another person’s accusation might.

  “Doug has no reason to feel threatened in any real way,” I said firmly. “He’s pretty much given a pass on having this same conversation with me. And you know, Daniel gets it in a way Doug chooses not to.”

  “Yeah. I just wonder –“ her voice broke off for a moment, and I couldn’t tell if she was self-editing, or if someone was walking by. I was glad, glad to just wait for her to finish and not try to see what she was thinking from her expression in front of me.

  “You think Daniel’s pretty trustworthy, right?” Kylie continued softly.

  “Sure,” I said. “He seems genuine. And anyway, I googled him. He is a freelance writer.”

  “I know that.”

  “What,” I pressed her. I could feel her holding something back, even over the phone.

  “I just got the impression a little bit – first when we were talking, and then again from reading all these profiles – that he’s after more than the anonymous stories. I mean he gave all those assurances and everything. But there’s something… I don’t know, a little exploitative about it all.”

  “Well, in the sense it’s his job and he needs to make money from it,” I said. Feeling the need to defend him, but also wondering why. She could probably tell that I was a bit drawn to him. As he was to both of us, I thought, since he was pretty fascinated with both of our experiences.

  “It’s not just that,” Kylie continued. “I just get this sense of how well he connects with all these women, drawing out their stories and everything, and kind of predicting their next steps? It’s almost like he has some of those same skills he’s not letting on. Or he wants to help us and so he’ll be all ready to sell us something when we need him. Or sell our info to somebody else.”

  I thought of how Da
niel had pointedly, laughingly spoken about needing to meet face to face from his lack of ability. And also how those people at that talk downtown had seemed to know him. Sure, he was researching, but how long would that take? Long enough so they all seemed like old friends? “I don’t know,” I told her. “He mostly just seems interested. Are you, like, picking something up that the rest of us would miss?”

  She sighed. “Not really. It’s usually not so cut and dried, you know? Just little flashes. I’m probably over thinking it; that interferes with any of my perceptions. Just keep an eye out, okay?”

  I told her I would. She had to go, and I hung up and turned back to my computer. She was right about over thinking things. I had been doing way too much of that recently, and it made me question every thought in my head, from was I being disloyal to Doug to was the clerk in the grocery store looking at me funny. Yes it was a revelation to truly look and listen after all the years I had spent tuning things out. But I needed to ease up on the inner voices for awhile.