

### Clarity

by

#### Myanne Shelley

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Myanne Shelley at Smashwords

The Ghost Family

Copyright © 2011 by Anne Shelley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/myanne to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

## Chapter 1

I don't make friends easily, but I had come to know a delightful old woman named Yvette through a mutual friend at the nursing home where they resided. She died suddenly, unexpectedly – well, unexpectedly for someone who was 86 years old. And I became aware of her passing through unconventional means.

That day, that morning, I think is where I'd put the bookmark in my life and say, here, this is where the path less taken most clearly presented itself. Were there earlier sign posts? Yes, of course, and no doubt many twists still to come. I was only 48. (Now there's a benefit of hanging around the nursing home: I say that without irony and with only mild regret.)

But back to that morning. It was before dawn, a Monday. My husband Doug slumbered heavily beside me, confident that either the alarm or my insomnia would wake him and launch him into his work week. I lay there silent, awake and vaguely aware of a spring storm gathering outside. I'm nearsighted, but could make out dark outlines of the trees out the window bobbing around as if preparing for a fight.

A disturbing dream had startled me awake a few minutes before. I had shifted awkwardly under our light comforter, and then focussed on my breathing, trying to match Doug's slow rise and fall. I put the images out of my head. But then I wondered, as the dream world faded to insignificance, what had spooked me? Because the dream seemed fairly benign, with people I didn't know, some sort of picnic scene. An abrupt end to the picnic, that was the disturbing part.

I was relaxed again, half asleep when I heard a quiet voice speak as clearly as if it was a few feet from my ear. "Yvette is gone now, I'm so sorry. She didn't suffer."

My eyes flew back open. I actually fumbled for my glasses and looked around the room. Of course it was empty, quiet except for Doug and the shuffling of the trees outside. A car rumbled by, and there was a distant yip that could have been a dog or possibly a raccoon; we have both in the neighborhood. No people to attach to the voice though, and I told myself I'd been dreaming. Tried again to ease back into sleep, and finally slept, dreamless.

Doug left for work as usual, precisely at eight. Not two minutes later, the phone rang. I felt my chest tighten and that dance of adrenaline that kicks in when I know something's wrong, and I considered just not answering it. As if that could prevent the bad news.

But I picked up. My aunt Mags got right to the point. "Clarissa, dear," she said. "I need to tell you that our good friend Yvette passed away in the night."

"Oh, Mags, I'm so sorry," I said, aware that I was echoing the earlier voice. "What happened?"

It had probably been another stroke. She had died peacefully in her sleep, Mags added quickly, the best way to go. I could tell from her quick summary of the facts and the dull tone of her voice that she had already repeated this story several times. Naturally, I thought, I was neither family nor elderly; others must have gotten called with the news at seven or even six this morning.

The service wouldn't be until the weekend, Mags thought. Yvette's family was widely scattered and they would want to make sure her various sets of friends could hear about it. We chatted in clichés for a few minutes more. She apologized for being the bearer of bad news and I assured her I was glad she had thought to let me know right away. She said she'd "let me go about my day," but I suspected she had more of these calls to make. I wondered if she had already called Liza and Curtis, her children.

Mags, Margaret Henley, is not really my aunt. She and my mother were close friends for years, though, with the kind of sisterly bond that made her seem like family. And after my mother died – twelve years ago now, so young – Mags had been a life line to me, pulling me through grief and into some semblance of maturity with the strength and vivaciousness of her personality and sheer presence in my life.

As a child I used to think of my mom and Mags as the moon and the sun, dark and cool versus warm and bright. What did that make me, some small asteroid off in the distance? But Mags was a friend when I was in the agonies of adolescence, and she saw me through those darkest days after cancer took my mother.

Our closeness had no parallel with her children, however. Liza and Curtis had each other, had Mags and their dad, the happy Henleys, as my father used to call them. They'd had little connection to my folks, now long gone, in the first place. Liza and I had never seen eye to eye, though we were close in age. (I was ever grateful for having been bumped up a year back in New Jersey, so as not to have been in her same grade.) Curtis and I had a goofy and fond friendship at least. We could go for a year without contact but then jump right back into our comfortable teasing mode.

I saw more of Curtis these days than I used to, and I imagine more of Liza than she would choose. Because of Mags. Because of the stroke that had left half her body useless and immobile. Her mind still functioned though. The brain injury had affected some of her emotional reactions and impulses, I could tell, although I'm not sure how much of these changes Mags understood. But she had been left in the frustrating position of needing near full care along with the full awareness that she needed it.

Together, they had agreed for her to live temporarily in the convalescent facility. That was almost two years ago. One of the odd staples of our weekly conversations, me and Mags, was discussing changes she should make to her small house in preparation for her return to it. Something patently impossible, of course, given her situation, but something that clearly pumped her up to ruminate about.

These conversations made Liza angry. Not that she was a participant, but she would hear about them later when she phoned Mags. It would take a miracle at this point to change her physical disability, or some sci fi leap of bionics and nano-tech. Liza's reaction was to painstakingly explain how these things just couldn't possibly happen, and why not.

My perspective was, it made her happy to talk about it, so what's the harm. Anyway, why rule anything out? None of us could have guessed that Mags would wake up one morning with a headache, prepare her breakfast and take a short walk over to the community garden where she volunteered, then collapse and within the space of hours lose her independence entirely.

Mags told me she still dreamed of being able to walk. It was odd at first, she said, her legs would be shaky, but suddenly there she would be, balanced and strong and back in her home. The way it was supposed to be.

That reminded me of my dream from the morning, and the distressing news. Poor Yvette. My heart just sank to realize that I would never see her again, never hear her cheerful summary of the activities at the nursing home. She could find something positive to say about the dreariest day or silliest little gathering over there. They would all miss her gungho attitude, I thought, blinking back a sudden rush of tears.

I made a note to myself to send flowers, and amended it to make sure they went straight to the church where they would have the service. I would have to wait until that was set. I didn't know Yvette's family well, but I had met her granddaughter a couple times. She was young enough that she'd probably think to post the information online as well as in the newspaper.

I got ready for work as usual, but my mind was obviously distracted. I dressed and brushed back my hair, made a sandwich to take, cleared our cereal bowls and my coffee mug. Idly stroked the cat, who wound around my legs whenever there was a chance I might drop some food. He purred at my touch, his long-whiskered face seeming to smile up at me. But he looked sleepy. He knew the routine; he would commence his morning nap the moment I left.

My office was a short bus ride away. I worked at the Gallagher Illness Prevention and Research Center, at the University. We're technically a separate, nonprofit entity, and not a part of the university system. But the office is on the campus, our efforts directly support the staff's research on disease prevention, and we regularly even claim credit when they make a breakthrough.

I usually ran through my email on my phone during the short commute, a task possible even when standing and wedged in at the back of the bus. But as I stared at the tiny screen, the letters became a jumble, not worth even registering. A light rain was falling, and my eyes turned from the phone to the window, watching the water trickle down the glass like tears. I put away the phone and wondered about the voice in the dream.

It occurred to me that Mags must have called. Her sense of time could be a bit off and it wouldn't have been unusual for her to forget, and then call again. I must have taken the call still half asleep. I checked my phone, though. No calls had come in.

Well, we still had a land line. Doug thought that when a major earthquake came, it would be the only functioning phone. I didn't argue – anyway we'd had that home number for so long now, people like his mom or aunts wouldn't know how to reach us otherwise. Mags must have called it. I could confirm that later with Doug, even if Mags herself couldn't remember. Nodding to myself, I stepped off the bus at my stop and walked purposefully up the hill toward the campus.

It's a good thing my work is long familiar, and nothing critical like a pilot or doctor or something. Because I was just off all day, unable to focus, easily distracted and even a little jumpy. I did apologize to my immediate supervisor, Wally, although there was a fair chance he hadn't noticed. Like me, he's been on the job for a good long while, and pays more attention to results than the details of process.

I explained, death of an elderly friend, not a huge surprise, but still. He nodded slowly, sympathetic and understanding. Both of us, unfortunately, had reached a point in our lives where it was a relief to think that someone struck down suddenly was at least not a peer. Wally asked if I needed to leave early, but I thought not.

Actually, I tend to find my work a comfort. It's administrative work. I didn't do the actual research, I didn't cut open cadavers or field test new drug therapies, they won't be naming a wing of the hospital after me. But I ran things around here. My efficiency enabled that work to take place, my organization kept the teams on track and rolling ever forward.

One needed a good deal of patience with human foibles here. A significant whole area of the research we fund points to some pretty basic facts about poor eating choices and sedentary lifestyles. More vegetables and fiber, less high fat and cheap corn syrup and over processed stuff – that plus an hour of vigorous exercise a day, and watch the current ballooning cases of Type 2 diabetes level off. Just as an example.

Naturally, the drug companies are hesitant to jump on board with that whole concept. They would much rather fund investigations into the exotic stuff, especially things chronic and requiring a lifetime's expensive medications.

Aside from that bigger picture perspective – which I'd learned to tune out or risk my own regular hormone infused melt downs – our little group had its comic ups and downs. Nobody likes to stick to a job for long anymore, so Wally and I seemed to spend inordinate time training and retraining an ever changing set of young people on the basics of record keeping, gracious letter writing, and why not to yank things out of the copier. More recently, it's become standard to have to explain that the person at the reception desk should not wear ear buds or spend more than a few moments a day on necessary personal calls, but be alert for the phone or office guests. In other words that here at work, they were expected to work.

I do the more complex of my own data entry, and I have a detailed manual for the oft changing administrative assistants who update our primary database. Even so, I could and often did answer basic questions – things that I couldn't help but think a person with just a tiny bit more gumption could figure out on their own – simply and politely.

But not this day. I had weekly, monthly, quarterly, and annual tasks, and I threw myself into the quarterlies. Just let the mild concentration needed to copy and save, update, double check, print and analyze consume my mind. Yes, this is a coping strategy I've had since forever, but what can I say, it works. By 5 PM I felt calm and comfortable, detached even, from the wellspring of emotion that had been seeping through my mind since the morning.

Frankly, that's no small matter anymore – things I used to be able to glide right past have recently been harder to quell.

Doug hates it when I blame my mood shifts on hormones. Or when I mention hormones, or when I display actual moods. We've been married for nine years now, so really, I don't know that we pay all that much attention to such things anymore.

But still, I got dinner started with an eye on the clock, waiting for his arrival. His evening schedule is less regular than mine, depending on his case load. But he generally knows of changes pretty well in advance. And he's been good about calling ahead since we met; he was well trained by his first wife, who was given to panic just from listening to the traffic report when he was late coming home.

Clark, the cat, perked up his ears suddenly, and a moment later I heard Doug at the door. Clark trotted out in his dog-like way, and I followed. I waited for Doug to say something about this morning, but he didn't. He hung up his coat, greeted me and the cat with equal enthusiasm, and walked down the hall to change out of his work clothes.

I followed, waiting till he at least had his pants on before saying, "Did you hear me take a call this morning? Early, maybe five?"

Doug shook his head.

"Are you sure? Just that the phone might have rung?"

"No, I'm pretty sure I would have heard it. Why, are we expecting something?" A faint frown crossed his brow.

Now it was my turn for a head shake. I swallowed hard, remembering again. "Yvette died," I told him. "You know, from Hillside. Mags told me this morning."

"Oh, honey," Doug said, his voice low and tone changed to gentle sympathy. He reached out to embrace me.

I leaned into his shoulder, and wrapped my arms comfortably around his back. We stood like that for a moment, he stroking my arms and the back of my head, and me reminded suddenly of when we had first gotten together. How we had spent time with one another but lived apart, how often we used to embrace.

"I'm okay," I said. I told him about the probable timing of the service, and how Mags seemed to be holding up pretty well. And that Yvette had died peacefully in her sleep, and we both nodded, eager to find something good about the situation.

I followed him back into the kitchen. I'd left the makings for a simple stir fry out, and Doug got the oil heating and reached into the fridge for another handful of fresh herbs.

Doug likes to cook probably more than I do. I have my few solid staples that I like and make well, that come out the same every time. He prefers to improvise. Over the years we've adjusted to each other's styles such that we hardly need even speak about what we're making. I sat down, the day finally weighing in on me and my earlier calmness dissipating. I tried to regulate my breathing, just sitting and watching him move about the kitchen.

Doug is a nice looking man. For his age, I have to amend, for the over 50 set. He's kept his weight and his somewhat slender build. He's only a couple inches taller than I am – okay, we're both on the short side – but perfectly proportioned. He wears his salt and pepper hair a little long, and we both pretend not to see where it's thinning. I noticed his eyes right off, deep brown and probing, and to this day I find his resting expression soothing.

He doesn't talk a lot. Or rather, according to him, he needs to be on and talking all the time at work, and then enjoys the quiet the rest of the time.

He turned to me, spatula in hand as the food sizzled, and asked why I thought someone had called at five.

It's funny, I thought. You could even pin a frilly apron on him, and that lawyer look would shine through when he was in interrogation mode.

"I thought I heard a voice this morning," I said. I got up to set out our plates and silverware, avoiding eye contact. "I heard someone say Yvette was gone and that she was so sorry – I figured it was Mags."

"But you said you heard it from Mags."

"Mags called later. I thought she must have called twice. That we were half asleep because it was so early."

"Wait a minute," Doug said. He snapped off the burner. "You're saying you heard a voice and it told you Yolde died, but it wasn't somebody on the phone?"

I handed him one, then the other plate. It sounded ridiculous to me now, too, but there you have it. "She – the voice – just said she was gone. I didn't really put it together till the phone rang. Then I knew."

"Clarissa," Doug said, with the sigh he used when he felt someone was being imprecise. "You put it together after you talked to Mags."

"No." I needed to be honest here. "I knew when the phone rang. I had absolutely no doubt. I didn't know who was calling but I knew it would be about Yvette. About her death."

He rewarded me with a long silent stare. It was the sort of expression he might get when the older of his daughters made some proclamation about her chiropractor, or someone we didn't know well mentioned astrology.

"I'm not making this up, Doug. Come on, let's eat."

He pulled out his chair. We both took a first bite, and sat back with probably mirrored expressions of satisfaction. I think maybe both of us now, with concerns about cholesterol and arteries and so on, hate to waste a meal. Our dinners tend to be tasty.

"You have to admit it's a little bizarre," he said.

I shrugged. "I feel worse about the news itself than my dreams at this point," I answered.

"You dreamed it. You dreamed this voice."

"Well, obviously. Since it wasn't the phone."

He swished his water glass around idly, thoughtfully. "I guess it's just a coincidence. She was elderly, after all. In fact, I wonder if you didn't overhear something at the home on Friday, a doctor or a nurse. Some tip off."

I sat up straighter. He was right, that was certainly possible. Somebody's off hand comment could have burrowed right into my subconscious. Something Mags wouldn't have known – the staff had to keep things private about the residents and did what they could to avoid worrying anyone about other people's health.

Finally, I felt ready to set aside the uncomfortable sensations that had been nagging at me all day. There was a reasonable explanation. I was, as usual, distracting myself from the actual problem at hand by focusing away on something less important.

"Zoe called," Doug said, also clearly ready for a new topic. "I spent probably 15 minutes of billable time telling her she needs to focus and manage her time better. And that when I was 25, I worked late nights and weekends."

"It's hard for her, though," I said. "You had a wife at home. She's on her own."

Doug harrumphed, pointing out the myriad technological advances that made the life of a lawyer easier now. Zoe was the younger of his two daughters. After a brief rebellious interlude as an AmeriCorps teacher in the deep south, she had followed daddy's footsteps through law school and into corporate practice. She claimed this was just to pay off her huge student loans, that she planned to switch over to public interest soon enough.

I wasn't so sure. Zoe took for granted an awful lot of little luxuries to live on anything less than a pretty significant income. Daily fancy coffees, frequent nights out, spur of the moment weekend getaways and so on. She loved shopping for the latest high tech gadget and cute new shoes with equal devotion.

I smiled over at Doug, who was still randomly naming changes in the field from decades back. Regardless of whatever lifestyle differences we had, or any lingering resentments about my role on her part, I enjoyed Zoe's company. She reminded me of Doug, of his lighter side, his humor. She was bright and intellectually curious about pretty much everything. Plus she had an endearing earnestness to her – she still, as a young adult, clearly strove to live up to her father's standards.

Heather, his older daughter, resembled Doug more in appearance. But in every other way, she was much more firmly aligned with her mother. She lived in New York, and I had never really gotten to know her very well. Although Doug and his ex had split up amicably, Heather made it quite clear who's side she took, even when it didn't seem like there were sides anymore.

She worked at a large gallery back there, and regularly sent Doug fancy invitations to openings and events – things he would read over carefully before sending his regrets. I felt at somewhat of a loss talking to her, on the occasions she stopped by the city. Doug too, I think, and these rare dinners together always went better when Zoe came too. Really, he had not been that big a part of their lives – his ex had kept custody and he had been an every other weekend plus a summer month dad. It was Zoe's determination (and career choice) that brought the two of them closer now.

Doug and I performed our standard after dinner dance of dishes and leftovers, and eased into the living room for our quiet evening. He put on the TV, but muted it at my probably pained expression. Doug liked to watch a game after dinner, but I wasn't up to the sound of perky beer commercials just yet. I reached for the crossword puzzle, in another attempt to keep my mind off of Yvette's passing and the inevitable eventual decline and death of us all.

The Chronicle's puzzles, unfortunately, are not terribly challenging. Simple clues, repeated clues, left my mind wandering again. I thought about Yvette's children, probably near senior citizens themselves, spread far and wide. All of them making their travel arrangements, laying out clothes, fighting off or surrendering to their grief. Calling their own children, disrupting the plans and weekends and even custody arrangements of all those families.

Unlike Doug's graceful divorce and more traditional custody settlement, my first marriage had ended with ugly power struggles about pretty much everything you could assign value to. Our joint custody over our child Sam led to seemingly endless further negotiations and rearrangements – although as an upshot, we eventually came to communicate with greater ease than we did during the ten year marriage.

On the other hand, the reason for the divorce was completely typical: Keith fell in love with his assistant at work. It had come so suddenly – from my perspective anyway; he claimed later to have had silent dissatisfaction building up – that I could hardly be blamed for my defensiveness. I had at least been working again since Sam started pre-school, so it's not like I worried about being destitute. But there's a security to a marriage – even a mediocre one – that just disappears compared to the prospect of being a single mom.

Of course in retrospect, I could see that we had both failed in some pretty fundamental ways to be good partners to each other. Now that I've done better. Keith and I had dated from senior year in college. We had followed the path our friends and family expected, the next step every couple years: moving in, engagement, the wedding, pregnancy. It had made me feel normal, doing what I was supposed to do, and it galled me that Keith would just toss all that away. With hindsight, I'd tell my younger self to be glad of Keith's departure, give up on phony normalcy, to get out there and locate Doug ASAP and don't look back.

Sam had just turned nine when it happened. In fact we'd waited a couple weeks to sit him down for that awful somber talk. (As if aside from Keith's cheating and then walking out on us, wasn't he a fine fellow for not wrecking the boy's birthday.) But Sam had adjusted to the thing pretty well. He'd had a couple months of flat out denial, followed by a kind of disturbing distancing of himself from both of us. But by that Christmas, he was actually boasting to his friends about getting two Christmases.

He was able to put a finger on the material advantages (for him anyway) without much regret about the love lost between parents. Perhaps he had been aware in a way that even I had missed, that Keith and I had trouble really connecting. More likely, I thought, he came at it from self interest.

Sam, even as a small boy, had a huge interest in computer games and programming and that sort of thing. Where other kids whined to go to the zoo, Sam would beg to visit the electronics store. With two bedrooms, two sets of holidays, two parents quietly seeking to outdo each other in weekend fun, Sam could indulge himself nicely. He didn't seem to mind being shuttled back and forth between houses, and was smart about knowing his own schedule. Anyway, he was a city kid, comfortable getting around on public transit and not stressed about the occasional late pick up from school or aftercare. He would just sit and fiddle with his gameboy or whatever latest gadget till someone arrived. It would not even occur to him to worry that he had truly been forgotten.

Nonetheless, I had eventually taken him to a few counseling sessions, extravagances I split with Keith, who had not much of a leg to stand on being the one who left and remarried within the year. We had nothing to worry about, the young therapist had assured me. She wished all her clients were so bright and level headed. He was ahead of his age intellectually, about even physically, and perhaps lagging a bit socially – but showed no hints of trauma. His reticence with both parents was normal; lots of people just liked to keep their emotions to themselves. In all these ways like his mom, I thought.

The fact is, Sam would have withdrawn from me regardless of my marriage, former or current. He was a boy becoming a teenager, it went with the territory. Over the years, in fact, Sam's intellect and fascination with the latest high tech thing have forced me to keep up more than I would have on my own. Texting, smart phones, the migration from Friendster to Facebook, his zillion iPhone apps – I needed to be somewhat tech savvy just to hear from him these days.

Sam was a junior in college. He went directly from 11th grade. He chose Davis, in large part for their Electrical and Computer Engineering program. Also he was big on biking, something the campus was known for. And while Keith and I would have come up with the cash to send him to MIT if he'd asked, we were both pretty relieved to have him stay in California and at a relatively inexpensive school. It's true that even the UC system cost more than seemed imaginable a couple decades back. But we had both made good sized investments in his college fund – Keith, with his ever growing salary, managed a monthly contribution. For my part, I'd started the thing with a portion of the cash I had inherited after my dad died.

That was back when Sam was tiny, a pre-schooler; it had seemed absurd. But so had the money, something my dad's lawyer had set up in his will with Mom's blessing to work around tax issues. I remember not wanting to even handle the paperwork, as if I was somehow dishonoring or cheapening the meaning of my dad's life.

Now, I couldn't be happier with the investment, which could probably see Sam through grad school, unless he suddenly developed Ivy League tastes. And that was pretty unlikely, I thought. These days, every time he visited, he looked less like my sweet bright boy and more like a member of the Taliban. Scraggly beard, tattered clothing, the works. Still hooked on the latest devices though. Pushing himself excitedly toward graduation as if worried that guys a few years ahead would invent all the apps in creation before he got out of school.

I wondered what Sam would make of the whole visionary dream thing. Although, really, Î wasn't sure if that was something I should share. It was pretty weird, first of all, plus I doubted if I could even tell the story without shedding more tears for my friend. I wasn't the sort of mom who embarrassed her kid, at least not loudly so, but Sam had always been a bit squeamish about emotional displays of any sort.

He was like Doug in that way, actually. Well, and like Keith, his biological dad. I sighed to myself. When it came down to it, a person just meeting Doug and also Keith might well find a good deal in common in addition to the fact that they had both married me. It was more than a little disheartening to think that the biggest differences in the two relationships had to do with my level of maturity and ability to cope. That and the cuteness of the help at their respective law firms. The greater fear of sexual harassment suits Doug might have now versus Keith 12 years ago.

Ridiculous, I told myself. Stupid, unworthy. I decided to go up to bed. I could read a little, at least get a head start on my insomnia.

Not long later, there I lay. Doug had joined me, done his own reading, which in his case lasted about five minutes before he conked out with annoying ease. I had clicked off my little light and found myself, as this morning, gazing at the blur of slow moving trees.

The wind moaned softly, a familiar and reassuring sound. Things are still moving, growing, living, it seemed to whisper. The back window was cracked open, and the air smelled fresh, rich and earthy from this morning's rain. In the swirling play of streetlight on the trees, I thought I could make out tiny fluttering new leaves.

Or perhaps I imagined them, but it made me hopeful to think of the new greenery emerging. Every April I can remember, I've enjoyed the sense of renewal that comes with the season, and watched for the point where it's comfortably light in the evening and pleasantly warm in the day. Some cause for optimism, even when everything else might be going poorly.

With a shiver, I remembered something. There was a night like this, breezy and fresh with the start of spring, more than 25 years ago, I thought. I had awakened from a frightening dream. I had still been living in Berkeley, barely out of school and clinging to the shared apartment I'd been renting since senior year. This was before Keith and I had moved in – we'd been sleeping apart, in fact, because I had a bad cold.

But in my harsh and realistic seeming dream, it was not a cold I had scratching at my throat, but radiation sickness. I was sad and also furious that this had happened, that such human irresponsibility caused a radiation leak that was poisoning me in my own bed. I had come awake, blown my nose and maybe taken an aspirin, and slept some more. Fast forward to my catching up on the news – and the big story of the day? Chernobyl. The meltdown, the leak, the radiation cloud hovering over Europe and Asia. My God, it still blew my mind that the human population had come that close and not immediately closed down all those types of plants.

I shifted uncomfortably, moving farther from Doug so that I could stretch my arms out and unclench my fists. The point wasn't nuclear power, the point was the dream, the awareness that had come to me that way. I had not really told anyone. I had put it out of my mind, because I was 21 and busy and striving to be closer to normal than psycho weird. Which, I've got to say, even in Berkeley, if I'd gone around the next day saying yeah, Chernobyl, I dreamed about it, would have been seriously out there. I'd had a cold, I had told myself. I felt sick, I dreamed about being sick, end of story.

Except for one little thing. Even that was not the first time. I swallowed hard. It was uncomfortable, almost painful for me to admit these things to myself. But buried back there somewhere deep in my head, pushed away but now bubbling back up, I realized I had even heard the dream voice before. The sound of a woman's voice, I mean, distinct and clear as a bell, speaking to me while I was asleep.

Age 14, easily flustered, skinny, nearly flat-chested and convinced I would be gawky and geeky my whole life long – I had gone to bed suffering from menstrual cramps, unused to and unnerved by the heated pulsing pain emanating from body parts I tried not to think about. In my dream I felt pain and a voice spoke next to my ear and told me to let go and not suffer any longer. The next morning, my mom sat me down after breakfast to tell me that my grandmother had died the previous evening.

My mom had found out the night before, had known but not told me yet, for reasons that still don't really make sense to me. I mean, this was her own mother, I was her daughter, wouldn't I be the most important person to tell? But as I said, I was in the throes of adolescence, a not very communicative person to start with and now overrun by hormones.

Grandma had been ill for some time at that point. She had had a mild stroke and a series of falls, more than one case of pneumonia. She died in a hospital back in New Jersey, 3,000 miles away. My mom had been making plans to go visit her, and these changed into buying tickets for all three of us to fly back there to bury her.

The voice had not even mention Grandma, I told myself now. Or death. But that hardly mattered. What I recalled was the lump in my stomach, the absolute knowledge of what my mom would tell me that morning at the breakfast table, even as she composed herself to form the words. The same clenching of fists and nerves that I felt this morning and that I felt now. Thinking about other little instances. Things I might have known without knowing. After my dad's fatal heart attack. Aunt Lila, my mom's older sister. Those dreams were fuzzier, but I recognized them, sat waiting, later both those days, for Mom's phone call. I'd become aware too that something was terribly wrong before I even turned on the radio the morning of 9-11.

Any one of those things could be coincidence. Or coincidence combined with the poor health of an elderly person or a perhaps a horrified neighbor exclaiming over the terrorist attacks. But reviewed all together like this? Much more disturbing. Made my insomnia seem like a smart choice, given the alternative.

But I was being melodramatic. The vast majority of nights were like every other one the past year except for last night, once I finally fell asleep – soothing and restful, with just the occasional disruption from Doug's snores or my middle aged need to creep out to the bathroom and back. Nothing strange or ominous. Sleep, I told myself. Close off the voices. Let yourself rest.

## Chapter 2

Things had settled down by the end of the week. Personally, I mean. I was able to set aside the worries and internal churning and go about my days as normal. Go to work and spend the hours needed, balancing the concentration and tedium needed to get my job done efficiently and well. Interact with my co-workers, share a long lunch with Wally and review the upcoming budget revision, and so on.

Honestly, I didn't pay that much attention to my work, hour to hour. No, that's not fair, I am still meticulous – but I've pretty well perfected the ability to use my short term memory effectively. I focus, work, finish the work, and poof, it's back out of my head.

Twenty years ago, I was much more likely to take work home, both literally and figuratively, than now. Despite the technological advances. Twenty years ago, I bored Keith at our dinner table with the minutia of my days, and woke in the night stressing about, what, tiny meaningless squabbles amongst people whose names I can barely recall now.

By Friday, I had also started sleeping better. Once I managed to tip into sleeping anyway. This was my day off, and I could theoretically even sleep in. (Oh, to be Sam's age.) Instead I lolled there, half listening to the radio, while Doug got himself out the door. Clark became a little stressed every Friday morning, trotting back and forth between us. He was particular about his habits, and it bothered him seeing a human in bed after his kibble dish had been filled at the start of the day.

Sometimes I got up anyway, had coffee and cereal with Doug. But I wasn't ready to face him just yet. We'd had a bit of an argument a couple nights back. About my whole dreaming thing, whether they really could all be random events. I had laid out a list of the instances, making my case, but in a shoddy way and lacking any evidence whatsoever that he could see. It was not even an argument, really.

I had tried to have him to hear me out, describing the situations. And he had listened precisely until I stopped talking, then dismissed it all with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. They were coincidence, or the not surprising news that an old sick person had died, or both. It didn't mean anything. Even my raw nerves tracking these things, trying to remember the dates or at least time of year, were unimportant, silly. It would do no one any good to dwell on it.

Now I rose from bed purposefully. He had sounded too much like my own father with his "don't dwell on it" comment. And look where that attitude had gotten Dad: dead from a heart attack just weeks after his retirement at age 65. I had come to think that my father would have been healthier and lived longer if he had been more open minded, open hearted maybe. Willing to consider alternatives.

When I first heard the term "silent generation" applied to people my parents' age, I had thought they meant how they tended literally to be silent. Over time, I came to see that indeed both of them displayed the passive, non-reactive ways of coping of those of their era. Dad had gone to Korea and returned with nothing to say on the subject. Mom's early childhood had paralleled the Great Depression, and her depravation then surely led her to lowered expectations later.

But that was all irrelevant now, I thought, finishing my shower and dressing in casual clothes. I got laundry started and ran a couple errands before the main part of my day began, my weekly visit to Hillside. It was a lovely, sunny day out, and before I went to the car, I stopped and gathered a handful of wildflowers to put in a small vase. The nursing home has plenty of color in its common areas but it lacks actual plant life, and I knew Mags would like these.

I parked in the tiny visitors lot, glad for a space and wondering who else was on hand. Hillside residents themselves did not have cars. Splaying out the sprigs of flowers with my fingers as I entered the lobby, I was struck by the sameness of the place.

Just days ago a resident had died, a vibrant, lively woman who had been seen the good in everyone. And nothing about the building or the entranceway, or the brief glance and nod of the front attendant spoke of any sort of change. They had a waiting list for vacancies, I knew from various gossip. There was probably another old woman already ensconced in Yvette's room.

Hillside's outside was drab – cement beams and discolored walls, windows with opaque glass, a tiny outdoor walkway lined by scruffy shrubs. Utilitarian design of the 1970s or late 60s, almost self-consciously drawing attention away from itself. Probably the neighbors had not wanted an old age home set down here.

But it was a pretty place inside. They kept the lights bright, the wallpaper was ornate, and the furniture in the main sitting room had an attractive faux Victorian look. The staff were a friendly bunch too. I hadn't appreciated that at first, but now I did – that nearly everyone I passed would offer a friendly hello. They were all a bit overworked, the nurses especially. Still, when I had a question, even as a non-family member, I knew someone would take the time to hear me out, to give an honest answer.

The charge nurse was at her station, surrounded by paperwork, and a couple of ladies were parked in their wheelchairs nearby, keeping an eye on things. I greeted all three, pausing so the ladies could admire the flowers. Teilah, the nurse, caught my eye for a moment and nodded soberly. She knew I had admired Yvette, we all had.

"People are holding up," she said, a roundabout way of acknowledging the loss. "And Margaret has been expecting you. Della is down there too." She tilted her head in the direction of their rooms.

I nodded and proceeded down the corridor. The residents' halls were also brightly lit, but more utilitarian. Rubber handrails lined the walls, and the carpet was plain and flat, for the ease of wheelchairs and rolling carts. All the resident room doors were open, and as I passed I could hear snatches of TVs turned up too loud and voices calling out.

When I first started coming here, it had been hard not to stop at each room, to say hello to people who were obviously lonely, or run for a nurse for the ones who regularly demanded one. But I had gotten more immune. A lot of people here were hard of hearing, and their regular speaking voices sounded upset. They were all here alone in a place no one dreams of ending up. Any of them would be cheered by company; I could only do so much.

I also tuned out the smells, which at first had distressed me. Just as the bright lights highlighted any flaw on the wall or floor or one's skin tone, there was a pervasive perfumey disinfectant smell that seemed to draw attention to the base odors it was intended to mask. Back here, the windows stayed closed, and the smells of institutional meals mixed with harsh cleansers and sprays and bodily odors.

Mags was at the end of the hall – just luck of the draw from when she got placed here. Her room was close to the emergency exit, where some aides regularly sneaked out to smoke. So she did get a bit of fresh air, plus, when so inclined, could take note of staffers coming and going.

I tapped at her open door. I liked to at least imply the illusion that she had privacy, that she could choose who to admit to her small living space.

"Clarissa, dear," she exclaimed, raising her good hand toward me. Her smile was lopsided now, but genuine. She had greeted me pretty much this way since I was 10 years old. I leaned over for a quick hug, and set down the flowers, which both ladies cooed over.

Mags was seated, looking comfortable, in her wheelchair. She had always been a slender woman, somewhat glamorous, I thought, someone who knew what colors and patterns went together, what accessories completed an outfit. Since the stroke, she had kind of compacted toward her center. Her arms were a bit thin and bony, while her face and mid-section had taken on more bulk. Still, she got her hair done once a month – it was silvery and swept back – and her warm brown eyes twinkled as ever.

Her friend Della was stationed across from her, their chairs angled so that their right sides faced each other. I knew the regular staff was on duty this morning because of this thoughtful placement – both women had suffered right brain injuries, which meant their left sides were immobile. Della in particular had left neglect so she really needed to interact with people in front of her or to her right. This way they could talk, see each other, even clasp hands if the conversation called for it.

"Let me scoot back," Mags said, pattering her right foot ineffectively.

I reached around and slowly helped move her a few inches, then pulled the small cushioned folding chair that I thought of as my spot up beside her.

"Shall I leave you two?" Della asked. "Raphael is supposed to come fetch me at some point."

"Nonsense," Mags exclaimed, as I shook my head. "We need to bear up together."

"Yes, indeed. Chin up and all that." Della lifted her head for a moment, but she looked shaky. She was several years older than Mags, in her 80s I would guess, though not presume to ask. She seemed like a classic California woman, I thought. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery from the sun, and she wore her gray hair relatively long, braided and wrapped around her head. Her demeanor always seemed quiet and calm, sometimes in contrast to Mags' tendency to get riled up or Yvette's chirpy enthusiasm. Della's clothes tended to be loose and earth toned. I could imagine her as a beatnik, in gypsy outfits going to poetry readings, or kicking along barefoot at the beach.

"The grandchildren stopped by, a whole passel of them, very gracious," Mags said. "We've made our arrangements to attend the service – luckily their church is close by. But no more Gleesome Threesome," she added with a sigh. A designation one of the speech therapists had given them awhile ago, that they all enjoyed.

Della patted her hand gently.

"Doug and I will be there," I told them. "We'll look for you."

"Well, Curtis will be coming to escort me," Mags said, "but we can always use another strong set of arms."

We chatted a bit more about the service, segueing into random memories about Yvette. None of us had known her for more than the time Mags had been here, yet that was enough to store up a healthy set of memories. These sorts of recollections were good for both of them, I thought. Not only as part of the grieving process – and, as Della noted, by her age enough friends had passed on that it no longer seemed abnormal – but for the benefit of just flexing the memory muscles.

The therapists here were big on that. Any holiday or world event would do as an excuse for a themed gathering. Special treats might entice participation, and once the captive audience was arranged, some game of puzzles or story telling or memory recollections would ensue. I had found these bizarre and strangely juvenile at first. But over time, it did make sense. Without stimulation, they (or I as well) would be more likely to veg out with the TV. People with brain injuries had all the more reason to work the internal gray matter connections.

In fact, I had been persuaded to do a monthly reading for anyone interested. "Afternoons with Austen," they called it, and I was making my way slowly through the works of Jane Austen, to a small but devoted audience. In theory these were readings followed by discussion. But the reality was, after I had carefully set up the room so that the women with the worst hearing were right up front, and I had read aloud in my most powerful voice, everyone just sat for awhile afterward. I had taken to bringing what I thought of as appropriate classical music; I would put on the music and all the ladies would listen, sighing, almost purring, it seemed. Presumably wrapped up in thinking about the characters and enjoying the music, perhaps churning up long forgotten memories of their younger days.

One of the newer aides, a tiny young woman whose name I'd forgotten, poked her head in, apologizing for interrupting us. She needed to bring Mags down for blood work, but she didn't think it would take long.

I saw a quick series of expressions pass over Mags' face. Annoyance, fear of needles, worry that I would leave, and then resignation. Because regardless of her feelings, the staff's schedule would prevail as long as she was stuck here. I think that essential lack of control over her every move was what most fueled her frequent ruminations on fixing up her house to return home.

"I'll let Della entertain me while I wait," I told her quickly. "We'll keep an eye out for you coming back. There's no place I have to be this afternoon." That was depressingly true most every Friday, even the ones when I did the readings. Although I had been known to hint at impending events to excuse myself if I thought Liza might be on her way.

The attendant wheeled Mags away, deftly angling around the corner and far stronger than she looked. Della undid her own chair brakes, and sat passively while I executed a couple awkward turns to get her facing outward.

Her room was across and a couple doors down. I wheeled her slowly in, and then around so that she was next to her bed and facing out. This room had a more austere look, as though Della had alighted temporarily but wouldn't leave much when she departed. She had no TV, preferring silence or a book on tape. She liked to have her curtains drawn, and favored an exquisite old world lamp rather than stark overhead lights of the facility. It made the room a peaceful oasis.

She looked a little tired, and I asked if I should find someone to transfer her to the bed.

"No, thank you, I'm aiming to stay upright till after dinner. It's better for my back. But do tell me if I'm listing," she added with a wan smile.

Both she and Mags were working on balance, even in their chairs. I saw her draw herself up and set her shoulders back with precision. It struck me, again, how much effort was required for the simplest things. "You look a bit peaked too, dear, if you don't mind my saying," Della observed.

"I wasn't sleeping well earlier," I acknowledged. "Although I feel better than I did a couple days ago." To anyone else, I might make a crack about getting old. Here, that would sound silly, ring false.

"It's hard when you lose someone. Even if you weren't that close," she said. "I had some sleepless nights too. More sleepless."

She had regular and wicked insomnia. We had bonded over that back when we were all first getting acquainted. I think she saw something of her younger self in me. At least she regularly offered gentle advice, couched in stories about her own behavior in the past.

"Did they know something was wrong with Yvette?" I thought to ask. "Last week?"

"I don't believe so, no. Mag and I both heard the commotion in the hallway early in the morning, and the nurses let us know who it was, and that she had died. But the morning staff were completely surprised as far as I could see. Why do you ask?"

"I just thought I might have overheard something. It's silly, but I had an odd dream. That morning, I mean. Before Mags called me about it." I glanced down, embarrassed to be mentioning it.

But when I looked up, Della was staring at me with unusual intensity, leaning forward a bit. "I'd be very curious to hear about it," she said, her words slow and precise.

I told her about the vague dream and then the voice that had come, the words. She nodded as I spoke, an impish smile appearing on her good side.

"That's all, Clarissa?" Della asked when I stopped. I felt her eyes probing me. "You seem not quite finished."

I sighed. At least Della would be too polite to pooh pooh me completely, as Doug had the other day. "Well, then in the morning, when I heard the phone ring, I felt pretty sure that it was someone calling to tell me. About Yvette."

She nodded, with what I can only say appeared to be more satisfaction than my little story warranted.

"I know it sounds kind of strange," I added.

"I wonder, has this sort of thing happened to you before?" she asked.

It was my turn to eye her, wondering why she would ask that. I nodded slowly. "Once or twice." At her squinting half frown, I amended, "Several times, I guess. Some instances more obvious than others. There was just this quality to the particular dreams—I tried to explain it to Doug and it's hard to articulate."

Della raised her good arm to her chin, and leaned forward, her expression for all the world like a wise old owl. "You recognize it," she suggested. "It's familiar. You know to pay attention."

"Yes," I exclaimed, feeling a brief rush of adrenaline just from the idea that somebody else got it. "It happened when my grandmother died, a totally different dream, but I had the same feeling. And a voice came, and then I knew, before my mom sat down to tell me. Do you understand what I mean?"

She smiled again. "Yes, dear, I do. This sounds very much like things I have experienced. Not recently," she added, "not about Yvette – I heard that with my own ears. But when I was out in the world."

"You dreamed about things that would happen?" I asked, almost as cynical as Doug. "My husband is pretty sure it's all coincidence. I mean, my grandmother had been quite ill." I didn't want to say the obvious parallel about Yvette, that she was an old lady in a nursing home – which was true of Della too.

"Well, that just might be. But I can assure you it went beyond mere circumstance in my case." She fell silent for a moment, but I could see the focus of her eyes, as if she was replaying whole scenes in her mind. "I called it inknowing," she said. "I had my first experience with it at 14, and no idea what to make of it. We lost my eldest brother over in the Pacific, during the war. A terrible thing, his ship was blown to bits, all hands lost."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly. I could see a sadness in her expression that suggested the 70 years since this happened had suddenly compressed to nothing, like she was briefly reliving the loss.

"Oh, it was a tremendous blow. He had just turned 22. But my point was that I knew it. One night I felt this horror, a vivid and terrible dream. A week later, I was at school, and I nearly fainted, they had to take me to the nurse. Before someone could even be sent to fetch me, my own father arrived at the school for my sister and me. My mother had gotten the telegram at home. When I pieced it together, it seems I had collapsed just as she did."

A shiver passed over me. Even if this was totally made up, it was a compelling story.

"There was nothing to be done about it," Della continued. "That pre-cogniscent awareness, I mean. My family had suffered such a loss. My sister and I were still school children, but we had to do more around the house, help my mother, who took ill herself several times later that year."

"You didn't tell anyone?"

"Not that I recall. And it didn't happen again for some time."

Now it was my turn to nod. Especially when young, nobody wants to call attention to themselves like that.

"But I must say, I really realized I had this gift in mid-life. It's occurred to me there was a hormonal aspect. I had a few years there where my inknowing was downright spooky."

"Hormones," I repeated, a bit amused. Doug would love that one.

"Oh, it was more than just that, I can assure you." Della caught my eye for a moment. "You can call me a deranged old lady, but I know what I experienced. I know it was real. I know I knew things in a way I shouldn't have. And from what you say, you understand precisely what I'm talking about."

I wondered if I did. She seemed so sure, where I now wondered if Doug was right about the whole thing. "Did you," I paused, searching for the right phrase, "did you look into it professionally? Get tested? Talk to a doctor?"

"Or a shrink, more likely," Della added, her expression sly.

"I just mean, was there some sort of collaborating evidence, some kind of proof." I sounded like Doug now.

"No, dear, not the way you're thinking." She glanced away, and I had a sudden flash of fear that she actually could read my mind, that she knew I was questioning not just the veracity of her story, but the functioning of her post-stroke mind. "I chatted with some friends about it," she continued. "Earlier on, I mean. This was a long time ago, mind you, there was a period when married ladies had every afternoon to spend together battling their boredom. Really I was kind of testing them out. Wondering if I was unique."

"And were you?"

"Not entirely, I don't think. Unusual, certainly. You must have already concluded that. But not alone in my abilities." She smiled suddenly. "There was one young lady I knew who was just fascinated with the occult. She held seances, tried the Ouija board. Her own skills were fairly weak though, it was as much for entertainment, I think."

I couldn't help smiling, picturing this. Della and her fellow housewives, in their Mad Men style dresses, dimming the lights and calling on spirits. "I don't think Doug would be too comfortable with my doing that," I said.

"Oh, no, dear, I only pursued any of this quietly. My husband would have had me locked up." She said this with a small smile.

I couldn't tell if she was serious. I thought about Doug again. He would not actually send me to a shrink if I started holding seances. But he would find every way possible to dissuade me. Although who knows, perhaps Heather might find me interesting after all? I returned my attention to Della, who was still sitting there, her body passive but her mind clearly engaged. "So you did have that one friend with the ability. With the, um-"

"The inknowing. Yes, she and another pair of sisters I got to know. We lost touch after a few years. They were a bit older, they must be long gone by now." She gazed into the distance, somewhere far beyond her closed curtains. "I only pursued it quietly, discretely, for amusement. To keep the peace at home. But I do regret that now."

I tilted my head, questioning.

"So what if they thought I was crazy," Della continued. "Now I've lost my ability. I'm losing all my senses. My husband is dead, and here I am locked up anyway." She shrugged, just on the one side, but I could see a streak of genuine anger tickling the usually calm surface of her face.

"I'm sorry," I said, my catch all phrase when I didn't know what else to say.

She flicked her fingers at me and smiled normally again. "Don't let my ranting put you off," she said. "But I do wish I had learned a little bit more, or tried a little harder. When I could."

"I don't know, I don't know if I could do that," I said, thinking about work and what Doug or Sam or any of my regular friends would say.

"I understand," Della said amiably. "No one likes to rock the boat, do they? And you're busy, I know. Don't think I don't appreciate the time you spend here with us old ladies."

I waved her off. She was right, though, I thought, about rocking the boat. Going about my modestly busy life, my day to day routines, was certainly easier than probing the mysteries of the mind. Especially where the unusual abilities seemed to pertain to sudden death.

Della shifted in her chair again, making another effort to align herself upright. "Still, I imagine that internet would have more information than there used to be. My grandchildren seem to be constantly consulting it on their little phones."

"I'm sure there's all kinds of stuff, though I'd hardly know where to start."

She continued to gaze at me, smiling slightly. "Much of it fakery, just as the old days. But there are glimmers of truth to be found, I'd wager."

"I'll noodle around a little," I added, suddenly wondering why I had not thought to do this on my own. "Next time I take a long lunch, next week. Try to convince myself I'm not crazy."

"I don't doubt some people do call it crazy," Della said. "People are scared of what they can't understand. People deny things they can't put their hands on. But they accept electricity flowing into their houses. They acknowledge love, is that something you can measure or prove exists?"

Before I could answer – and what could I say to that? – Mags returned, the aide depositing her in Della's doorway then rushing away to help with some minor catastrophe on the other end of the hall.

One of the newer residents had gotten upset with a nurse, accusing her of stealing, Mags had overheard. Then she had lashed out at a brand new aide, mid-transfer, and almost been dropped. More experienced staff were down there helping both the patient and the aide, Mags explained.

Both women sighed. I squeezed around to move Mags into the room. Some residents here got quite paranoid – accusations of thievery and mistreatment by the staff were not uncommon. Mostly it was just paranoia, brought on by the brain injuries.

But the other truth was, lots of people did move in and out of the rooms. It wasn't unheard of for a piece of jewelry or other trinket to go missing. And the nursing staff were professional and caring. But occasionally overworked or a tiny bit brusque. Sometimes it took longer than it should for them to respond to a buzz, or they had to prioritize and took awhile to tend to less than urgent needs. I understood how one could feel abused here, even as my heart went out to the underpaid, overworked, and falsely accused aide in this particular instance.

Both women were getting tired. It was near that empty hour before the start of their early dinner. Therapy sessions and scheduled events were over, family visitors with jobs wouldn't be here for awhile, they had been up in their chairs and probably stretching out in bed was tempting. Not a few residents did go back to bed and take their dinners there, propped up among the cushions.

Mags had told me that, barring serious back pain, she made a point to stay seated at least till dinner was over. Anything less was a slippery slope towards never really getting up at all. No doubt Della felt the same way.

I pulled out my Chronicle and read some headlines and news stories aloud, part our weekly routine. Neither could abide by television news, but both missed the ability to easily read. Mags, at least, could slowly piece out large print, like the cards her grandchildren sent her.

After awhile, I set Della's cassette tape going, the volume and stop buttons accessible to her line of sight and right hand. I wheeled Mags back to her room, and we chatted a bit. Then I took off. It gave me a tinge of pain with each departure, to see the sad smile on her face as I said goodbye. I was filled with guilt not to spend more time with her, along with a rush of relief at the prospect of getting back to my faster paced able bodied life.

## Chapter 3

I put that intriguing conversation with Della out of my mind almost immediately. Typically. It was easier all around not to run through any of this with Doug over dinner, and risk more of his cold logic and skeptical sighs. Easier not to rock the boat, as she had said. Maybe I would mention something to my friend Joan, next time we talked on the phone. We had known each other since our kids were toddlers. We didn't talk that often anymore, but she was the sort of person you could bounce an idea off of, and she would not laugh, at least not right at you.

I did wonder later if Della would mention any of this to Mags. Or if she had, about her own experiences. The two were pretty tight, in the nursing home context. (The whole thing a bit like junior high for the elderly, I had observed. Bosom buddies and sudden rivalries, giggling nudges and sulky competition for the occasional dapper male guest, often a doctor or specialist of some sort. Men who might be balding or impatient or nearly retired, but clearly the sought after stars there at Hillside.)

They had only known each other for a couple years, having checked in a couple doors apart around the same time and quickly finding common interests. I didn't think I would mind if Mags heard about my dreams. She had, after all, seen me at my absolute worst, and still stuck by me.

I wouldn't necessarily want Liza and Curtis to brought up to speed on it though. But I was pretty confident that Della would keep this between herself and Mags at most. She had made it clear that she got it, as far as why one shouldn't go around discussing premonitions of death. Anyway, maybe it was just my wishful thinking, but I had the impression that Della was not terribly fond of Liza either. As for Mags, I could hardly believe that she would be preoccupied with my personal oddities in the face of conversations with her own beloved children.

So the weekend passed, aside from the memorial service, routine and uneventful. We cracked a bottle of the good wine on Saturday evening, and splurged with ice cream over pie for dessert. Fancy coffee on Sunday, lingering over a homemade brunch. (When did our treats become so food oriented, I wondered.)

Our earlier disagreement set aside, we pleased each other in bed as usual after the good wine Saturday night. There, it wasn't all about eating and drinking. But a lot more about the body than the mind, it occurred to me. Doug and I used to banter and tease each other more. He used to talk more about his cases. There just wasn't that much new in them anymore, though. Nor in my work, which spun out in pursuit of such unattainable goals, year after year. Nor in the rest of our lives. Really, the emphasis on the physical made some sense. It was better than collecting miniature dolls or obsessing about civil war statistics or other inane things such as I'd seen take hold of our older relatives.

Sunday afternoon we put on somber dressy clothes and made our way out the avenues to the small church where Yvette's family held her service. The modest chapel was quite full, from what I gathered was indeed a large extended family. Doug and I weren't late, but nonetheless sat towards the back. I made a point of saying hello to Mags, Della, and some other ladies from Hillside, who were seated together in their wheelchairs in a pretty little alcove. But they had family members with them, and it wasn't really a chatty sort of social occasion.

I found myself focusing on small details as the service got underway. The way each speaker seemed to grip the podium, as if straining for balance. The shifting colors on the floor and walls, from sun hitting a stained glass window, pretty but not especially connoting any sort of religious symbolism. How most of the men of her family seemed to be prematurely balding, while the women had great manes of hair. The carefully inclusive way they spoke about her extended family, with nods toward partners, those who could not be here in person, and those who had passed away already.

Doug sat comfortably close to me, his shoulder there for me to lean on. But I had steeled myself numb. I let each word flow past me but purposely did not string them together into deeper meaning. I would rather not be emotionally compromised in public. In any case, this tribute to Yvette was at its core joyful, full of amusing recollections about a life well lived. We should all be this lucky, I thought, to be remembered with such simple pleasure.

Afterward, we briefly paid our respects to her children, but did not stay for the reception. I waved at Mags and her son Curtis, who were way across the room. Della, being wheeled by someone I didn't recognize, hailed us. "Good to see you both," she said. She murmured something more, in a soft voice. I leaned forward and she repeated it: "Don't forget the internet."

Mondays were my busiest at work. We had a regular staff meeting, plus our deadlines just seemed to fall early in the week. I kept my normal quick and efficient pace, and attempted to prod – without being too annoying – the slower of my colleagues. One young woman in particular seemed to spend much of her time on Facebook, barely thinking to hide the page when someone passed by. She wouldn't last, I could tell that now, but nonetheless I expected her to get the basics of her job done.

Which made me feel funny jotting a note in my calendar to research the weird phenomena. But I had promised to Della. Plus I was, when I allowed myself to think about what had happened, somewhat curious.

I waited until my scheduled lunch break on Tuesday to even begin a computer search. Even that required effort. Often enough, I work through lunch if I've brought a sandwich, or at most just duck out for a quick walk around the campus. Wally likes to schedule lunch meetings that cover birthdays or other little staff get togethers. So we might start with an intensive discussion of upcoming fundraising priorities, then break out our Tupperware and share some cookies, and by the time the thing has ended, it's mid-afternoon.

But this time, I unwrapped my sandwich and sat forward, facing the colorful google logo and unsure of what to type. I realized I didn't have a name for it, for whatever I was looking for. Della had called it inknowing, but that query just came up with a suggested spelling correction and a couple pages where the two words had run together.

Was it ESP? Google first wondered if I meant ESPN, but the simple touch of the space bar launched a plethora of options. There were tests, tons of them, with references to paranormal and psychic phenomena. I clicked one open at random, and was presented with five symbols and invited to select from among them to predict what the computer had pre-selected. I tried it a couple times. My correct percentage was 25%, with random being 20. But then I clicked through a few more times and my accuracy shot down, plus I felt absolutely nothing as far as any sort of inner knowledge guiding me.

The thing felt silly. Also addictive. I tried another so called test. This one had numbers, and the option of guessing what was already there or predicting future computer choices. Then I tried this odd site that had me guess what objects were in a pretend box on the screen. All the while, ads for Live Psychic Readings! popped up, along with medium hotlines and workshops to develop one's telepathic skills.

I glanced down the hall, glad Wally was out for the afternoon along with Mai, the co-worker who sat nearest to my workspace. Fortunately we had little in the way of in-house IT, I thought. I was quite sure that no one ever checked up on personal use of the computers here, or scrolled through our search page history. Good thing, because I couldn't imagine what someone would think about these items.

Even so, I opened another tab to a bland news site, just to have handy in case. In case somebody walked by and saw a flashing set of stars and moons highlighting the Life Enriching Tarot Reading 800 number dancing across the screen. I abandon the tests and tried "sixth sense" and "psychic ability." At least one or two sites offered slightly more academic sounding descriptions of such things in addition to the astrology and dream analysis buttons to click.

A half hour later, though, I felt no closer to discovering anything about my self or my abilities from the whole of the world wide web. If anything, clarity felt farther away. Most of the information seemed geared toward "are you psychic? Yes, you're so special!" Followed by endless opportunities to pay for all manner of ridiculous things (since you're also obviously a sucker).

The very idea of most of these phenomena seemed absurd to me, they always had. That the alignment of stars at the moment you took your first breath caused personality traits. That some stranger on the other end of a pay-per-minute call would have insight into your problems. That a tarot card reader could do anything beyond tell you, in the manner of Professor Marvel in The Wizard of Oz, what you most needed to hear.

And yet – Della's soft voice persisted in my head. The combination of her utter confidence in her own belief and lack of concern that anyone else understood it, served to spur me on. The thing itself would not be online, but I could seek out, perhaps, the like minded.

Googling for conferences brought up some odd sounding things that had already taken place. Also – this only two weeks away in Las Vegas! – an international UFO gathering (presumably for the true believers rather than an open invite to the flying objects, although I assumed there would be all manner of items on sale geared toward luring the space aliens there as well).

I tried discussion groups, and came up with several people charging hourly fees for mentoring, plus self-published books for sale. Various words repeated in my scattershot search: clairvoyants, telepathy, empaths, sensitives, psychic, medium. A one sentence definition for Precognition caught my eye: knowledge or awareness of the future, obtained through extra sensory perceptions.

That was pretty much it, when it came down to it. No stars or cards or laying on of hands. No money exchanged. I honed in on some of the key words and tried again. Finally, feeling like I was knee deep in some crazy treasure hunt, I located what seemed like a fairly low key gathering. It was a meeting for people interested in precognition and clairvoyance with a lecture by an academic specialist on brain chemistry about possible paranormal events, to occur next week and right downtown.

After all the cosmic spookiness I'd just read through, this coincidence seemed bizarre – but I quickly understood that this was a monthly gathering for so called open minded adults, sponsored by New College and held at their downtown building. The following month's would feature theories on hypnosis. There would be evening class information available after the talk; no doubt they were just pushing adult enrollment any way they could.

Feeling a strange guilty pleasure, I printed out the event notice, standing by the printer to snatch it off before anyone else could chance to see it. I set it aside and returned to my work, chastened and anxious to catch up – I've never been the type to feel comfortable blowing off my duties like this while at the job. Work felt pretty dull in comparison, though, I had to admit. Yes, I had gotten jaded by this point in the game. Name a middle aged person who hasn't.

Early in my time here at the Gallagher Center, just coming to work had felt like some sort of victory. In my head I pictured our old office, a somewhat dank and poorly lit set of rooms, on the ground floor, half a basement really. Our computer system was old and crashed randomly, the copier barely functioned, when we had meetings with more people than just the staff we all had to troop over to another building for a table and chairs to accommodate us. Funding had been dicey and we had worked for sub-standard pay, accepting greater vacation time to compensate but rarely using it.

Yet those were the glory days, no doubt. Wally was the only one left of that early group; he had worked with the founding director. But the early enthusiasm had infused every working day. We, working together, could raise the money, could direct the funds and frame the debates, would cure diseases. Would make lives longer and better and more meaningful.

It's not that I doubted our mission even now. I'd come to the nonprofit from the biotech industry, where making money was the primary goal, never mind the potential of their lifesaving products. Just being more a part of the solution was a daily victory. But back then I did not have quite the sense of how long societal change could possibly take. Nor the outside forces that would mess with all of our struggles. I'd been in my mid-30s, no sweet innocent – but even so, during my first couple years at Gallagher, I could remember actually thinking that our little group could put itself out of business. We'd raise the money, more importantly we'd raise understanding. The government – California's if not the Feds – would surely get the priorities, make the investments, help the sick and dying.

Shaking my head, as if to unloose all those memories of fresh optimism, I turned back to completing the simple tasks at hand. The sun streamed in on these pleasant spring afternoons, and I needed to focus, not give in to the temptation to daydream, or just lay my head down on the warm wooden desk and take a nap.

The following Friday, I looked forward to talking to Della over at Hillside, to let her know that I had not forgotten my promise and see whether she thought I should attend this meeting downtown. Who was I kidding, of course she would have me go. Her biggest complaint in life was her inability to get out and go places; she'd possibly even want me to check her out and bring her along.

But our time together turned out to be brief – she was scheduled that afternoon for a medical exam downstairs. Della was preoccupied, and stuck in her room waiting for the technician to come for her ("even more immobile than usual," she quipped).

Still, she expressed interest in the Paranormal Events discussion when I hastily told her about it. "You'll attend it, of course," she exclaimed. Not at all a question.

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm not sure I'll really fit in at something like that," I added. "You should have seen some of the crazy stuff online."

Della fluttered her hand. "It's a world of crazy things, I'm sure that hasn't changed. But that doesn't deny the core truth of things as far as I'm concerned."

An aide appeared in the doorway, and Della gently dismissed me, saying that she looked forward to hearing details next time around.

I went down the hall to Mags. She was who I was here to visit after all; in fact I felt a bit guilty about dropping in on Della first. I wasn't sure how much they compared notes about our various conversations, whether Della would mention the paranormal thing, or Mags would mind that I stopped in to see her separately.

Mags was a bit out of sorts, in any case. Grumpy in a way she never used to be before her stroke. I pulled my usual chair over to sit across from her. It was not my style to try and jolly her out of it, but I could at least read her the headlines, talk about the outside world, maybe get her thinking about things other than the depressing day on hand.

I could see in her eyes that she was battling pain. But when I asked, just casually, if she wanted me to try and track down a nurse, see about getting a Tylenol or something, she glumly shook her head. Or bobbed the half she could, which made me wince, I hoped not obviously. It's just that I would forget sometimes, then suddenly remember, that half her body no longer moved. The poor woman.

The best I could do was offer a shawl against the slight chill in the room. This she agreed to, and I went to her small closet to rummage amongst her colorful things. "What about this," I offered, holding out a vivid green wrap. "I remember this from way back. It sets off your eyes."

Mags gave a tiny smile, and nodded her ascent. I draped the shawl around her, careful not to muss her hair, and she idly stroked the fringed end of it with her right hand. "I believe your mother had one of these too," she said. "Way back when. I wonder if it's been so long that it's come back into style."

"I think Mom's was some kind of plaid though," I said, smiling, glad to see her mind active. "This one's simpler. Kind of timeless."

"It is a pretty shade," she answered. "I put up curtains a bit like this, paler though, in my bedroom. I don't know if you've seen them."

I shook my head. But we were off. Mags spoke dreamily of her bedroom. Notwithstanding the two years that had passed, she could name every piece of furniture in it as though she had arisen there this morning. She talked about replacing her bed with one of these institutional ones, with the electronic device to raise her partway upright, and the careful railing. She'd have one of those fancy tubs put in the bathroom too, to accommodate a wheelchair.

She choose not to consider that her bedroom and bath were on the second floor of her small house. At least the house was still there, and her bedroom untouched. I had heard stories of people here at Hillside whose families had to sell their homes to afford the place, but kept it a secret from them.

Her son Curtis was living there now, out on the avenues. Or at least staying there on a regular basis – I was pretty sure he had a girlfriend these days and spent much of his time at her place. But the point was, any of us could make reference to the house and not have to lie about it.

The Henleys had bought the place, downsizing from their original suburban home, some 25 years ago at least. Back when the less fashionable but still perfectly nice and safe parts of San Francisco were reasonably affordable. To my knowledge it was paid off, so the taxes and upkeep expenses were low. Less than Curtis would pay in rent, no doubt.

I had heard Liza hint, in that under-the-surface way of hers, that she resented it – that her brother got to live so cheap in their mom's house while she and her husband paid so much more for their own similar sized place. They were owners, of course. Had chosen to buy down on the Peninsula with their two good sized incomes, concerned about schools when their kids were younger. Their house had appreciated hugely, no doubt. While Curtis wasn't settled like that. He traveled, sometimes months at a time, for his job, and himself took care of the upkeep that Liza would probably pay someone else to do. He would probably rather live closer to downtown, while she would hate to give up her Junior League lifestyle in the burbs.

I tuned back in to Mags, paying enough attention to put in appropriate comments where needed. Their family dynamics, happily, not my problem. Another reason, I presumed, that Mags would have these conversations with me and not with them.

After awhile, I became aware of clattering in the hall. Fast moving young workers were shoving carts laden with trays around, getting set up for dinner. They started delivering to the most bed-ridden quite early. But the sound was also my cue, that it would be rush hour before too long, and I should get in my car and do whatever final errands I had soon. Get home in time to put my house in order, something Mags understood and approved of.

Mags let her voice fade out, eyeing the hallway. "I shouldn't keep you, dear. I hope I haven't been nattering about my decor for too long."

"Not at all," I answered. "I just wish I had your sense of design. But I should get going. Groceries and dinner and all."

Her face suddenly lit up as though from a switch, and I turned to see Curtis in the doorway. "Clarissa!" he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around me in a quick bear hug. "Hey, Mom," he continued, bending over to hug her as much as her mobility would allow.

I stood near the doorway, smiling. I was far enough away from my mom's passing to drink in this happy scene without the envious pain it once would have blasted through me. Curtis was like a friendly bear – big and a little clumsy, but always well meaning. Genuine and hugable, a straight shooter who had said what was on his mind since we were children.

"You look like you're on your way out, but take a look a these pictures I brought for Mom," he said, rooting around in the large bag he had slung over his shoulder.

Mags pulled herself forward to watch. Curtis, just from his size and energy, made the room seem to shrink around him. But in a good way – I could see how focusing on her son made Mags lose track of the bothersome sensations she had been battling.

He held out several glossy prints, actual photographs, of a wild looking landscape, moon-like and misty. "That's Hawaii," he said. "Volcanoes. They've closed off a big part of the caldera, but we've been down their monitoring. You've been to the Big Island, right?" he asked me.

"Awhile ago. But this doesn't look familiar."

Curtis shook his head. "It wouldn't have looked like this – this is gas from fresh eruptions. We had to carry oxygen tanks in our van. Don't worry, Mom, we didn't have to use them," he added. "But the air was something their. Sulfuric, yellowish." He flipped eagerly to another picture. "They were picking stuff up daily on the seismographs."

Mags motioned him to bring the pictures into her line of vision. To her credit, she did not even blink at the idea of him driving around an active volcano with an oxygen tank. Curtis was a professional geologist, happiest when out in the field taking measurements of something volatile.

"How long were you there?" I asked.

"Almost a month. See?" He held out his arm, which was tanned a rich bronze. "It was great, although the air was pretty bad. Fortunately we kept finding reasons to go to the beaches away from the worst of it."

"Is the house okay?" Mags asked, her voice casual though her pursed lower lip showed her tension.

Curtis set down the photos and pulled another chair up to be at her eye level. "It's fine, Mom. I just came from there. And Liza was by to water the plants a couple times, and I email with the Wangs across the street."

"Mrs. Wang would have let Liza know if anything was going on," I added in reassurance. "And she was just here a couple days ago, right?"

Mags conceded that much. "We did discuss her remodeling for awhile. I'm sure she would have said something on the topic of houses."

Liza would have made a point of it if she had been called upon to take care of some minor problem in Curtis's absence, I thought. Just as their neighbor Mrs. Wang would be sure to inform everyone of the most trivial neighborhood events.

Funny, they had not been terribly good friends back when Mags lived there. She thought Mrs. Wang spent too much time at her upstairs bedroom window, monitoring the activities of the neighborhood. Mrs. Wang had been offended by the frequent comings and goings of the Henley's guests, often too late at night, in her opinion. But after a couple decades, they were compatriots by default. And we were all relieved to have such a reliable neighbor keeping an eye on the place. I wished Doug and I had someone so tuned into our street's activities.

Curtis grinned up at me. He looked on the verge of making some comment about Liza's remodeling, something to goad me. He and I had commiserated on a few occasions about people who spent money on replacing perfectly good things with slightly different brand new things. As opposed to supporting good causes (me) or investing in green-friendly items or eco-travel (him).

But I knew better than to take the bait with Mags sitting there, eager for his attention and sensitive to slights toward either of her kids. I returned his look, an eyebrow slightly raised, daring him to say a thing.

"Darn it, I missed 'Afternoons with Austen' again, didn't I," he said mockingly instead.

"Actually you didn't. We'd love to see you next week. Maybe you'd like to be the voice of Mr. Knightly."

Mags tittered aloud at this, a delightful sound. I said my goodbyes again, and left the two of them, hurrying down the hall and out to my car. But even as I felt the usual sensation of haste, pleased to be moving fast again, on my own at a good clip, I felt my emotions swell a little bit. For all our teasing, I was very fond of Curtis. He was the best Mags could ask for in a son, and it made me happy to know he was there with her.

## Chapter 4

I made my way downtown the following Wednesday, after a hasty early dinner. I'd been prepared to go a couple rounds with Doug when he got wind of where I was headed. But he was preoccupied – he'd brought home a stack of case files to review, and barely nodded when I said I had a New College sponsored talk to attend. Probably he was relieved to have the place to himself; I think he felt bad when he had to work in the evenings and tune me out while I moved around quietly, trying to stay out of his way.

Early evening meant the streetcar was pleasantly uncrowded. I eyed my fellow riders over the edge of my newspaper, wondering idly if any of them were headed to the same event. A herd of loud young men boarded at Van Ness, and loomed over the seated passengers, all talking in a profane laden rush and shoving at each other.

No one said anything, some people didn't even looked up. One woman frowned and tucked her bag close under her arm. But I could tell at a glance that these were harmless kids. Though I wondered, suddenly, just what made me think that so quickly and without doubt. Were subconscious forces at work? I doubted it very much, and turned back to my paper, lest I be tempted to start dialing the psychic hotline with my newfound skills. I was just glad that Sam was beyond that age of public obnoxiousness.

Downtown, I quickly found the place. It was in a rundown looking building at the cusp of where new redevelopment met the seedier environs of the bus station. I had managed to be early, so I walked purposefully around the block.

Approaching a second time, I could see several people gathered inside and a couple more lined up by a paper sign in sheet. I joined them, attempting what I hoped was a nonchalant expression. I debated for a moment whether to put my real name. Feeling silly, I hedged my bets with sloppy handwriting. They wanted an email too, and I put down the yahoo one I used for public type transactions.

A young woman beside me smiled as I handed her the pen. "Fake email?" she asked.

"I thought about it," I acknowledged sheepishly.

"I haven't been to one of these before," she said. "But my friend has, and she said they just send you announcements once in awhile. New College stuff."

"I'm new to these events as well," I told her while she scribbled down her information, glancing around the room to see that no one – so far anyway – was dressed up in fortune teller type gear.

"Well, good, then I'm not the only one," she said. "My name's Kylie."

"Clarissa," I said.

"Ooh, pretty," she exclaimed. "Did your mom like Virginia Woolf?"

I smiled that she would get to that right away. "I think so. Oddly enough she wouldn't say so directly. But I think she had the idea of giving her child a name that represented someone completely different from herself."

Kylie tilted her head slightly. "And?"

"Didn't work. I'm turning out to be more like her year after year, I'm afraid." Except for the part about ESP, I cynically amended to myself. I walked with Kylie into the meeting room, and we seated ourselves on bright plastic chairs about half way toward the front. Other knots of people were sitting, chatting, and I was relieved not to be self-consciously alone. No one looked out of the ordinary, paranormal-wise, though several were demonstratively friendly.

"Does she tell you how you shouldn't make the same mistakes she did? My mom does that a lot." Kylie shrugged off her light jacket and fluffed out her hair, which was a warm chestnut brown and wavy.

"Oh, she's been gone for some years now," I answered gently. "These are just things I notice, little habits that I recognize. Although she tended to keep those sort of judgements to herself, that I recall."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kylie whispered, dark eyes wide and locked to mine.

"That's okay." I smiled to indicate this was all far behind me. But even as I did, an image of Yvette came to my mind, and I wondered if my eyes could fool her. There was, after all, a tiny part of me that missed my mother every time the word was casually mentioned.

Kylie looked young, in her early 30s probably – in other words, not of an age where dead parents were the norm. She dressed young too, and she was slender without the appearance of caring about it. But something in those wide eyes was intriguing. She seemed to drink in everything around her, as if she could draw something interesting from each person in the room.

The murmurs around the room hushed suddenly, as a trio of energetic young men seated themselves at the table up front. I watched people find chairs, some taking out laptop computers, others pulling out their ear buds. Was I the only one in the room not prepared to take notes like an erstwhile student? A woman seated a couple rows in front of me was even holding one of those little video recording devices.

One of the men passed around handouts, as another introduced himself and spoke about the lecture series. I glanced down at the papers, glad to have something in my hand but hoping this wouldn't be one of those PowerPoint things where they give you the whole text and then read it to you. Next to me, Kylie produced a stubby pencil from her backpack and started doodling little sketches of the speakers.

The first fellow sat, smiling when introduced, but otherwise scanning the room with intelligent looking eyes. He gave a nod here and there, and I again had the impression that I was sitting with a sort of extended family, people both long acquainted and a little impatient with each other.

One of the nod-ees ducked into a seat just in front of Kylie, whipped open a teensy notebook computer and began tapping furiously. He cast his eyes around the room for a moment. His gaze was hard, probing, although perhaps a little inappropriate for the setting, I thought. Maybe he was having a vision or reading our thoughts, my sarcastic inner voice murmured. I hushed it and turned my eyes to the front.

The guest speaker looked young to have the number of degrees he apparently had, and not geeky enough to be an expert in brain chemistry. But when he spoke, beginning with a rather dull blow by blow analysis of the details of each nanosecond of the brain's thought processes, I believed it.

I had a rudimentary understanding of all this. I had picked up a fair amount of medical knowledge just by osmosis, working where I did. There were neurons, each with 1,000 synapses to other cells, information passing from the axon of the presynaptic neuron to the dendrites of the postsynaptic neuron. Recent discoveries pointed to the importance of glial cells, once thought to be just background matter. Regions of the brain controlled this and than function, the left and right sides and their different focus areas. Injured regions could be rerouted.

Here, I tuned out a bit. Wished I didn't have such familiarity with left and right capacities and the struggles to regain function. I skimmed the handout. The illustration of brain regions was detailed, and quite interesting. The last page had a list of news articles about paranormal instances. It looked interesting too, although quite a bit less factual.

I glanced at over at Kylie. She had underlined a few key words on the pages, in addition to her little charactures. Now she sat flicking the pencil as she concentrated on the speakers words. Waiting, a bit impatiently, I guessed, for the paranormal stuff. Other people in the room were following along with varying degrees of intensity.

But they all seemed to snap to attention when the speaker drew our attention to the page in the handout with the news articles. A little charge went around the room – and I'm not suggesting I was visited with any sort of other worldly perception here; a five year old child would have noticed it.

"For all the certain knowledge we've developed about the chemistry of brain function, the things people think and perceive are much less easily measured," the speaker continued. "Each of the stories summarized here was reported by a reputable source, and has some basis in fact." He paused, gazing around the room, taking in the rapt expressions.

"But what to make of them. A person can say what they believe has happened. A chain of events can occur with some of the pieces seemingly out of place. But it's another thing entirely to imply that this proves precognition, as previously defined.

"One of the most commonly reported circumstances involves mothers sensing that something has happened to their children. The first article referenced here reaches back to the Civil War. The local reporter there in," he squinted at his notes, "Cumberland, Maryland obviously believed that the mother of the dead native son 'fell ill with grief' before the news of his death reached her.

"But who's to say whether this poor woman was taking to her bed regularly from the stress of both her sons being at war? And that this particular instance just happened to occur the afternoon he reached her with the news?"

He continued in that vein for a bit. I could see people around me expressing their own silent skepticism. They had come for the stories of the paranormal, not the debunking of them. I recalled Della's story about her brother, and her fainting at the same time as her mother did. How would he explain that one. Or had it just been a minor thing that had taken root and grown disproportionately in Della's own memory?

He then spoke about instances of so called mind reading, offering an interesting, if rather dense, overview of the way people learn to read facial expressions and even the ability some have to subconsciously pick up on things like breathing patterns and variations in skin tone. In essence, he was saying, certain abilities exist in all of us, and those who are particularly perceptive to start with might learn to hone their abilities. It wasn't that little thought bubbles pop up above the other person's head, it was more that a sensitive person could develop the ability to interpret tiny nuances in the face combined with physical manifestations of emotion. He delved into how sociopaths can sometimes fool lie detectors, and the implications of their chemical misalignment in normal people's reading of their emotions.

The readings of auras, as summarized in three different articles, he pretty much glossed over. Yes, a machine might pick up certain bio-chemical emanations from a human body (or from other living bodies, for that matter), and these might spike or recede. Technologic means could assign color or shape to these impulses, and the images might give the appearance of melting toward each other in proximity. I could hear murmurs, see nods. Even I was vaguely familiar with such photos, of silhouettes of couples kissing, bathed in vibrant yellow halos that flared up from the point of contact. But he pretty much dismissed the phenomena as lacking any sort of meaning. Any life form would react in similar ways, in close proximity to another.

I wondered if a mini riot would occur at this observation, but the audience remained quiet. Polite and attentive, as we had been asked to be from the start. The speaker wrapped up. Hedging his bets, he allowed that nothing was certain and that new scientific revelations happened all the time. The host turned, clapping and nodding for the audience to clap, which we did, albeit tepidly.

About half the audience zipped their hands up with questions. But instead, the host asked that we form groups of five or six, preferably with strangers, to go around and share one question and one observation each. One to be chosen by the group to share.

It sounded juvenile. I thought about Sam's school years, the endless time he spent learning in "teams," the careful way each child was required to both talk and listen. How everybody got recognition or a prize of some sort, for even the tiniest accomplishment. Keith and I had been united in our annoyance for a good part of that world, I recalled, both of us wishing to instill in Sam that not everybody wins as well as the value of genuine achievements.

So I just sat there as Kylie gathered a group around us, drawing in the intense man in front of us and a pair of young women sitting farther along his row.

"I can go first," Kylie said. "I came here with one main question in mind – whether I'm the only one who gets so affected by other people's, I don't know, moods, emotions. All my life people said I'm too sensitive. But sometimes I feel like I can pick up on what somebody else feels and it affects me. It's not something I'm trying to do or be..." she trailed off. "I'm talking too much. But I guess that's my question and observation both."

One of the young women nudged the other, and she spoke up softly, in that questioning tone of young people. "I'm, like, basically interested to know whether physic readings are all that accurate? Or maybe why they are? Because I went to this one in particular and she totally knew what I was talking about."

"She really helped," the other woman said. "I went to her too, and it was pretty amazing. I don't necessarily want to spend the money, but if it'll help me make the best decisions?" she trailed off and they nodded at each other.

"So you're wondering if it's worth the investment?" Kylie prompted. When they nodded, she turned to me.

I swallowed. I wasn't ready to share the history of my dream voices with all these people. But I said simply, "Both I and a friend I know who can't be here have experienced unusual dreams or awareness, that could possibly be considered clairvoyant. I guess I'm looking for a scientific explanation more than anything."

Kylie nodded at me as if I'd confirmed her expectations. Which ones, I wondered, that I had so-called inknowing, or that I was cynical and disbelieving?

The fifth in our team spoke up. "My name is Daniel. Actually, I'm doing research for an investigative piece about people's possible extrasensory abilities. So I don't have much in the way of personal experience. But I'm very interested in hearing about those of others. I guess my question is the opposite of yours," he added, nodding at me. "I'm curious about the degree to which such phenomena reach beyond standard scientific explanations."

I imagine even the non-perceptive could read annoyance in my expression. Great, I'd just confessed the most bizarre thing about myself to a reporter. Daniel hastened to add that he planned an in-depth set of research, he didn't even have a publisher yet, and would never quote someone without permission.

When the room reconvened, Kylie, our little group's leader, summarized my and Daniel's question about whether there really were logical science based explanations for ESP, etc. I guess she'd already concluded that she was not alone.

But the hour was nearly up. None of the questions, most a variety of ours, seeking explanations for things unusual, were really answered. It was more a repetition of here's what we know, but we can't necessarily explain what individuals say they perceive.

I guessed that was an answer in itself, though. I came looking for a simple explanation for what had happened to me, but that was not to be.

As I gathered my jacket and bag, though, it struck me that I felt something unexpected. A tickle of relief maybe, blended in there with the annoyance of unanswered questions. All those websites were right, I thought. We all do want to think we have special abilities.

Kylie was blocking my pathway out, standing with her phone out. Daniel the reporter had his out too, and they were exchanging information. Sweet, I thought, though he was way too old for her. But he surprised me by apologizing again for not letting on about his research right away and asking if I would consider meeting him, maybe for lunch. Just to hear more about the experiences, for background, for his own better understanding, nothing more.

Kylie gazed back at me for a moment while I hedged, just as I had signing in. "She'd be willing," she told him, "if it's all three of us. I'll take your emails, and set it up. She doesn't want to give out her number."

I nodded, amused that young Kylie, with whom I'd been acquainted for just over an hour, gave such an accurate summary of my state of mind. Sensitive indeed. Except that a fair portion of me didn't want to pursue this any further at all. But that didn't seem to be an option. I wrote down my email on Kylie's handout; Daniel texted her. He seemed harmless enough, I thought, watching him earnestly observing the room. He said nothing to the ditzy young women from our group, so he wasn't just hitting on young women. Perhaps he was a regular on the psychic circuit, and we were the new recruits.

"You know each other pretty well?" Daniel asked.

"Me and Kylie? We just met," I told him.

He smiled, eyebrows raised a bit.

"But I do that," Kylie said. "That's what I meant. I don't know Clarissa, but I had a good idea of her reactions anyway. It's not that weird, is it?"

"I know you're not the only one," Daniel assured her. "But it is an interesting ability. Interesting to me to observe."

We said goodbye and I edged out the door, tired of people and despite my earlier intentions, not up for further networking. Kylie was clearly perceptive about people. It didn't seem remarkable that she would understand my hesitancy in agreeing to lunch and giving out my phone number. She had seen me checking in, she probably knew other middle-aged women. Yet she spoke as if it clarity had come immediately, that such understanding was easy and familiar. Maybe it was just all a continuum. Just as my occasional sense of knowing something too soon might be.

Doug was hard at work when I got home, tired but also a bit buzzy from having been out at night. Being around a large group like that tended to make me a little jittery. I knew already that despite my yawns, I'd have trouble sleeping.

"I'm just about done," he said, apologetically. I don't know if he was apologizing to me or to himself, though – these were hours he wouldn't be billing, extra work he had to do these days just to keep up. "How was your, um, evening?"

It was pretty obvious he had forgotten where I'd gone. "Interesting," I said lightly. "Glad I went." I went into the kitchen while he turned back to his work. I didn't want to disturb him.

But as I moved around, finishing clean up from our dinner, I wondered if I wasn't relieved by his disinterest. Where once I would have been eager to share what happened with him (or earlier, with Keith), now it seemed easier all around not to share something so personal.

Another continuum, I thought. As a tiny child, nothing I did seemed even real until I had told my mother about it. By my teen years, I had switched allegiances to my friends, but the dynamic was the same: to fully have an experience, I needed to talk the whole thing out. This was modeling my mom's behavior, it occurred to me. She and her endless conversations, earlier with her sister and later with Mags.

My parent's move from New Jersey to California was the biggest shake up of their lives. Well, of the part of it that I shared with them. I had been too young to see it as more than a vague adventure, but for unassuming, unadventurous people like themselves, it must have been an earth shattering event.

They did it for my father's job. Back in the 60s and 70s, the Bay Area was just becoming a center for the innovation and technological advances that would grow into Silicon Valley. My father's work was not directly related, but he was a manager in the production side of things, and he was drawn out for the chance to earn more money as much as anything. Living in California – which to me, looking back, was by far the better benefit – was secondary to them.

Anyway, we had come here, and settled in Pleasanton, back then a remote and safe seeming suburb. I had entered school, a bookish, but to my peers somewhat exotic girl from the east, and just by virtue of being new made a few fellow bookish friends. But my mom had floundered. We didn't call it depressed back then, but I'm sure she had been. Not able to process her own difficulties in adjusting away from her friends and family back east.

It was Mags who drew her out. Just by luck of the Henleys having moved to the same town, by the two of them meeting at some school function, then again at the grocery store. Ever after, I would see my mom on the phone with her, or often our families together, the kids having lemonade while the adults drank mixed drinks with odd sounding names, Mr. Henley wearing his wild barbecue apron and standing at the backyard grill. Always, the two ladies side by side, laughing as they shared the little details of their lives.

And so I had confided in my friends, and later my lovers. Keith, before and after our wedding. And yet, as we had matured, as my time got further divvied between working and raising Sam and those quick get togethers I'd have with similarly busy women friends – it got so all the sharing became less important. As if I could guess their reactions and supportive praise in my head and needn't bother having the actual conversations.

When I had my miscarriage, only Keith knew. It had happened fairly early on, and fortunately we hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy yet, though we were close to announcing it. But that experience had been real enough, breathtakingly real, without needing to discuss it or dwell on it. I might have talked it over with my mother, except that it happened only a few months after Dad had died. She had enough on her hands coping with her new life as a widow, trying to live independently, seeking a job at age 60.

Huh, no premonition dreams on that one, it occurred to me. Just awakening in startling pain, cramped and feeling liquid gush as I ran to the toilet. Understanding what had happened even as Keith hovered outside the door, calling in suggestions and offering to drive me to the hospital.

But I was losing track of my train of thought, and I shivered briefly, not wanting to recount that unpleasantness any further. The point was why I didn't feel the need to talk over any of the evening's events with Doug. I returned to the living room and we sat, as usual, our conversation intermittent and mild. I had kept a good deal to myself during our years together, to no ill effect to our relationship. We had interesting conversations, certainly, just not so many of the sort that I once had imagined having with a death-do-us-part mate.

I had at least told Doug about the miscarriage early on. But only in the context of an early date, exchanging stories. His divorce and two daughters, my divorce and one of the reasons we had stopped with just one child. Nothing about the jab I used to feel every January 28, remembering that morning.

Of course Doug himself was not the most receptive audience to such confidences and confessions. Look how he had reacted to me trying to explain the dream thing. I glanced over at him, sitting innocently, shrugging his shoulders out after an evening's work and catching up on the sports page.

He was a good man, a good husband in the ways that count. When I needed him, he was there, and he had at least learned to say the right, supportive things when the occasion called for it. (Another area where his first wife had painstakingly guided him.) But he also had a way of indicating his tolerance level, or his lack of interest in pursuing certain things. Especially where emotions or human frailties were concerned.

In his work, he could be bitter and cynical about the foibles of everyday people who ran afoul of the law. He had complimented me, back when we were dating, on my lack of clingyness, as he called it, on being low maintenance. And Heather had more than once complained about him not listening, not appreciating her spiritual side. Both girls, really, sometimes seemed ever longing for a bigger piece of their father's heart.

But maybe I did need someone to talk to, it occurred to me. About the lecture, the people I had spoken to, the whole experience. It just wasn't Doug. A mental image of Della appeared, talking about her husband, now dead. She had sought confirmation of her odd ability elsewhere. She told me she regretted not pursuing it further – she had kept it mostly buried and then lost her ability. Maybe I owed it to her, if not myself, to take this thing a few more steps, not brush it back away from my conscious mind, as I had those other times.

I would explore the whole thing further with Della. I would go that lunch with the reporter and my young acquaintance Kylie – I would make a point of it and not find excuses to put the meeting off, as had occurred to me even while we were discussing it. And they knew other people. Maybe together we had a little network. No Ouija boards, I promised myself. But one day soon, another conversation where I could describe an unusual premonition, and the other person would get it, would have had them too.

## Chapter 5

Despite my good intentions, I might have let the whole thing drop. As the week went by, then another, my well worn path of daily routines steered me comfortably complacent. Yvette was gone, and my dream from that night was just a fuzzy memory, or more the memory of a memory. With work and home life, and the need to rest my middle aged eyes and ears and tired shoulders from any added strain, it was easy enough to let those troubling recollections of inner awareness and dream voices slide away.

But my new acquaintances, the dynamic duo of Kylie and Daniel, propelled me onward. They, plus my old school inability to just ignore a polite and personalized email message. Plus Della, who mostly kept her thoughts to herself when I visited with her and Mags. But whose eyes lingered on me, intelligent and probing. As I wrapped up my Jane Austen reading that next week, it felt almost as if she was tugging on me, even from several feet away.

So in fact there were multiple forces at work, as I made my way onto the street car toward Church Street and our eventual little psychic follow up meeting. Kylie had determined this a good middle ground between my job at the university campus and her office downtown. Daniel turned out to live not far from there, which worked out well, as he freelanced from home and preferred not to drive. (Although he did offer to go wherever it would work; he did seem determined to quiz each of us further.)

She had picked the café too, a pleasant little breakfasty sort of place with lots of tables and a casual attitude about people camping out there for awhile. Stepping inside, I wondered if I would remember what she looked like. But I saw her in a glance from the doorway – that heart shaped face and delicate features framed with all the dark hair were instantly recognizable.

Kylie greeted me warmly. Again, I had the comfortable sense from her of someone who knew, or understood me. Who wouldn't judge. Despite her years, she seemed grounded. As we placed our orders, I noticed how she focussed just on what was in front of her – the menu, the young man behind the counter, the array of condiments available. Unlike so many people, she was not fiddling with a phone or an ipod, not leaping rapidly from topic to topic in a flurry of needless conversation.

Daniel joined us, arriving breathless as though he had run all the way. He thanked us profusely for agreeing to see him. Him, I knew I'd recognize. He wasn't conventionally good looking – too rough maybe, his expression a bit weary, deep lines around his mouth drawing it downward – but he had an intelligence about him that I liked. He looked fit, as though maybe he did manual labor aside from his writing.

We sat. Daniel took his netbook out of his worn canvas bag and set it carefully on the table. "I hope it's okay with you if I jot down some notes," he said, acknowledging both of us but mostly looking at me. "You probably don't want to be recorded."

"Some notes are fine," I answered, "as long as you're not naming names. I'm just some anonymous person you met at a psychic lecture."

Both of them grinned at that, though I hadn't meant it to be funny.

"I don't particularly want my name used either," Kylie said. "But I'm happy to answer your questions."

Daniel nodded, fiddling for a moment with his device. "Makes me think you're both genuine right there. A lot of people can't wait to see their name in print. Or to push their talent upon me, ready or not."

"I've met some people like that," Kylie said. "At other meetings I've been to, like back when I was in college. It kind of made me back off the whole thing."

"You've looked into this before?" Daniel asked quietly. "Explored your special abilities?"

"To be honest, it didn't occur to me I was different when I was growing up," she said. "I just thought other people were awfully rude sometimes. Because I figured it wasn't that hard to read people, or whatever it is I was doing, getting what they were feeling. I figured everybody did it, pretty much."

"So when did you start to think you were different?" Daniel wasn't taking notes, just sitting, pleasantly interested but casual.

He had a skill himself, I thought. He knew where he was going with his questioning, but was very calm and reassuring about it. It wasn't like an interview, but like the sort of chat you'd have in a dorm room or over coffee with friends.

I tuned back into Kylie, who was explaining how she had been teased in middle school, and how she had grown to just keep her mouth shut a lot, and not risk further ridicule. But then she had confided in a couple friends, and started to get that her easy sense of people was a unusual. As she had gotten older, she had loosened up more, and just accepted herself as she was; people around her could choose to be amused or offended or spooked by things she perceived.

She used that word a lot, perceived. She emphasized it, making it pretty clear that she wasn't claiming so much a special ability, but just enumerating her own perceptions. It did sound a bit like what that lecturer had said, I thought. About some people having a talent for reading expressions and minor shifts in peoples' pulses or coloration and so on.

"What does it feel like, I guess I'd want to know," Daniel said, after a pause. "How much are you aware of those nuances that might tip you off to other people's emotions?"

Kylie didn't answer right away, but tilted her head thoughtfully. Watching her, I had a sense that she had an answer all right, but felt hesitant to share it. And then I wondered, was I having some sort of hyper perception too?

"I've learned to pay attention," she finally said. "Sometimes I do just blend whatever I'm perceiving into the conversation. But if it's like a good friend, or somebody at work and I don't want to annoy them, I try to notice – and then differentiate – what's actually been spoken versus what's just in my head."

Daniel nodded. He kept his eyes on her, but tapped hastily on his keyboard.

"You know day to day, it's no big deal, not something I think much about," Kylie continued. "But when I'm in a strange place, or around a crowd, I start feeling a little, I don't know, bombarded. I hate airports – it's like I can feel everybody's tension all around me. And when I'm talking to somebody who's really in pain, I mean going through something that's emotionally painful, I feel myself taking it on. I get headaches sometimes. I can't tell if they're from other people's pain or from trying to block it out."

"A lot of people I've talked to mentioned headaches," Daniel murmured.

"Yeah, well, a lot of people get headaches, whatever. But I get a particular kind... It's part of the whole thing of being called sensitive, and that's not always meant in a good way. But even a simple thing, like a disagreement between a couple that I'm out with where one of them gets upset – the kind of thing where most people might be a little annoyed with the other person or something – well, I'll get this bad feeling, this pressure in my head," she rubbed her temples lightly, "and it'll stay with me, like I'm the one who's emotionally hurt. When I'm not, when anyone else will have forgotten the whole thing."

The fellow from the counter brought over our food, setting it down discretely but looking a bit interested. We were the most animated group in the place, I realized. Other people were sitting alone or in quiet pairs.

Kylie smiled uncomfortably. "Sorry," she said, voice lowered. "Then I get inappropriately emotionally invested. Then I have to spend time alone to get my equilibrium back."

"That sounds tough," Daniel said. There was sympathy in his voice, but I could see he was also just filling in, he was trying to jot down the essence of her words.

Even a voice recording wouldn't really capture it, I thought. The expressions on her face as her gentle voice went from cheerful to laced with anguish and back in a few seconds.

"I've been doing Yoga," Kylie continued, her eyes gentle again and her smooth skin looking formless, unlined. "And I kind of make a point to avoid places where I'm going to encounter a lot of major tension."

I wondered if part of her problem was just being young. Not to deny that she had an unusual degree of sensitivity or perception or what have you – but it partly sounded like she just lacked some life experience. I could remember being more affected by other people's dramas. After awhile, you get to a point where you've seen it all and then some. A lover's argument becomes mere trivia in the face of seeing a loved one ill and dying.

Daniel ate his sandwich sporadically, as if eating were just a prop in our own little drama. I'd ordered a salad, thinking about cholesterol, but it was awkward to eat. Kylie hardly touched her egg dish while she talked, so focused on making herself clear and understandable. But she firmly picked up her fork, as if hunger had suddenly reared, and Daniel turned comfortably to me.

I told them both my what I thought of as my summary story. How I had heard the dream voice and then known my mom would tell me about Grandma. The strange dream of having radiation sickness then hearing about Chernobyl. Knowing why my mom was calling when she phoned about my dad's death. And that certain quality, as Della had phrased it, that distinctive and recognizable thing that made me take notice of certain images and sounds in my dreams. The bell clear voice that had spoken more than once, seeming so close to my ear, so calm and reassuring, loving almost, yet always bearing somber news.

The pair of them hung on my words in a flattering way. I found myself actually wanting to tell them more, where I generally tended to frown upon such sharing.

"It's really not the same thing at all," Daniel said, as I paused, regrouping the thoughts that were spinning out in several directions.

Kylie laughed. "If you're researching the paranormal, you must know there's not like only one phenomenon."

"Oh yeah, I got that," he nodded. "I just meant you two, what you might have in common. I mean, have you had precognicent dreams?" he asked Kylie.

"I don't remember a lot of my dreams," she answered slowly. "That's one of those weird things from childhood too though. I mean when I was really little, dream images really freaked me out, and I think I got in the habit of comforting myself by blocking them."

"You can consciously block recalling your dreams?" he asked, his surprised tone indicating this was not one of the standard queries.

I was interested in this as well. Not a skill I necessarily wanted to pick up – but it might have saved me some frightening mornings now and then.

But Kylie wasn't able to articulate very well how she managed this. It seemed like explaining how you see or hear, I thought, or even walk. Things you just do, not stopping to think about them. And if you did start thinking about it, each little step and what series of body parts were used, you'd surely stumble.

I was not able to explain the workings of my mind, conscious or unconscious, either. I didn't see how Daniel would be able to get much out of our telling him about our experiences. His article would end up either a sensationalist series of disconnected oddities experienced by random people, or a dense description of the inner workings of the human brain. It was hard to see how he'd work it all in.

But he was undeterred when I said as much. "This is all background," he said, a hand cupped possessively around his netbook. "I'll end up with hundreds of pages of just these notes. It'll be awhile before I sit down and sort it all out. Eventually patterns do emerge." His eyes were lit up, his somewhat dour expression transformed by a smile. "I've done this before. Different subject matter, I mean. But thorough research. It's kind of a dying art, you know?"

We both nodded, although I wondered if Kylie could really remember the newspapers of old, when it was normal for a news entity to assign someone to spend months writing an in-depth piece, when multi-part, many page articles were normal. When people would read them all the way through and not get distracted by photos and hyperlinks and snarky comments.

We chatted for a bit more. Kylie and I each recalled a few more instances of our supposed special abilities, but these were less dramatic. Things you'd write off, if not for the prior experiences.

Both of us needed to get back to work. She was polite about it, but I could see tension creep into her posture as she glanced at her phone for the time. I had more leeway, being part time. A long lunch could easily be covered with an extra hour elsewhere, and my work wasn't terribly interdependent on my co-workers. Or where it was, it was in the ether of email and shared documents, not being together in a room.

Daniel thanked us both again. He was funny. His words didn't seem like his, as if he had taken a Managing Gen Y class about the need for praise and recognition, or perhaps been trained by a needy woman in his life. Yet the repressed enthusiasm behind his words was utterly sincere.

He offered to email us a summary of what he had gleaned, and hoped we would find time to review it and let him know where he was at all off base. I handed him my card, which he accepted with a nod and half hidden smile. His little victory, I thought – he had proven himself trustworthy.

Kylie and I both headed to the Church Street station. I told her that I had found her experiences interesting. She said so too, and thanked me for being willing to talk about the whole thing.

We turned toward the escalator and descended into the station. I could hear a train rumbling in the distance. We were headed opposite directions, so one of us would need to dash down to catch it. I wondered if I would see her again, or maybe just catch a glimpse of her one day on the streetcar.

As if reading my mind, she said she had to hurry, but asked if we could maybe have lunch again sometime soon. Her eyes met mine for a moment, appealing in that play of shyness and eagerness and emerging self-confidence.

I told her I would like that very much. She said she would call, and then ran along ahead, through the gate and down to the inbound side as a car pulled into the station. I could hear mine coming too, and I made my way downstairs. I meant it, I thought. I would like to talk to her again. She was a person who didn't like small talk any more than I did, who was bright and open minded, with whom I could talk about a world of things different than most all of my other friends and family members

That night at home, I told Doug about the lunch. I waited until midway through dinner, after the distractions of cooking and flipping through bills and before he might hurry away to get involved in one of his elaborate online sports games. I watched him sitting there determinedly spinning his pasta around his fork, as though on hidden camera for a show about eating and appreciating Italian food.

It was tasty; he had made lots of this complicated marina sauce when the farmer's market tomatoes were at their best, and we'd frozen batches of it. So far, food was all we had talked about since he got home, I realized. What he'd had for lunch, had the cat been fed, and the delicious dinner.

"About my lunch," I said, my tone carefully neutral. "I met up with a couple people I met at that lecture a few weeks ago. A sweet young woman, her name is Kylie, and a man who's a freelance reporter. Daniel. He's doing an article on paranormal phenomena."

Doug's expression altered a couple of times, from puzzled to annoyed, before settling on skeptical. "I must not have caught all this," he said. "You met with a reporter? About what, exactly?"

"I think I told you about this," I replied. "When Yvette died, the dream I had. And others before that. I went to that lecture to learn more, and also to see if other people have had these things happen. I've been trying to find a reasonable explanation." I realized I had not even mentioned the whole thing about Della, but that didn't seem so relevant. I mean, my experiences were enough to warrant investigation.

He waved the hand not holding his fork, a dismissive and belittling gesture. "I thought we established that the explanation is that you had some dreams," he said. "Not sure why the media was alerted. Seriously, you found a reporter?"

"He found me. I'm trying to understand why these things happened. They were not normal dreams. Doug, there was a room full of people who think there's more going on that random neurons. I'm as cynical as the next person about this sort of thing, but no one could give a simple scientific explanation."

"Well, of course not, at a lecture on the subject. Come on, Clarissa, don't you think you're carrying this a bit far? Who is this reporter?"

He was fixated on the reporter part. I told him what I knew about Daniel; I'd googled him and found his by-line in several smaller papers and journals. Supposedly he had regular columns too, that paid the rent, but his main interest were the in-depth articles he had mentioned to Kylie and me. Doug seemed not to care at all about her. Was this just about the news thing, it occurred to me, or was he somehow jealous?

I watched him carefully as he reacted to my explanation. He was impatient with me, the same way he could be with anyone he disagreed with. And he didn't want for us to argue – it was almost time for the game to start, the one on TV, and he was looking forward to losing himself in watching that, thinking about the stats of the players and recalling games from years gone by. My mention of Daniel had raised flags not from jealously, but from potential embarrassment. I'd kept my name when we married, but even so, people could link us. That was his angle.

We finished eating amicably. I told him I'd clean up since he'd gotten everything ready, and he settled contentedly in the living room in front of the TV. I moved slowly in the kitchen, still recalling the conversation from lunch as well as Doug's reactions about it. Well, I'd wanted to let him know about this thing that was important to me, and I had. It's not like I had expected him to suddenly see the world anew, or turn into one of those super sensitive guys who want to hear all about your feelings.

Warm water washed over my hands as I stood there rinsing out our wine glasses, the delicate fluted ones that he liked to use for red wine. Something struck me, as I reviewed in my head what Doug had said out loud. Or more, what he had not said, what I had simply concluded. I could tell the concern about Daniel was nothing personal by the way his shoulders had lowered when I said I insisted on being anonymous. I knew he didn't want to argue by the way his mouth had moved, how his lips had gone from a tight line to a slightly more pursed, neutral setting. His impatience had been standard, normal for him, and I knew it was a game on TV with a starting time rather than an online thing by – now I couldn't even remember what, but something had made that clear. The point was, all those things were unspoken but crystal clear.

Was I doing that "perceiving" interpreting that Kylie spoke of myself? But didn't everyone draw conclusions like this? I quelled the impulse to march into the living room and quiz Doug, see if he in fact owned the feelings that I had just assigned to him. Because I already knew – and this just had to do with us being married, I was sure, anyone would know this about a spouse – that he hated that sort of thing. It had happened now and then before. He did not like me discussing what either of us felt, and in fact was just as likely to clam up and disclaim any feelings at all if pressed about it.

Now a little highlights reel of our relationship spun in my head. The funny way we had met, both of us at a fundraiser in a downtown hotel and in a group chatting superficially about nothing, and then again both of us trying to sneak out, momentarily fearful we had been locked in a back corridor. That first comical whispered conversation, followed by a play acting casual walk to the proper exit and downstairs to for a drink together at the fancy bar across the street. How much I had learned from him during that first, what, hour together.

I had known that he was attracted to me, of course, though I hoped it was not based on the false premise of the goofiness and adventurousness I might have demonstrated that night. And later I could tell when it quote got serious. Really pinpoint it to the particular night, though we hadn't been doing anything unusual. I just knew, and I knew I had to make a decision too, how deeply to pursue it. When he invited me to meet his daughters the next time we spoke, I was expecting it, and had already chosen to commit myself to him. To us.

Sure, there had been disagreements, and yes, these sometimes had to do with me answering for him, or making assumptions, as he called it. Aside from their being accurate. Over the years, as I've said, I had come to keep more of my thoughts to myself. But certainly I could predict Doug's behavior to the point of not necessarily having to bother to check in with him.

These were normal things to understand about your partner. Years back, Keith used to accuse me of meddling or snooping, and I told him his ego was running away with him. We might have had a few arguments where he basically asked me to back off, saying he needed his space. Meaning he didn't like it when I guessed what he thought or predicted how he would behave. He was just so predictable, though.

Sam hadn't liked it either, but of course I understood him so clearly when he was a boy. What woman doesn't know her son, it goes with the territory. I had been more careful with him – he was just a child and he needed to be independent. I had deliberately turned away, I realized, to give him that independence. I had frequently closed my eyes to the signals he gave so easily sometimes, just to give him that privacy.

And Keith? It occurred to me now that I had indeed backed off, just as he had asked, probably around the time Sam entered grade school. I had gotten tired of knowing. I'd tuned him out on purpose, and focussed on other things in our busy lives. And thus, his attraction, his affair, had floored me. Maybe it had been a cautionary tale – with Doug, I had first of all made a point not to watch him too carefully from the start, but secondly kept a small radar up for the big items.

Though now I asked myself, was this something positive for our relationship, to prevent him from needing, as Keith had, to push me away? Or was I just scared to analyze, scared of what I would find in Doug if I did pay better attention.

It struck me too, just how much I was taking for granted about being able to read him if I so chose. I imagined having this conversation with Daniel, describing my relationships with the two men and the degree to which I understood their motivations. He had been so curious, asking Kylie about her perceptions, and she so inarticulate in describing it. But he had asked how it felt, as though this kind of basic ability was so strange. She spoke about being teased, damping it down and focussing on words rather than actions.

I had not been teased. But I was so different from her – as a child, I didn't have close friendships of the sort where my blurting out my friend's feelings would be an issue. I had lost myself in books, I had been shy and quiet, one of those kids who sits in back and turns in her assignments but gets docked for lack of participation.

The kitchen was clean, I realized, and I was just idly scrubbing the same discolored spots in the sink and staring out the window towards my own reflection in the dark glass. I joined Doug in the living room, ready to relax with the paper then a book.

"We're ahead," he announced, smiling openly, the whole conversation about Kylie and Daniel clearly gone from his conscious mind.

I nodded enthusiastically, as though this was the welcome news I had come in looking for. I purposely did not let my eyes linger on his face or his posture, and picked up the paper. This was normal for me, what I had trained myself to do, knowing he didn't like being watched and I wouldn't always like what I saw in watching him.

But my mind drifted again. I thought of my mother, the way she would peer at me and Dad sometimes, and wondered how she had perceived the world. Of course this was nothing we had ever talked about, though now how I wished we could. I missed her sharply for a moment, almost as if I had been shoved in the upper chest.

I tried to imagine the conversation we would have if she were still alive, but couldn't get very far. Here's the thing – she was pretty much a minimalist as far as discussing things related to bodies, minds or souls. Much of that sort of thing, pop psychology and so on, she deemed religious, and thus not to be spoken of. Nor should one in polite company mention health or bodily matters, beyond an exchange of how are yous (answered by fine or fair to middling, not honestly).

Probably I got my own shyness and need for quiet directly from her. She would likely be even more horrified than Doug that I had discussed anything as intimate as my dreams with two virtual strangers. But Mags had known her awfully well. They had talked practically daily for years on end – surely they had covered more than menu ideas and comparing my and Liza's test scores.

Mags, at least, would welcome any such conversation, and I would make it a point to have one. I would be sure to follow up with Kylie as well. Something about her receptiveness just invited these sort of memories back in.

I turned my attention back to the news of the day, depressing but soothing in its repetitiveness. Satisfied that I had charted out a small path forward.

## Chapter 6

Another Friday found me pulling into the dreary little parking lot over at Hillside. The summer fog hung cool and gray over most of the city, looming especially heavily out here. Ads in the paper and on TV touted swimsuits and cold beer at back yard barbecues, but the city felt more like some eerie dark mountaintop set of depressing movie.

Nonetheless, I pasted a cheerful smile across my face and put a bounce in my step, hoping to bring something other than my own gloomy attitude to the nursing home. Here, at least, people would be glad to see me. Wouldn't care about the fog outside because they rarely went outside. Wouldn't try to duck away at the sight of me, as my co-workers had been doing, knowing they were behind on deadlines and holding up my work.

I sighed again, eyes cast down as I signed in at reception. Work had been unpleasant this week. City officials, as they regularly did, had gone on an accountability tear, and we were suddenly scrambling to put together newly detailed reports on how we had allocated their funding. Needing to justify every expense and provide "measurements of success" and analyses of resulting numbers to prove the funds had been well spent.

They even wanted little tweet sized success stories to post online. That had at least given us a laugh. Wally, at the white board, suggesting why stop there, why not Haiku? We'd jotted several lines down, ending with We Cured Cancer.

It had been funny, at least a bit of levity amidst the stress. But probably not such a good story to share with my elderly friends here, I thought. Our and the world's inability to better address chronic illness just hit too close to where they live.

The nurses' station was vacant in the residence hall. In theory someone was always supposed to be on hand; the central phone system rang there, as did the emergency call buttons. But they did get busy here, I understood that.

One of the regular and more mobile ladies who liked to keep an eye on things out here caught my eye and murmured hello. "Teilah's out sick today," she said, her voice a concerned half whisper. "Two days it's been. We hope it's just a cold, just a precaution..." her voice trailed off.

"They do have to be careful," I agreed. They were real sticklers for sanitation and preventing infections here, one of the reasons I liked the place. And forgave other little lapses. I hoped things were okay with Teilah too. If she were to suddenly leave, things would falter badly here. Her mix of competence, quickness, and cheer were pretty unusual; they would be hard pressed to replace her.

I headed down the overly bright hallway toward Mag's room. I knew the few places she was likely to be if I didn't find her there. Perky voices from TVs competed with a tired sounding litany of complaints from the woman across the hall from Mags, but her room was empty. Della's too, when I peaked in, so I walked back to the recreation room.

A chorus of loud voices rang from there as I approached. A little knot of private aides were gathered, whispering together in Tagalog, just outside the door, but one who knew me turned to say in English that I should go on in.

It was the dog show, I realized. Every few weeks, one of facility's administrators brought over her pugs, often joined by a friend who had two of her own. The dogs were frisky and sweet, and the women would set up funny little obstacle courses and relay races for the dogs. Afterwards they would make the rounds amongst the residents, accepting pats and treats. This event was hugely popular, with even cat people like Della enthusiastically joining in.

The dogs were already gone, but I could see their course still on the floor. The residents were scattered around the room, sipping fruit punch and struggling with cookies, few of them really able to eat casually like this without someone lending a hand.

I spotted Mags and Della, who were seated together across the room, looking as if they were at the horse races, awaiting the results of their betting. Mags had a cup in her good hand, which teetered as she gestured to me.

Talking over each other, and competing with the other loud voices, they described the antics of the dogs. One had left the race course altogether and made a delightful show of leaping up at the refreshments table.

It was impressive to see what a charge such a simple thing could give to the whole place. Ladies who otherwise might have been anxious or complaining had forgotten everything but the fun of the dog relays. We should bring them to work, I thought.

The room was starting to clear out, in fact there was a traffic jam at the wide double doors that lead to the residence halls. I watched the aides and one of the regular nurses squeezing around each other and all the wheelchairs.

"We may as well enjoy your visit in here," Mags said, diverting her eyes from her fellow residents. (It bothered her sometimes even to witness other people who shared her degree of helplessness.) "I always enjoy the nice view of the garden."

"Such as it is," Della added, presumably more aware of the outside weather.

I helped them unbrake and then eased each chair toward the long window at the back of the room, angling them toward it and then pulling up a narrow folding chair beside Mags.

It was nice to see her with her color up and eyes lively. Della's good cheer was less visually apparent, but still, I was aware of it. Something in her facial expression, and the way she held herself up, even as she exuded her usual aura of serenity.

We chatted for a bit. I asked how they were doing, prodding Mags a little without being pushy. Sometimes she would mention things to me, things deemed "not important enough" to mention to the nurses, things Liza might fly off the handle about. But also little issues I kept mental track of, that I could just quietly ask someone about if needed. Happily, Mags really was feeling okay.

We ran through news headlines and a little gossip about the nurses (someone thought Teilah might be pregnant, but others said this was unlikely since she was divorced and had two teenagers). Mags tried to identify the flowers she could just barely make out in the little back garden, and I told them what was blooming in my neighborhood.

"Remember my mom trying to garden?" I said, glad for an opening, a way to steer the conversation here. "Brown thumb," I added to Della. "I don't know if she forgot to water, or didn't plant deep enough, but nothing more than these spindly little shoots would come up."

"It was much warmer there," Mags said, referring to Pleasanton. "Toasty in the summer months."

"One would need a strategy that included shady spots and morning watering," Della said.

"I guess Mom was too busy for much of that," I said, though I couldn't picture now just what might have been taking up her time.

"We did keep busy back then," Mags agreed, that half smile still on her lips as her eyes cast toward me but focussed far away. "In those big houses. Things that seemed so important back then, that I can hardly recall now."

"They used to talk all the time," I reminded Della. "Mags and my mom."

"Yes, well, we were raising you children, that certainly was a job in itself. And our husbands, their jobs, and all that unpaid work we used to do in those days, the PTA, the library..."

"I used to wonder," I said, as Mags faded out. "That's not all you talked about, right? I mean it was more than superficial stuff, who's making cookies for the bake sale and all that?"

"Well, of course not. We delved into all manner of things that friends tell each other. Your mother was a quiet person, very introverted, of course you know that. But one should never confuse quiet with a lack of feeling or thoughts." She smiled gently at me. "I know your mother wasn't always, well, happy with her lot. But she cared so much about you and your father, you were the most important things to her."

I nodded. I did know that, though it was nice to hear the words spoken. But I also thought about how much I didn't know, how much had gone unspoken. The things I had not told anyone about, and what secrets she might have kept. "I feel like there were so many things I didn't think to ask," I finally said softly. Raising my eyes to look at the pair of them, I felt bad for bringing down the cheery mood of the dog race day so firmly and quickly.

"Clarissa, dear," Mags said, reaching out a shaky hand to pat my own. "If your mother had lived, I'm sure you would be having those conversations. We all have some of those regrets, I'm sure." She looked at Della, who nodded in confirmation. And I suppose there was something reassuring to each of them, as mothers, to hear someone else's daughter express these feelings.

"It was nice to have someone to confide in," Mags added. "I don't regret a one of those many conversations, and I'm sure your mother didn't either."

I nodded. I tried to remember the last time I had really shared something deep and personal, with Doug, with my friend Joan, with anybody. Like being a little bit aware of reading Doug but purposely not doing it, I had over the years gotten pretty good at just swallowing away the sorts of anguish or joy that I once would have needed to share.

My mom had done that, I was sure, she was so careful not to outwardly emote. Even after she met Mags, there was probably only so much she would tell her. But did she have the sorts of dreams I had? Had Dad accused her of meddling when she knew what he was thinking? Had she suspected anything unusual in either of us?

Della, I realized, was watching me with the wise eyes. Inknowing or whatever she was doing – I was sure she understood, perhaps better than I did, the sorts of things I was wondering about. And why. After all, she was the one who had first heard me out about my dreams, my unusual perceptions, and encouraged me to pursue the thing. Not tune it out, as Doug had recommended, as I myself had been doing for so long.

The same went for the things unspoken. I took a big swallow and decided to just plow forward. All those years my mother had kept things to herself, and for so long I had too, and for what? "I never told her this," I said, "nor you Mags, or any of my women friends, but I had a miscarriage back when Sam was little. It was painful. I mean, not more than normal, the physical pain. But it hit me emotionally, more than I think I realized at the time. I didn't want to get pregnant again after."

"You poor thing," Mags exclaimed.

Della shook her head sadly. She had had one too, but she hadn't been many weeks pregnant. It hadn't affected her in the same way. I stared at her face, which didn't seem even to have moved, and tried to figure out how I had concluded that with such certainty. "You too?" I asked her.

She nodded. "It was not so unusual then, I think? Or maybe that was just my sisters and me. Anyway I was not far along, and I ended up pregnant again not a year later. Not the same as your experience, I can see."

"Oh dear, I wish you had been able to talk about this with your mother," Mags said.

"Well, it was so close to when Dad died, it just seemed like too much to hit her with," I began, talking too fast, feeling oddly defensive after all these years.

"Yes, back when Sam was just a little thing, I do remember." Mags held my gaze for a moment before turning away, her lip trembling.

The silence sat between the three of us like an unwelcome guest, and I began to regret having said anything at all. They were just in here for a diversion, what was wrong with me.

But Mags was still gazing at me, gentle and concerned. "I guess you didn't know about your mother's experience?" Mags asked.

I shook my head, frowning.

"It was before I knew any of you, well before you moved out here," Mags said. "And it was years before she said anything, but somehow the subject came up. She had hoped to have a little boy too. She thought your father would especially like having a son. But they had some difficulty conceiving. And she miscarried almost three months after she finally got pregnant. I guess she was home alone. It sounded quite painful for her, poor thing."

A series of memories shot into my head. Their bedroom door closed as it almost never was during the middle of the day. The faint sound of her moaning, and later the sight of her hair, tousled and sweat soaked, over the monstrously false looking gleam of a smile. "I was there," I said, the pieces tumbling together in my head. "She wasn't alone, but there was no one to help her – I must have been four or just turned five."

"But you just said you didn't know?"

I turned helplessly to Della. "I didn't know I knew, but when you said it... I do remember. It was the first time I felt another person's pain like that. She didn't tell me about it but I can tell you where it hurt." I pointed to my own low belly. "I guess I figured she had a stomach ache or something. That she was embarrassed about being sick. But I had this overwhelming sense of her sadness too, it was very frightening."

Both woman kept watching me, eyes showing concern. "She never told Dad," I said. "Or explained it to me, obviously. But now that I'm remembering it, I must have always known on some level. It was so disturbing that I put it out of my mind, I made myself forget."

"I wondered that she kept it from your father," Mags said. "If she had an inkling something was wrong, to conceal a pregnancy from him. I suppose that's another of those things that surely would have come up again if he hadn't gotten ill so suddenly..."

"That was my first, my first knowledge like that," I said to Della. I gripped the edge of my cold metal chair for a moment, feeling unsteady even seated, as another flood of memories rushed in. The sensations that I had felt the morning of my miscarriage, and how familiar they were – in the back of my mind, hadn't it struck me? How I recognized the sensation so completely when it should have been unfamiliar? I had pushed aside the sense of déjà vu, and just concentrated on getting through the experience. But now it seemed so clear – the physical and even emotional feelings had been the same as what I had felt out of nowhere as a child, all those years back and in another room in the house while my mother went through it.

"It can be disturbing to remember these things," Della said gently. "But I think it helps in the long run, not to block them out."

I felt so roiled up inside that I turned to her, incredulous. "How does this help?"

"I think you already know," she answered, her voice a bit more biting. "You're at a point where you've gotten comfortable with yourself. Your life is easier, more routine. But there's such a thing as too routine, isn't there? Where you don't look around to see anything beyond those high hedges you've built around your day to day patterns? Where they turn to ruts?"

Mags stared between us, puzzled by this accusatory tone. But I understood that she was talking as much about herself as about me.

I nodded. "I know you're right. I mean, that's why I brought it up at all. I've just been thinking about whether my mother had this, these sensations, these perceptions that I've had. Or if she did, whether she ever talked about it. It seems like maybe she did but she just never said? But I didn't realize there was so much that I had also put out of my mind." I felt I was babbling. Both women were waiting politely, hearing me out, but not really understanding. I was confused myself. To make matters worse, a hot flash swept up, radiating warmth from my torso outward. I could feel my face flush.

Della gave an encouraging nod. "I've told you bits and pieces about my earlier life," she said, addressing Mags. "Apparently Clarissa and I do have some common ground, as I think I mentioned some time ago now."

Mags gave a slow smile of comprehension. "Well, we did sometimes joke that your mother was a mind reader," she said. "But I always figured that was mostly because I was such an open book." More seriously, she added, "I'm afraid she never said anything directly about, oh, having visions or whatnot."

She wouldn't have, I thought. She had always been more an observer than a participant.

"I didn't realize how strong the physical element was," I told Della, my voice pitched low but directed right at her so she could hear me.

"I do believe that can be a strong aspect of inknowing," she answered. "You know, back in the 60s, lots of people explored Eastern philosophies and all manner of things that opened or linked the mind and body and spirit. One's very sensations aren't necessarily one's own." Her face exuded calm now, or at least the half of it that showed expression; her left side was a blank slate.

"You've experienced this too? Your mother's pain?"

"And my sister, more than once," she said with a sigh. "I told you, dear, I once fainted in unison with my poor mother. But they've been gone for years now. It was all so long ago for me."

I felt my inner heat radiating up, mixing with my rapid heartbeat and the pulsing throbs that still echoed in my mid-region. It may have been long ago for her, but it was right now, right here for me.

The Hillside manager, the one with the pugs (who were presumably leashed away somewhere), came hurrying into the room. She stopped to chat with each person left as she picked up the obstacles and dog toys off the floor. I took the opportunity to fan myself and put my social smile back on. The ladies complimented her profusely on her and her dogs' talents.

I turned to Della, meeting her eyes just long enough for reassurance. That she knew what was bothering me, the nature of these memories aside from the immediate discomfort of feeling overheated (hormones, I recalled her saying at one point). That she could explain it to Mags and make sure that neither felt insulted that I needed to leave, so early in our visit.

But I couldn't stay in this hot, loud, bright room any longer. That searing recollection of my mother's pain had unleashed a dozen other visceral memories. Each from decades back, and each with a physical manifestation. I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment, and opened them, attempting to appear my normal self.

Mags reached out to pat the arm of the pug woman. As she settled back, she winced for a moment, shrugging back both of her shoulders, and a jolt of pain stabbed through my upper back. Her pain, I thought, what else could it be. Apologizing, I said goodbye and hurried from the room.

I got in my car and just sat there for several minutes. Partly taking slow deep breaths and telling myself I was fine, these were just thoughts of pain not actual physical sensations. Although apparently my brain registered little difference from one to the other.

And partly I fought against my natural and obvious impulse to shove the whole thing away out of my head and forget about any of it. Della had talked about routines becoming ruts – and that was the safe, mind-numbing alternative. I knew that already. From our first conversation about Yvette's death, about the dream voice, I recognized that I was choosing to go a different direction than my standard flat out denial.

I sat forward, shrugging out my shoulders as Mags had. Her pain was gone – gone from me, I mean – as were the throbbing cramps from my abdomen. The heat was gone too, and I reached over for my sweater, dabbing my forehead with my sleeve. What I needed was a way to achieve this balance between utter sensation and blocking it all out completely.

It occurred to me that Kylie would understand this as well as anyone. She would still be at work, and we really didn't know each other, nor did I know what was socially appropriate for someone like her (I should text her or go through social media?). But instead I just followed my impulse and found her number on my phone.

She took my call herself; she had one of those jobs where she needed to be perky and available at all times. I didn't even need to stumble through an explanation of why I wanted to talk to her, she got it from my voice and urged me to come straight downtown. She would leave early and meet me at Yerba Buena Gardens, close to her office.

As fleeting a plan and destination as this was, it got me back towards even keel. I made my way downtown, purposefully focussing outward. Not repressing memories, just not inviting them in, rather watching the people around me, reading the funny little ads in the stations, eavesdropping on bits of conversation.

I glanced at my reflection in the darkened streetcar window between stations and saw that I wore that studied neutral expression I had developed years and years ago. The I'm cool, I'm normal, I don't give a crap face that I showed to the world back when I thought I was such a freak. (But why did you think that, I asked myself. A, every teenager does. But B, no, other kids never seemed to be fighting off quite so many bizarre feelings and impulses. I had taught myself to blank out on the exterior, and it had worked. The interior had gone blank too.)

Kylie was easily recognizable as I entered the small park. She signaled from across the sloping expanse of grass. She waved off my profuse thanks as we walked upstairs to a secluded bench that overlooked the fountain and park below.

"You've had a breakthrough," she began, then clamped a hand over her mouth. Eyes bright, she exclaimed, "But I'm not going to do this. Please, you tell it to me, I won't guess."

"Okay," I said, laughing too, that "breakthrough" was how she would phrase it. "But why are you so happy? You're not 'feeling my pain?'"

She sobered immediately, and reached out a hand gently pat my arm. (Like Mags, I thought, momentarily amused and distracted.) "I could hear how upset you were when you called. But I'm picking up something more now seeing you – maybe you're not aware of it even. It feels, I don't know, like you're moving to the other side of things that have been blocking you."

I considered that. Like looking into a long tunnel that began with the sudden rush of memories this afternoon, maybe there was brilliant light way off in the distance. That very instant, feeling physically neutral and sitting comfortably, bathed in sunlight and watching tourists wandering and children playing below, all kinds of things seemed possible.

I wondered, as I related my sudden recollections and realization from the afternoon, if she would pick up on any of the sensations. Where did it stop, would she be bothered by the mere description of someone else's pain?

But I felt okay. Interested, but detached, just describing the incidents, not reliving them.

Kylie followed, eyes wide and empathetic. "That's amazing," she said, when I told about my mother's outward denial of losing her baby. "It's like she taught you that repressing things is the way to handle a problem. No wonder you made yourself forget."

"You think I did that myself, on purpose?"

"Didn't you?"

We stared at each other, then turned away, both laughing. I had no conscious memory of doing so – but I imagine we were both recalling our lunch with Daniel, how she had admitted to blocking away her troubling dreams. Not thinking that such a thing might be challenging for most people. Or that one might be pretty much unaware of doing it.

"By the way," she added, "I started a dream journal. I know it sounds dumb, but for me it's a way to let those thoughts back in. It's been interesting, but nothing spooky so far."

"Maybe I should jot some of this stuff down," I said. "I need to find some way to be open to what I'm drawing in from other people, without it overwhelming me." I tried to describe how I had felt at Hillside, the urgent need to escape to be alone, the panicky out of control run of emotion and sensation that seemed to be swamping me as though I was fighting the ocean tide.

"I totally know what you mean about feeling overwhelmed, needing to escape," she said. "The best I've been able to do is just postpone it well. Promise myself to stay wherever I am a little longer then reward myself with quiet time."

"Maybe I could learn that. Assuming I keep, whatever, letting this stuff in."

"It's hard to find a balance," Kylie said, her voice low and serious. "I've definitely thought about seeking medication or hypnosis or doing something more to help me block things out sometimes. I mean, just to make flying easier, for instance. But I don't think it would work to just deny the whole thing."

"Well, apparently that's what I've been doing. For so long it feels normal." And sometimes it was nice to feel normal, I thought. Before it turned into half sleepwalking maybe.

"Yeah, normal. Did you know I grew up in the mid-west? Part of what I love about San Francisco is that you don't have to be the same as everyone else." She waved her hand forward at the variety of people wandering below us.

I nodded. I had heard lots of people who didn't grow up around here express this. "I think I'm over the idea of needing to blend in. Although it was certainly an issue when I was younger. A motivation to block certain things out, I suppose. But I guess I've already decided I'm ready to, I don't know, develop whatever these innate skills are." I watched her react, appreciating that sponge-like expression of utter absorption she wore. "I just didn't realize how much sensation I would suddenly be internalizing. What I would recall that I had set aside or forgotten."

"You figured I would get it. Because I'm internalizing other people's stuff all the time." She dropped her eyes for a moment. "Too bad I don't have good advice for handling it. That's always been a problem for me."

"But it's nice to talk to someone who understands."

Kylie nodded, but her eyes were focussed behind me, distracted. I glanced back and we both watched a young mom or nanny pushing a tricked out stroller. The woman wore a head set and was texting on her phone and sipping coffee. She was frowning as she walked, barely watching where she wheeled the stroller; other people walking had to dodge around it. In it, the small child sat, face in a pout, hands waving aimlessly.

"I'm glad you called," she said, turning her attention back. "Talking seems to help, right? I'd like to hear about how you proceed." She paused, head tilted. "Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

I felt my cheeks redden that she had noticed. But – hadn't we just said denial was stupid? "Hormones," I said. "Hot flash," I added, to clarify. She was young to make the connection, I realized.

"Oh my God, I think I used to pick up on them from my mother." She touched her hands to her cheeks and forehead briefly. "I kind of remember the sensation. She got moody too. More so than usual."

I gave a little laugh of acknowledgement. "It's a challenge if you're not used to being moody," I said. I wondered if she had probed her mother's behavior and abilities, as I'd been doing.

Kylie turned slightly away, monitoring the progress of the multi-tasking woman, who was now tapping furiously into her phone and ignoring the child, who whimpered and strained to get out of the stroller. "People are so distracted now," she said. "I mean, sometimes I think I'm weird and everything, but sometimes I think maybe everyone should pay better attention. Look and listen instead of constantly texting."

"Hunching over, walking into things," I added. "Doing five things at once, but badly."

"Totally. I mean, what's that little kid going to pick up about where he rates in mom's priorities?"

An image of my mother came in my head, from my earliest memories. How intently she would watch me while I was playing. What had she been perceiving? What did I learn from becoming aware of her attention?

"I'm not like my mother in the, um, psychic department," Kylie said, attuned to my train of thought, I supposed. "I do think there's a genetic component, and it's from my dad's side. Supposedly his two aunts were what they called eccentric."

I told her a little more about my mom, about what I was remembering, what abilities she may have quietly had. And she responded in kind, listening, comparing notes with her memories of her father's aunts, childhood stories about them.

The pace of people around us was shifting, I realized. Tourists disappearing, replaced by hurried office workers cutting through the park. I had lost track of time – it seems like I had just dashed out the front doors at Hillside, but here it was after five.

"I should get back to my office for a little bit," Kylie said quietly, when I mentioned the time. "But you're okay now?"

I assured her I was, and she told me honestly that she had enjoyed taking this break. She tried to avoid rush hour anyway.

We set off down the gracefully curved walkway, separating at the bottom. I promised to call her in a day or two to let her know how I was doing. Or sooner, if anything came up. She turned back toward Third Street, head ducked down and the breeze lifting her hair, looking delicate amongst the people hurrying toward her.

And I – firmly putting aside any issues about crowds that might decide to bubble up – made my way down to the Muni station to catch the streetcar home. I could use this opportunity to practice, I told myself, to pay attention, to be aware of people around me without being overwhelmed.

## 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 Daniel 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.

## Chapter 8

Balance – that's the word and the concept that kept appearing to me. How to pay attention, be aware, but not be overwhelmed. Observing and thinking and perceiving but also just letting the world flow by.

I went to Hillside and had a normal, hot flash and panic free visit with Mags. We just talked about the regular things. I read from the paper, and she told me what Liza and Curtis were up to, and we talked about the warmer weather and how it was probably affecting local gardens. She spoke of the community garden where she used to volunteer, the people there and even the vegetables that were growing, as if they were unchanged from her last visit over two years ago. I said nothing to contradict her, but just enjoyed the pleasure she took from her own descriptive words.

And I stopped in to give Della a little progress report, able to laugh with her at my own intensity. She told me it was heartening to her to watch my progress. Heartening. I smiled as I left the facility, carrying that word like a torch to light my way – that I could give any sort of inspiration to a person at this odd juncture in my life.

At home that evening, I spent extra time on dinner, trying something new that I thought Doug would like. He had been working late nearly every night, and coming home looking tired and drained. Nothing he cared to talk about, though.

A couple nights ago I had watched him, really honing in, observing till I knew it made him uncomfortable. Just to assure myself that it was work stress and nothing more. Everything I could see about him pointed there; this was clearly not a man newly energized by love. Good to know, although that knowledge didn't improve our quiet evenings together.

I fixed the food, trying to enjoy the simple acts of slicing, simmering, preparing the marinade. When it was ready except for the last ten minutes or so to sear the scallops, I returned to the living room. Clark trotted after me, a puzzled look on his furry face at this change in the order of things.

Doug called, sounding harried, to say he would be a little longer. By the time he made it home, the salad was wilted, the main course a bit dried out, and I had nibbled a bit. In other words the meal was not so much special as at least ready to eat. Doug and I sat across from each other, more shoveling the food in than savoring it. If he noticed the extra time I had put in, he didn't comment.

"How long do you think this case is going to go," I asked.

He shook his head. "It's three different ones. We're crunched, they still haven't replaced anyone." Various attorneys and assistants came and went at his firm, but they had been slow in their hiring. The newer partners were more budget conscious than the old ones used to be. The firm had never really built back up since the recession. It had just become the norm for the long time attorneys to shoulder more work.

That wasn't so different from where I worked, or anywhere. But still, I made a point to limit my extra hours. I never had taken back the hours we'd all given up back during the recession. Intentionally – I valued the Fridays off. Doug seemed to be letting his work take over his life the way a brand new kid out of law school might.

"What's going on with you?" he asked, several beats later.

I reeled back in from my private thought track. "Not that much," I said. I told him a little about work, a new grant we were likely to get that would enable more research on possible flu mutations. He sometimes enjoyed pondering the legal ramifications of our research.

"Mags told me a funny story about Curtis," I added, when the first topic ran out of steam. It was one of those Curtis stories from a geologic site that had to be better in the telling than during the actual experience, this one involving washed out roads and almost running out of gas.

That reminded me that I needed to call Curtis. Well, call one of them, him or Liza – as usual, I would try Curtis first. Mags seemed to be developing an intolerance for one of her pain medications. It might be nothing, but he should at least be aware. None of us wanted her to get into the habit of upping her doses or putting up with unnecessary discomfort.

I excused myself to make this call. Doug nodded solemnly, looking a bit relieved that he had done his husbandly duty and could now zone out in front of the TV. I glanced at the time on my phone before I called. It wasn't that late, but you never knew with Curtis – he might have just flown in from a distant time zone, or take the call in the middle of a date.

"Hey Clarissa," he answered immediately and a bit warily. "How's it going?"

"Jeez, Curtis, I hate to think my calls are starting to remind you of Mrs. Delcecco's to your mom," I said. She was the teacher each of us had for sixth grade, stern and not afraid to get a mom involved if she thought there was a behavior issue in the classroom.

That made him laugh so hard he almost dropped the phone. And hopefully it made my little warning about Mags easier to swallow.

He got it right away, and promised to follow up during his next check in with her doctors. Aside from just liking the guy better, I had an easier time communicating with him. Liza would have been demanding details that no one could possibly know, and issuing general proclamations in that my-way's-the-only-way tone of hers.

Where Curtis appreciated my visits and interventions – and even thought to thank me regularly – Liza felt resentful. At least she usually had several things to say about her busy life and the complex demands upon it. And even now that we had all, even Curtis, hit middle age, she still spoke down to both of us as if we were the twin annoyances she had faced back in the tenth grade, never mind that I'd been a grade ahead.

Curtis asked me what was new. The same question as Doug, but different. I mean, we didn't talk that often, he really wanted to know. I hesitated, but then thought what the hell. He might have already heard something about this from Mags anyway. "I'm exploring some, um, unusual personal phenomena," I began. "Kind of weird, I know, but psychic stuff. Things that I knew or learned before I heard about them directly, if that makes any sense."

"Cool," he said. Open, non-judgmental, interested but a bit skeptical.

I pulled all that from his one word? But I'd known him forever. I could picture his face. I glanced down the hall to see if Doug was in earshot, worried to start antagonizing him any further with my strange new obsession. He wasn't, and I gave a run down Curtis about the seminar I'd gone to, and Daniel's research and the various similar stories he had heard.

Curtis asked a couple obvious questions about my experiences, but backed off in the face of my reticence. I told him, honestly, that it was all still hard for me to articulate but that I would definitely send a copy of Daniel's article when it finally came out.

We chatted a little more. He told me he and girlfriend had broken up, but he didn't sound bothered by this. His idea, I guessed, though he was tactful in his phrasing. I let him know when Sam would be home and made him promise to come have dinner with all of us.

I hung up the phone and wandered back to the living room, idling wondering if Doug or I knew any eligible women we could casually invite too. Unlikely. I thought of Kylie. She was single, dating sporadically, but hard pressed to find someone who could appreciate her combination of quiet and sensitivity, her need for solitude and regeneration time. Anyway, she was far too young. I liked seeing Curtis with his own peers. The last girlfriend of his I'd really liked had been older than him, older than me even.

Maybe Doug would have some ideas. I watched him for a moment. His face had finally slackened into something approaching relaxed, and I didn't have the heart to make him think about work again. Work, because where else did he know anybody at all?

A shiver passed, an unpleasantness radiating from my nerves, as a sudden vision of my parents came to my head. How they would sit silently every evening, nothing to say to each other or to me, no friends calling or coming over. As a kid I had compared our household to Liza and Curtis Henley's and found ours lacking. I'd told myself I would never end up like that. But here I was with a husband all wrapped up in his work, my kid off at college, living myself much in my own head. Funny that the thing pushing me outward socially turned out to be the same thing I'd apparently been hiding from for all these years.

Work – I guess this wasn't such a bad thing – took much of my attention the next few days. Just regular deadlines, but made all the more stressful by our team being more like a group of feral cats than amiable colleagues. It was a challenge to carve out the time for my long lunch/chat with Daniel.

Yet I hesitated to postpone it. More than that, I found I really wanted to have the conversation. Without probing why, I just made it happen. Did the key things I needed to get done, and emailed out revised timelines on the rest. The diseases would still be there if we were a few days behind, after all.

Daniel phoned from our front lobby at the appointed hour. Our offices were a bit out of the way, within the labyrinth of the university's buildings, so I just told him to sit tight and grabbed my light jacket. I found him leaning over the central reception desk, laughing with the girl there over something she had up on her computer.

"Clarissa, thanks so much for taking the time," he said, turning toward me with a warm handshake. He added a quick thanks to the receptionist, who smiled glowingly at him. Was she just bored, I wondered, or was there really something about him?

I directed us back outside and down the side set of stairs that led to our half hidden courtyard. A little path there wound past the quietest part of the campus and up over the small wooded hills to the south. It was pretty and little known outside the people who worked or studied here.

Daniel matched my pace next to me, his expression soft and receptive. We stepped through a leafy, vine covered trellis onto the dirt path that headed up toward the trees. "I didn't know this was here," he said.

"It's a nice little refuge," I answered. We passed a student sitting and reading on a bench, and a couple others walking and talking earnestly. It was a peaceful place – event the students seemed less stressed out back here. The dark greens of the leaves, the graceful twists of tree trunks, the lack of traffic noise or harsh angles of those seventies style buildings all combined to make this a soothing walk.

"So, the physical thing," Daniel began, after a few moments contemplative silence.

I glanced at him. Walking, he looked less like a tough guy/jaded reporter and more like a boy in the woods. Or a young man hiking in a wild place, trying to contain his enthusiasm. I pictured Sam for a moment – was that part of what drew me to Daniel, did I see something of my son in him? But our eyes met and held for a second, and he wasn't like my boy at all.

"It's hard to explain," I said. "You must get that all the time," I added, as a wry expression darted across his face.

"I know it's hard to articulate, but you'd be surprised how many of the same images, the same words even, I hear over and over," he said.

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "This is a recent recollection of something that happened when I was a child. My mother's good friend – I was visiting her at the care facility at Hillside – mentioned that my mother had experienced a painful miscarriage." I stopped for a moment on the uphill trail, catching my breath, either from exertion or the tightness of breath that came with this memory.

He gave a little nod, his eyes alert, warm, encouraging.

"And I realized I had been there, as a child. I remember knowing my mother was upset and in pain, but more than that, I felt the pain." My hand drifted to my belly, to that same spot. "She didn't say what was wrong, in fact she tried to cover it up, but I knew – I felt it. And it was so scary that I guess I pushed the whole thing away. Then when it happened later to me, I had one during my first marriage, the physical thing seemed oddly familiar." I glanced at him, then back away, not sure I was saying enough or too much.

Daniel said nothing, waiting me out.

"Even then, I didn't probe it, why something brand new like that would be so recognizable – I mean maybe I just figured, sure, any woman would immediately know how this should feel... But when I suddenly remembered, there with Mags and Della – Della's the friend who really gets it, she's been encouraging to me – anyway, just this flood of memories and physical sensations came over me." I glanced at him again. "I actually had to leave, I got kind of panicky about it."

"So just remembering this particular occurrence from years ago made you feel it internally again? I'm sorry to hear about your loss, by the way," he added.

He must have had a wife or girlfriend who'd been through it, I thought, nodding, appreciative of this sensitive reaction. But I told myself not to get hung up in trying to read his experiences from his face. This was supposed to be about figuring out my stuff. "Well, partly I guess it's like anything when you think about it, the sensations are more noticeable. Like if you try to describe a headache, or think about how often you blink in a minute." I watched his eyes, smiling. "You see, you're thinking about it now, right?"

He turned away with a small smile. "Somehow I think this is more than that."

"Yeah," I agreed. "And I guess the hardest part for me is not feeling like it's in my control." I stopped cold for a moment. This thought resonated in my brain, a revelation: so much of this whole thing seemed wrapped up in the degree to which it was beyond my control. Hadn't that been an issue my whole life, one of those bossy only child things since forever? I'd always wanted to be in the drivers seat.

Daniel stood patiently beside me. His eyes were warm, his face radiating interest and encouragement. "I don't know, Clarissa," he said. "It seems to me that you do have a lot of control." He looked away from me, back toward the path and the trees ahead of us. "I mean in general, just the sort of person you are, but also in the way you're approaching these memories. These revelations. You seem to have made a discovery and then followed up in a pretty straightforward way. I've certainly talked to people who with a lot less, I don't know, self confidence. Presence about themselves."

"But what do you think this is about," I demanded. I needed an expert, I realized, and there wasn't one. "Why can some people be so attuned to someone else that they literally feel their pain? Why is it coming back to me now, when I should be relaxing with my husband towards retirement and instead I'm looking up crazy stuff online and stirring up years past memories?" And keeping a journal that makes me sound like a raving hormonal lunatic, I added to myself. And wandering the outskirts of the campus with you when I should be inside working?

Daniel had resumed his pace beside me, and I was relieved not to be looking him in the eye. Or rather, that he couldn't see my face. "Something I've gleaned," he said slowly, "and not just in this research – is that becoming middle aged seems like the end of a long journey to find your comfort zone. People reach this place and you can see it in their faces and hear it in their voices. This sense of comfort, of being relaxed with who they are. But then they kind of realize that staying there is the path towards staleness and gradual decline. You know? The more interesting people are the ones who set aside their fears of the unknown and keep having new adventures."

These words resonated pretty strongly. Staleness. You could almost taste it at our house sometimes. Doug and I used to joke about couples we knew who were very set in their ways. Now it would hardly be funny.

"But I don't have an answer about the sensitivity," Daniel continued. "All I can tell you is that it's unusual but not unique."

"Sensitivity," I repeated back. Such a positive, nice sounding word, and indeed one that came to mind thinking about Kylie. "I just sense more. So currents of emotion and rivulets of pain are wafting through the air, and I'm just good at plucking them out?" I flicked my fingers into the air in a sarcastic demonstration.

He was not offended and chuckled. "You know there are people who see it that way. The aura testers, the good energy people. You should go to one of those fairs some time, you'd be amazed." More seriously, he added, "But I've spoken to more than one actual neuro-physiology expert who will admit that they don't really get it. I mean the whole how-neurons-become-thoughts thing. And how one person's brain chemistry might possibly react with another's. Even over time or space."

This seemed, again, faintly ridiculous. Chemical impulses from brain cells radiating out into the universe? Lingering in a particular place over time? And yet, and yet – surely anyone could see that people who spent a lot of time together developed certain ways of understanding each other. Call it what you will, but maybe there was something of this involved. I use my wireless phone without a second thought; voice carried somehow from mouth to far away ear. Is this really so different? "There always was a strong connection with my mother," I admitted to him. "I'm sure of that now, however it came about or I understood it."

He nodded. "That's quite common. Running in families and sensitivities between family members."

"And I think the I had fewer of the dream sequence thingees after she died, now that I think about it." I paused, scrolling back the mental calendar and wishing I had my journal here in front of me. "But they didn't stop. Mags," I added. "Mags has been kind of a mother figure to me, and we became closer after I lost my mom. And then since she's been incapacitated. You think I could have picked up something from her? She's the one who would have known that Yvette died."

Daniel looked confused, and I mapped out the players to him: Mags being friends with Yvette, me having the dream, Mags having known right away about her death – she and Della had both heard the commotion in the night.

He nodded. "So she was kind of link with your mother, or her relationship to you was similar. But I'm still fascinated by how you'd experience the sensation your mother did, or later, just from thinking about it."

"Well, I'd like to know that too. Or more to the point, how not to."

He raised an eyebrow, questioning.

"That's the thing about it, Daniel. That's why Kylie can't stand crowded places, and I'm pretty sure it's why I just blocked it all out for so long. Bad enough to feel my own pain, much less take on someone else's."

"But wouldn't that run the other way too? Other's joy and wellbeing? Techniques to feel better, to help yourself heal?" He looked antsy, like he wished he could write all this down.

"I haven't heard many people talk about this sort of thing in happy terms," I observed. "And it hasn't been my experience. I mean, I've felt picked up at a kid's birthday party of something, laughed at infectious laughter. But not felt it," I patted my chest, "not known it from the inside."

"No, me either," he said. "In my research, I mean."

"Della – the woman at Hillside – told me a story about how she fainted at the same time as her mother when her mother received bad news. I mean she was in school and her mother was home. But again, from something shocking and painful."

"Really." His dark eyes were intent, and I was reminded of the first time I'd seen him, how he seemed to drink in the room around him at that seminar.

We were on the far side of the loop, now, headed toward the back side of the bigger campus buildings. I wondered if he had gotten what he needed from me. We had hardly discussed the article, and I brought it up, reiterating my earlier thoughts about edits.

He assured me he had taken notes, would make the changes. And he deliberated aloud, but decided against adding any more of this. "Fascinating though it is," he added warmly.

I agreed that it was almost another side topic. He was struggling to contain the whole thing in a smaller than hoped word count – wacky lady feels her mother's pain wouldn't help that challenge.

We said a hasty goodbye back at my building, my workload suddenly pressing on me. And my denial; I both wanted and didn't want this to be strictly business between us. Anyway, I was glad for the churning stream of passersby elbowing past us – this was about as un-intimate a setting as I could have hoped for.

I dashed back up to my office, ducking in and hoping no one noticed how long I had been gone with all the deadlines looming. No one said anything. As usual, people were pretty focused on whatever was right in front of them.

Sitting at my computer, I glanced at the stack of new emails, and wondered how much of this morning's work would have to be redone. But I forced myself to pause, just for a couple minutes, before delving in. I needed not to just push aside the whole conversation that had just happened, not swallow away or deny any small revelations.

What had Daniel said – the path toward staleness, versus setting aside your fear of the unknown. Meantime I was hung up not so much on the unknown as the uncontrollable. The idea of my extra sensitivity enabling random sensations to swamp me with no warning just freaked me out. No wonder I'd shut it all down.

But there was no turning back now, I could see that. Maybe that's why I'd wanted to meet him in person, for the confirmation that this was real and that denial wouldn't cut it anymore. Yes, I enjoyed talking to him, and walking close together like that did get my pulse running a bit. (I imagined saying this to Kylie, and how clearly her face would tell me she was aware of my attraction to him.) What I was getting from him went deeper though – it was like he had brought me up a hill I'd been avoiding and pointed out a whole new vista.

There were two things I had to do, after work. One was get a better handle on my heightened perceptions and my reactions to them, whether it was practicing meditation or putting everything in the journal or just forcing myself to be quiet and still. And the second was have a real conversation with Doug. However busy he was, carve out some time and let him know that this was something I would pursue. If he couldn't be positive about it, he would at least need to be as tolerant as I was about his less than stellar hobbies.

I set my shoulders back, took a calming breath, and got back to work.

## Chapter 9

It was Sunday afternoon, before I had the chance to talk to Doug. Really talk, beyond the half-hearted and quickly forgotten how-was-your-day and regular back and forth about groceries to pick up or minor social obligations. Not that this was much of a topic anymore either. Times had changed since the old days of his frequent must attend cocktail parties and client dinners, though he still had some commitments. Both of us did, although it amused me, when I noticed, how rare it was for any of these to keep us out past 8 o'clock.

Without conscious discussion or planning, it seemed, our friends as well as our workplaces had toned it back. And we almost automatically said no to any but the most pressing events, if they were scheduled late or farther than an easy drive. What this meant was over the past few years we'd been to a couple 50th birthdays, a silver wedding anniversary, and a pair of weddings for children of friends. Doug had shown up when he needed to at his office functions, and I'd dutifully come to the annual holiday parties. He worked out regularly at his downtown gym and sometimes went to their seasonal gatherings; I'd had a couple girls nights with Joan and other friends.

This should have left endless time for the two of us as a couple. But it hadn't, had it, I asked myself, evenings when I watched him for a moment or two before deciding the time wasn't right. Since her stroke, I'd spent extra time with Mags. Or earlier, with Sam, who had needed a surprising degree of handholding in applying and then getting ready for college. And Doug, more than ever, seemed swallowed up by his work. Focussed on it to the point of tuning out everything else, or exhausted from it, and slumped in his chair, bleary eyed.

Sunday, though, we had enjoyed a late breakfast and fresh made pastries I'd gotten at the local market. The day was cool but not overly foggy, comfortable for indoor or outdoor activities. I'd spent the morning cleaning and making sure Sam's space was ready for him, and our kitchen was appropriately stocked. The Giants played a morning game away, so Doug had little interest in the afternoon game.

I sat down on what I still thought of as Sam's chair, the squishy one he had favored when obliged to join us in the living room back in adolescence. Small, silly, I would readily acknowledge, but in different little ways I was trying to bust out of our routines.

Doug glanced over for a moment. Then his eyes grazed over "my" chair, and I saw him briefly register that something was different before dropping it as not worth contemplating further. He was wishing for a better game, and suspected he was about to be asked to join in afternoon chores. His eyes darted for a moment: no, logging onto the computer and doing his paid work would be worse.

And I sat back, smiling at him in a neutral way. Then looked around the room, observing it both as a whole and a sum of its parts. Comfort came first, followed by a confident middle to upper middle class aura. Nothing was ostentatious or brightly colored, but the sensible furniture and little accents came together in a pleasant way. They spoke of an accepted level of affluence that didn't need to call attention to itself. We didn't need new things because we took care of what we had, and what we had was solid, old school quality.

At least that was what I took in, and I assumed a perceptive stranger might get a similar impression. And what of the silent couple, husband gazing at the TV, wife pointedly looking away from it? Would someone else who was so-called sensitive be able to look at me and feel any of the churning beneath? But surely that was true of anyone, nearly any time.

And yet not Doug. I truly did not get a sense of him struggling with anything internal, despite (or because of?) how he struggled with his working life. A tiny inner voice quickly queried: Clarissa, really, what kind of match is this for you?

I didn't tune this out. I'd had those inklings long before anything was outwardly wrong with me and Keith. And I had shunted them aside, buried them away until they had bitterly burst out after he confessed his affair. I should have paid more attention, that was so obvious now.

But Keith and I – I turned back to Doug, now, watching him surf the channels – it had been different. Much more prickly and hostile. Keith was a guy who had learned how to tell a joke but really didn't have much of a sense of humor. I had somehow been blind to that for quite a long time, too. It had taken Sam's early years, his goofy boy humor and quick witted comments to wake it back up in me. Where Keith was more likely to roll his eyes at the pair of us.

Doug could be sharp, intelligent, funny. He just needed to be free of distraction. "Can we turn that off?" I asked him. "I mean..." I nodded at the extraordinarily insipid beer commercial assaulting us at double volume.

He clicked the remote and the big screen blinked dark. His eyes lingered there for a moment anyway, like he was imagining something better. "Need help with the furniture?" he asked, masking his wariness with a friendly veneer.

"No, it's fine. Sam can shove stuff around if it's in his way. But I wanted to talk to you," I continued. "About some other stuff. The, um, physiological things I've been trying to work out."

I watched him try to keep his face utterly still. And fail, as a twinge of an expression of distaste surfaced and was quickly repressed.

"Okay," he said. "You're kind of giving me a funny look, by the way."

That made me laugh, for some reason. Yay, Doug, coming right back at me. I gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment and turned away. "Sorry. I can tell you don't like hearing about it. But I – I guess I need you to hear me out anyway. I know you want it to, but it's not going away."

"It?"

"This, this ability of mine. This awareness. I'm sorry, I know you don't like it when I try to predict what you're thinking—"

"You're not always right, you know," he put in. "Just for the record."

It barely even crossed my mind to challenge him. A, because that wasn't the point and B, I was pretty darn sure that there were times when I was right and he just hadn't owned up to his own inner feelings yet. "And it's not appropriate of me in any case," I answered calmly. "This isn't really about you and me and our communications. I mean that's a part of it, but small."

"Okay." A hint of a frown crossed over him, again, hastily masked.

"I've been tuning out a whole lot of what's around me," I told him, trying to summarize the whirling thoughts that had threatened to overwhelm me recently. "It's become second nature. And that's going to change. I'm not going to make a big deal out of it – nor get in the habit of making news out of it – but I'm not going to ignore these things anymore. I've picked up on information in weird ways. Scary, strange sounding. I've had physical sensations that came from other people, which seems bizarre. But it's real, Doug. You know me, you know I wouldn't make this stuff up." I turned away from him, wishing to listen to his verbal response rather than be struck with the one on his face.

Doug said nothing. I glanced over, and he arched his eyebrows. Almost exaggerated, like he wanted me to read him. "Well, what stuff," he finally said.

"The things I already told you. When my grandmother died, and just a couple months ago, when Yvette died. That nightmare about Chernobyl. And since I've been, you know, investigating it, I've remembered more. Quite a lot more."

Doug's posture finally relaxed there on the couch. I watched a warm sort of openness radiate down, and it made me think of early times we spent together. The way we would talk, how interested he was in new ideas. It seemed like he was channeling some of that old spirit. And I was too, I felt the shivery excitement of being smart and clever, with something good to share.

So trying to keep my thoughts somewhat organized, I spilled out a series of memories. First, my mother's miscarriage. Along with my literal gut feeling of it, recalled from childhood. And moving forward, other times, other knowledge, other sensations that had come from outside myself.

To his credit, Doug listened carefully, and withheld judgement, or at least withheld speaking it. It was disappointing, but perhaps not that surprising, that he had forgotten I'd told him about my own miscarriage. So he was sweet and sympathetic, but his reactions were more oh-you-poor-thing, than any sort of wonder that I already knew the sensations from my visceral childhood memories.

After awhile, I was the one running out of conversational steam. It felt invigorating, at first, to share these things with Doug. Hadn't we stood up before everyone we knew and sworn our faith to each other, for better or worse? I felt like I was sharing whole seasons worth of interesting items with him, things I had previously withheld.

But taken all together, it was exhausting. Just laid out like that, it seemed like all I'd been doing was swallowing up, and being swallowed by, other people's emotions and physical woes. Not to mention learning depressing things in my dreams. I braced myself, clutching the soft arms of Sam's chair, arching my back away from its soft embrace and stretching side to side. I needed firmer support, I thought, in chairs and in life.

I took a closer look at Doug, who remained relaxed back on the couch, arms and legs extended. "Do you have any questions?" I asked. He had listened in an impressively non judgmental way, but also impassively.

Doug shook his head, sitting forward and patting my leg. "Not really. I mean, you seem to have covered everything."

So you don't wonder how any of this feels, inside, I thought but did not say, remembering Daniel's insistent questions. Instead, I teased him, "You're not going to go look this all up online and dispute it, right?"

"Proof never hurts," he answered. "But no."

That might be it in a nutshell, I thought. Maybe it was asking a lot, but his skepticism still bothered me. It's not that I wanted him, or anyone, just to accept every crazy thing that came along as fact. But this wasn't UFOs at Roswell or seeing ghosts. These were my experiences, and I hated feeling I had to justify and prove my own very real perceptions before Doug would accept them.

"It would be nice if you could just take my word for it. I mean, at least acknowledge I'm not totally nuts, you know?"

"Okay. You're not nuts." Spoken with an utter lack of conviction that anyone could have picked up on.

"Some people actually find this interesting," I said.

He sighed. "I suppose your new friends are more attentive. Say the right things. But do they ever talk about anything else?"

"Well I'm pretty sure they have interesting, full lives. They seem to get out more than we do, along with express things other than disdain for new ideas." I thought about Daniel, the animation that often played on his face.

Doug remained impassive, expressionless. Not insulted, just weary of the whole thing. He stood up. "I think I'll go pick some stuff up," he said. Doug, like a thousand men before him, hated to shop as in select nice gifts for relatives – but he would use the excuse of a trip the hardware store to get out of the house.

Well, we'd opened the door anyway, I told myself after he left. If he hadn't been a hundred percent supportive, neither had he blown me off, as he had earlier. Maybe I had focussed too much on the bodily stuff – things I knew made him a bit uncomfortable even in conventional circumstances. We would revisit the topic again, no doubt. Beyond the psychic/psycho stuff, I could better convey this growing need to get back out there in the world, to really pay attention and listen. To be a bigger part of my own life.

I left Sam's chair and eased into my own. Relieved, now, that Doug and I had shared at least the beginnings of this ongoing conversation. And knowing that if he had felt the need to get away for a bit, that he also would be back soon, even keeled and perhaps now less annoyed by my stories and needs.

Imagining us in our seats here for the afternoon – me catching up on the dull sections of the paper, him watching a game he had little interest in – bestirred me back up and out to do some gardening. That image, the two of us, dully going about our routines, stuck with me for a moment. Like train tracks receding in the distance, our parallel lives could run forward in a straight line, never veering and never converging. We would become cranky, increasingly pudgy losers on the other side of the middle age hill, staring at our screens, pale and achy, living for our one-upmanship of complaints.

That was the alternate future, I told myself, the one where I didn't get out there and learn from all that had recently happened. Anything else would surely be an improvement.

Outside, I paused before I started, just looking over the small yard. Tall trees from the street behind, some natives, some fragrant but ever shedding Eucalyptus, shaded much of it. We had claimed the far section most protected from the wind and exposed to sunlight for our herbs and vegetables. Try as we might, these always seemed to come up in miniature. Still, the very air was refreshing here.

I knelt, feeling the give of the loose dirt below, and plucked up some weeds, gripping carefully to pull the roots. Doug had bought fresh soil as well as some nutrient rich concoction to lay over it back in early spring. We mulched everything else, but the hardier weeds still found their way amongst our carefully tended sprouts.

Weeding and watering, I thought of my mother's flat, dried out bed back in Pleasanton. It seemed like something she just did now and then for show, not from any connection to the earth or desire for its bounty. Now that everyone cared so much about growing and eating local, we had researched what grew best, and in what conditions.

I thought about this fertile soil blend, and how you need the good stuff, loose, tilled, and nutrient rich in order for the plants to grow. And it seemed to me almost an analogy for both my parent's lives. I mean, they had been raised in a time and place so poor. Despite that, they had at least tried to provide better for me. And I had reached beyond for myself, and then for Sam. And going forward, I would need to really make the effort to nurture all of us, all our hopes for future.

I glanced at the clock as I took off my garden gloves and went inside for some water. It was plenty late, Sam surely was up and about by now. I clicked open my phone to call him, energized again, just to work out details of when he'd be arriving, which weekends we could count on seeing him. I wouldn't freak him out or dump all this at once – but he'd be home soon. We, too, would find time to really talk. I would listen, I promised myself, to whatever he had to say. And Sam, I could count on him listening too.

## Chapter 10

Sam's arrival brought summer with him. My spirits lifted, and I felt youthful and silly, staying up way past our normal bedtime the first night to catch up. Nothing profound, just our regular roundabout conversations. He had, for years now, enjoyed telling me about what he was working on in school – particularly the things that reached beyond the scope of my understanding. Even the programming he'd done as a high schooler seemed complex, and the advanced studies of computer engineering work he now spoke about might have been science fiction to me.

But still, as ever, he could interrupt himself with funny asides or witty observations about his fellow students. And himself. It was a great relief to me that Sam, unlike many smart people, was easily capable of mocking his very own seriousness.

His third or fourth night back, after our initial catching up and assured he was in for the evening, I just broached the topic of my newfound odd abilities with him. Doug had gone upstairs, and I was yawning, but determined not to let the moment disappear.

"This will sound kind of strange, I know," I cautioned, before launching into the initial stories. For his sake, I jettisoned the description of the miscarriages and just talked about the sensation of feeling what my mother felt. But I described the sensing of emotions, and some of the dreams, the recent one and some from way back. The dream voice, always calm and female, and always bearing bad news.

Sam – ear buds out and devices aside – listened with flatteringly rapt attention. "Whoa," he murmured a couple times, and "no way – really?"

I wound down, and watched him. "Wow, that's crazy, Mom," he said. "You're, like, deciding you're psychic? You?"

"Not deciding. Not psychic. Just – I'm understanding I have some unusual abilities."

"Yeah, no bull." Sam grinned. "Is this driving Doug nuts or what?"

"You can tell that? Just from observing him?" I asked, wondering now if Sam had inherited the so called abilities. If there were things he already knew, already took for granted.

He laughed. "No. Just from, of course it would bug the guy. I mean, he's mister black or white, you know? Remember when Heather was here and she kept talking about finding new spiritual planes? He had to leave the room."

I nodded. "He doesn't like it," I acknowledged. "But I've asked him not to just write it off. I'm asking that of you too, buddy," I added.

"That's cool," he said. His hand strayed toward his iphone, and I wondered how much faster he would be than I had been in finding relevant info online.

But I saw his eyes track mine. He drew his hand back and stood up, stretching. "I'm still kind of hungry from dinner," he said. "Is it okay if I have some more ice cream? You want any?"

"Sure, honey," I said. "We purposely got your favorite. None for me though, it's almost eleven."

He blinked, as if this observation was completely unrelated. "I'll be up for awhile," he added gently.

I could hear him in the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers, still a bit of a bull in a china shop in the smallish room. His tone had been so considerate though, I thought. Asking for, not demanding the food, offering to get some for me. Explaining his hours to me as if I was some elder who couldn't conceive of such a thing.

Sam sat down again with his bowl. He'd even brought a napkin. And he spoke, in a lowered tone – so as not to disturb Doug, I assumed – about some of the weird dreams he'd had on his recent camping trip. Nothing cosmic, he assured me with a grin, but he did think that being out in this remote place had an affect on his sub-conscious mind.

I listened, nodding, pleased that he had easily made this connection. He wasn't denying or questioning what I said, just making note of his own experiences.

"The brain is amazing, Mom," he added. "I mean aside from the stuff you're talking about, just in general. When you learn about advanced computer systems compared to the kind of every day tasks the human brain can achieve." He took a bite and gave a little blink of satisfaction. "Learning to talk, for instance," he continued. "What a baby does while its brain and body are developing at this incredible pace – I mean, it's taken scientists decades and they can't even replicate on a machine the way a baby learns about language."

"I don't know if that makes me feel good or less unique," I told him, musing on how little I really understood about anyone's inner workings. Hadn't I read somewhere that we only use ten percent of our brain's power?

"I'm just saying, the biochemical connections in the brain and nervous system, even in a child's or a primate's, are mind boggling. See, the mind boggles the mind! Creating something like that mechanically is like the holy grail for a lot of the people I'm around at school."

I narrowed my eyes, wondering how much of what I had told him he had really taken in, and how much he was lost in his normal sci fi induced mental games playing. Building the ideal robot and so on. "So – does any of that explain why I heard a voice in my dream tell me Yvette was gone a couple hours before Mags called to tell me? Could my neurons have zipped into the future and back for a couple minutes?" I did recall reading about biochemistry and enhanced perceptions, both online and in Daniel's material, but nothing in the way of a clear here's how it functions, here's how impulses become thoughts type description.

Sam's eyes widened and dilated. Noticeably and almost comically, I thought. I was trying to be aware of my perceptions, but I thought even Doug would have picked on this vivid reaction. "Whoa, that's—that would be an amazing concept," he exclaimed. "If there was some miniscule slippage, something the conscious mind was unaware of, but some tiny bend that allowed just a bit of communication, at the neurological level. Would it be the same ones in the same spot over time—no they'd have to be slightly different, maybe mis-aligned just for an instant?"

"Don't go all Star Trek on me, honey," I laughed.

Sam laughed too. "Okay. But you know, think about how some of those things are real now. You know this British team had almost perfected material that can make what's behind it invisible. Like the cloaking device?"

I nodded. If someone had told me before I had a child that some of my best memories would involve the two of us giggling together over DVDs of that 60s TV classic, I wouldn't have believed it. When in fact it was true – the adventures of Kirk and Spock had ignited numerous frank discussions in addition to the sheer fun of it all, from politics to history to Girls. "Well, anyway, I don't know how to explain this stuff," I said. "My stuff. But I wanted to you to know. That's what's new, I guess."

I could see the wheels turning with him. But he was distracted too, and I guessed he was waiting till I turned in to start texting some of his pals. And not about anything I said, I was pretty sure.

It struck me anew, as each visit of Sam's had since he had left for college: Sam truly was his own person now. Still comfortable here in his old places and making our lives seem so normal. But growing up. Mostly grown up.

I told him good night, and headed for the stairs, making a point not to check the kitchen (where just a few years ago I could have counted on dishes strewn about and maybe the ice cream left out). Rather I was conscious of how slowly I moved after I'd been sitting for awhile, and the way I tended to lean on the railing, dragging myself along at this late hour. Yes, it was great having the boy home. But nothing like his vibrant youth and fast maturity to emphasize my own aging.

I went into work tired the next couple days, but also feeling reinvigorated. And more outwardly focused, which I'm sure was good for my coworkers, and myself as well.

By the end of the week, a summertime pattern was already emerging. Doug and I toning it down but not really worrying about waking Sam as we got ready for work. Clark coming in for his breakfast, then hurrying back to Sam's room, where he could be assured of the company of a big slumbering person for hours to come. And Sam, regressing back to his high school self, eating and watching odd things on TV in the night, ducking out with a mumble to see his friends, even wearing some of the old clothes he had left here. Apparently this was his pattern now – to wear everything possible before bothering to do a load of laundry.

I hurried off to work and hurried home right after on the days he was home, happy to see him, and glad he was actually getting some time off. Between school and his internship, he deserved a respite.

Friday, he was scheduled to leave for Keith's. I made us lunch at least, and tried not to nag him to get his bag ready and everything. I knew Keith had taken the afternoon off and was expecting him and would be hurt to think Sam didn't want to go there right away. But – Keith's emotions, not my problem. Nor was Sam's timing. As I had so many times these last few years, the best I could do was practice stepping back.

Eventually, he ambled out, with a vague acknowledgement to call if he got delayed and would miss dinner upon his return in a week. I nodded, ever casual, though his nonchalance in leaving gave me a pang.

My eyes traced the room after the door shut behind him. Several things were out of place – he had moved the coffee table to use as a footrest, and left one of his oversized books overturned on it. A sweatshirt hung on the railing at the foot of the stairs. In the kitchen, I knew I'd find a few things put away slightly wrong, and changes in appearance just from the sheer quantity of extra food we'd bought.

But that did not have to be a bad thing, I admonished myself. In fact, I should view everything about Sam's visit as more ways to shake things up.

I had plenty of fodder for my weekly conversation with Mags at Hillside. She had not known Sam very well as a child. Keith and I had lived farther away then, and just been busy with our insular little lives. As she had with hers, with Liza's kids when they were little, with her volunteer work on the community garden, taking care of her husband his last years.

But Mags was one of those enthusiastic people who could become acquainted with just about anyone in a short time. And our friendship meant a person close to me was automatically important to her. I drove over and parked, brimming with Sam stories.

Hurrying down the bright, loud corridor, I was relieved to spot Teilah at her station as usual. The regular ladies were there too, everyone appearing calm and cheerful. Maybe that was just a reflection of how I felt, I thought. It wasn't so much that anyone looked happy – just no one complaining out loud or clearly stressed out made for a soothing image.

Mags was up and alert in her chair when I tapped at her open door. "Clarissa," she exclaimed. "My dear, I've been trying to see out the back window here and it's just useless. You'll have to tell me what's blooming instead."

She was several feet from her window, which was mostly shaded by a long, gauzy curtain. Liza had brought it to give the place some class, she said, but I thought it was hard for Mags to manage. "Let me at least move this back," I said, grabbing a frothy handful and tucking it into its loose cord. That left at least a pocket of window visible, and a bit of green within her sight line, though I wasn't sure how well she could see things at a distance anymore.

But I described the local flowers here and in my garden, and Mags guessed what would be coming up at the community place. And before I could burst out with it, she asked me to tell her everything about Sam, how he looked these days, what he was working on and if he had a girlfriend.

I said as much as I knew, and we jointly extrapolated the rest. It amused me to recall Mags and my mother on some occasion, years back, having a somewhat similar rundown on the mostly mysterious life of Curtis. He may have still been in college, or recently graduated. But I remembered Mags' dreamy tone, spinning out the sort of girl he should marry (independent, smart, wanting to build a good home first then start their family). My mom agreeing, egging her on, and probably somewhere in the back of her mind, I thought, wishing she too could acquire a dutiful daughter-in-law.

I didn't really picture Sam settling down to such a conventional life, any more than Curtis ever had. Yet it was pleasant to imagine how he possibly could. Or how his life might stay as it was, Sam with his head in computing and science – but still achieving the simple pleasures of lifelong companionship. I sat forward now, observing Mags and marveling at how well she had adjusted to Curtis' rootless existence. You'd never know, from hearing her talk to or about her son, that she had ever wished him to have any other sort of life.

"Oh my," she said. "I do hope he can stop by before he leaves again for school. I promise not to tell him anything of our schemes for him."

I laughed, and assured her she was on his schedule. (Never mind he was half a head taller, I would haul him in by his belt strap if I had to.)

She sighed. Then lifted her head, twisting a bit awkwardly in her chair. "Can you see that clock?" she asked.

"It's a little after three," I said.

She sighed again. "Well, my therapy was moved to this afternoon, but I wasn't clear if it was at 3:00 or 3:30. It was one of those young people who mumbles. Maybe they just forgot about me."

"Want me to run down and check?"

"Oh no, frankly I could do without it. I know, it helps," she added, before I could object. "Just wanted to mention it, in case someone suddenly comes to fetch me."

They tended to run late, especially in the afternoon, or if people's times had been shifted around. She was right about the habit staff here had of moving people around – if it was time for therapy or a quick trip to just about anywhere for anything, the wheelchair bound were abruptly strapped in and delivered, never mind what they happened to be doing up to that point.

"Well, I'm doubly glad we already had some time," I said. "It does me good to talk about Sam instead of nagging at him directly."

She waved me off. "You were never a nagger," she said. "But you should drop in and see Della. I think she was hoping for a chance to chat. We both enjoyed meeting the young man, your friend? I've forgotten his name."

I blinked at her, puzzled. Sometimes when she was quite tired, she would mix up who she was talking to, in reference to someone else. But she seemed perfectly lucid. "My friend?" I repeated.

"The fellow doing the research," she said. "With his itsy bitsy computer."

"Wait— Daniel was here? Asking about psychic stuff?"

Mags leaned forward, her eyes sweet and sly. "If you must know, I didn't follow the exact conversation," she murmured. "He seemed more intent on questioning her. But I gathered it was about the, um, the things you two shared. The way your mother was sometimes."

Mag's regular aide appeared suddenly in the doorway, advancing toward her with a firm, no nonsense stride. "Sorry to interrupt, ladies," he boomed, "but we're late with PT already."

"Oh, dear," she muttered. "Do stop and see her, won't you?"

"Of course." I stood, lest I be run over by her quickly maneuvered chair. It was tempting to dash down the hallway after her, singing out the first of several questions that were racing in my mind.

Rather, I paused to catch my breath. And review recent conversations in my mind – I had spoken to Kylie a couple times before Sam got here, and exchanged an email with Daniel about an article he forwarded. No one had mentioned, nothing had come up about his coming here. Was it really even him?

I stepped quickly across the hall to Della's room. A voice came from within, melodious and soothing – her latest book on tape. She sat utterly still, eyes half closed, like a cat in the sunshine, listening. But when she realized I was there, she leaned forward, fumbling for the stop button.

"Come in," she said, beckoning with her good arm. "This will wait."

I was sure she knew what I had on my mind, but she waited calmly for me to ask. We quickly established that Daniel, "my" Daniel had been here Tuesday and had spoken with her at some length. Had apologized for already knowing her childhood story about fainting in tandem with her mother, but very much wished to hear it in her own words.

I recalled the walk he and I had taken around campus. I'd mentioned it, I'd mentioned Mags and Della and Yvette, but in reference to my own memories. "I'm sorry," I told her. "That did come up in a conversation I had with him, but I had no idea he would come and interview you about it."

"Yes, I wondered about that," she said. "He was a bit, what's the word, cagey about seeing us. Mentioning your acquaintance as if you were old friends, when I was quite sure you had only met recently. Making it seem as if you had sent him over, where I felt it more likely that you would have brought him on a Friday, made the introductions yourself."

"I would have," I agreed. "And happy to do so, if he'd mentioned it. And I'd have checked with you first."

"Well don't worry, dear, he was perfectly polite. Very charming and gracious, Mags was quite taken with him." She smiled her small cat-like smile.

I met her eye. "You weren't?"

"Well, I was, yes, at first. It's not every day that I meet someone who wants to hear what an old lady has to say. Who's so fascinated by my little stories."

I watched her as she paused, eyes circling the room. I waited her out, as I'd observed Daniel do rather effectively. I wouldn't put words in her mouth.

"It seemed to me that he wasn't being quite honest, as I said. He presented himself as quite ignorant, you see, asking me to explain just what I meant in the things I remembered. Precisely how I had felt – which is rather a lot to ask about anything that happened decades ago. But as though he had no idea what any of this was about. When surely he had been investigating the whole thing for weeks now, maybe months." Della paused, and took a deep breath. This was the longest speech I'd heard from her, I thought. "And he asked several questions about you. About what you'd told us of your abilities, and what we had observed. It just didn't sit so well, if you see what I mean."

I gave a slow nod. "Well, he is thorough. He told me as much, and it's obvious from the details he's sought." I tried to picture Daniel here, perched on one of Della's small guest chairs. These two parts of my world didn't mesh well at all. "I don't see why he would need to come here without mentioning it, or ask about me – I've been perfectly open with all his questions."

"He may have, um, suggested that you were somewhat unaware of your own memories and capabilities. He had a nicer way of saying it, but that was the gist. That Mags, having known you so long, would have a better understanding of your abilities."

"And did she?" I demanded, side tracked with genuine curiosity.

Della's eyes crinkled a bit in silent laughter. "My dear, she had no idea. She gave a glowing summary of your many fine qualities of course. But this was not what he was looking for. I could see that in him easily, even now."

"Well, I guess it would help to get someone else's perspective," I said slowly. Had he spoken to Kylie about me? But she would surely have let me know. I felt a slight flush, just thinking about the questions he would ask. Or more to the point, about his determined interest in me.

"And if we wheelchair bound folks couldn't quite fit the bill, well, no harm done." She gazed out toward her window for a moment, at the greenery just outside the window, and I imagined her wishing she could roam around freely out there. Just for a day or an hour even, lift the veil of isolation that kept her in this room. Her eyes returned to me. "It did give me a lift, that someone brand new understood what had happened to me, all those years back. Heard it and didn't try to rationalize it away, just accepted my story."

I nodded. "I appreciated that too. About Daniel, I mean. His interest, how he listens." I felt her peering at me and shifted in my chair. "Are you comfortable? It's a little warm today, I could push that window up."

"I'm fine, don't trouble yourself." She turned back toward her window. "It is lovely today, isn't it?"

She knew I was changing the subject; she probably had a good idea of why. Perhaps she saw more than I did, it occurred to me. Saw me blush at the sound of his name, rationalize his unexpected behavior.

Only later did another reason for changing the subject occur: my "good friend" Daniel, for all his flattery and ease with people, must have underestimated these old ladies. So many people did – wheelchair equals stupid, or at the very least unaware. Not something Della would want to call my attention to. But really, did Daniel think they wouldn't mention his visit to me, that it would be gone from their daffy little heads just a few days later?

I had my phone out and his number highlighted before I started second guessing again. Maybe he had counted on the ladies having gone over the whole thing with me, had anticipated the exact warm sensations I had indeed experienced, envisioning his queries. Maybe he just figured I would be flattered by the attention. That I would call him right up and make an excuse to see him again.

And was that what I wanted? Or what he wanted?

I set my phone down, and made myself take a couple deep breaths. All this exploration of other people's emotional readings and decades old extra sensory knowledge, and I couldn't even admit to myself this simple internal failure of understanding: that all of my perceptions of Daniel were colored by my base attraction to him.

I stood, and made a slow circuit around the living room. I folded Sam's sweatshirt and set it in the closet, and picked up his book, marking its place and gently pressing on the binding to close it. Good thing he didn't have any inclinations toward this stuff, I thought with a barely suppressed giggle. How horrified would Sam be at his mom's repressed carnal thoughts.

But the situation remained. Not just the inappropriate attraction, but Daniel's behavior, whatever his rationale. I clicked his number. I would play it cool.

He picked up after several rings. "This is a pleasant surprise," he said.

"Well, I was just chatting with my friends over at Hillside," I told him. "Wondered if you got everything you needed from them."

"I hope you don't mind my barging in like that," he answered, smooth voiced. Oozing charm, or so I willed myself to hear. "Long story, but I found myself right in the neighborhood, thought I'd save myself an extra trip."

At my noncommittal murmur, he went on to praise Della and Mags, and the facility, and the closeness we all clearly shared. Listening, I felt as much of two separate minds as I can ever recall. Track one was eating it up – he was right, we had such a bond, my mother would have been so proud, and how enchanting and sensitive that Daniel noticed all this. That he cared so much for all of us. At the same time cynical, pre-inknowing Clarissa was thinking, bullshit, how could anyone fall for this, what kind of snake oil is he going to turn around and sell me?

"Well, just so it helped," I finally said, fake cheerful, noticing he'd gone silent.

"Absolutely. I can send you a write up of what I gleaned. Della—well, both of them were so charming. Or maybe," he paused. "If it's not too much trouble, perhaps we could meet in person again?"

Like he was just now coming up with the idea. Which I doubted. But should I see him again, try to get to the bottom of all this? Or was I making excuses because I wanted to meet again and never mind why? I temporized with the need to check my calendar and told him I'd phone him back.

Clicking the phone closed, I felt a bit empowered. I hadn't left him time to object or ask when or ask anything more. And I had not let on that any of it bothered me – his presumptuousness in going to Hillside, that he had misled the ladies when he was there, what thinking about him was doing to my inner sensations of heat. At least I didn't think I had.

I turned back to my half straightened living room, looking but seeing nothing past a whirl of inner thoughts. Focus on what's real, I told myself, what's in front of you now, not the who might be thinking what and why that's really all in your head.

Though I couldn't help but notice that what was in front of me was a couple loads of laundry and maybe cleaning the bathrooms. These rooms that I had lived in so long they were invisible to me, just white noise to my thoughts. What was in my head – real or imagined – was more interesting, how could it help but be? Never mind about Daniel, the other stuff. Developing my innate skills, wherever I may find them. Paying attention, not alone in this room, but out there in the world. Getting back out in the world too, I amended.

It's important to recognize and prioritize your own particular talents, I thought, that's true for everybody. Take some time out, put your routine on hold and figure some of this out, not just run through your life like it's a rat maze and you can't see beyond the cheese.

That in mind, I came up with a whole series of things to plan for: we'd make sure that barbecue happened with Sam and his friends, I'd see Joan and the rest of that group and we would find a time where we could linger for more than a quick meal. I would make sure that Kylie and I both exercised our psyches, however that was possible. Doug and I could take a trip, see Heather in New York maybe. Or just go somewhere on our own, how long had that been.

And I wouldn't give in to the whispers of self-doubt that were nagging even now. About keep this all to yourself, and don't be silly, don't be foolish, you're sure to fail at trying something new at your age. I stood and went to the kitchen. If I hadn't exactly quieted the inner voices, at least I had stopped thinking about Daniel in any context, and counted that as positive. The only thing I hadn't resolved, of course, was what to do about him.

## 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 quick, 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-sensitivity 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 the 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.

## Chapter 12

I wished I could say my work weeks were less stressful these days. Shorter than Doug's, yes, but hour to hour too many frustrations. Falsely imposed deadlines, unreasonable expectations of just how much could happen in a given amount of time, inflexible calendars. A whole group of people scheduling their time as if meetings always ended when they were supposed to, copiers never jammed, ones own emails got immediate responses while nobody else made sudden time consuming demands.

And so on. Talk about complacency – I'd just gotten so damn bored with our endless overly optimistic reports to funders and repeated discussions of strategic plans and barely squeaked by deadlines.

The daily bustle of mini-crises averted and worried colleagues actually made me look forward to my upcoming little meeting. This despite how vastly my impression of Daniel had changed from before, and I cringed now, even thinking about that initial school girl crush feeling. I just told Wally I had to be somewhere Wednesday afternoon, no apologies or excuses. Our work would get done, he knew it and I knew it even if a pair of new young agency colleagues were flipped out about compliance reporting.

I left with time to spare that day, allowing time for transit mishaps or edgy nerves. I had dressed with a bit more thought than usual in the morning. Wanting to project confidence, to be able to walk comfortably, even run if needed (and I laughed at myself for thinking this, but still put on the stylish yet cushioned black flats). Daniel – assuming he showed up and didn't somehow intuit that Kylie and I were onto him – would see a woman who might be older but who had not completely lost the vigor and confidence of her prime.

I nabbed a seat on the streetcar, glad to sit but also relieved not to be taking the last seat. Or worse, having been offered one from some polite young person, because of course I wanted to encourage such gracious behavior even as it bummed me out to be the recipient. I pulled out a section of yesterday's paper to look at, though that made me feel all the more self-conscious. Talk about marking yourself as elderly: a newspaper at all, and not even today's.

Newspaper readers were mostly white hairs, I observed, and few and far between. Most people here had tabs or phones, or sat, faces impassive and unlined, as ear buds played a private sound track. More people crowded on at Castro and at Church, and I cast my eyes downward. The crowd made me nervous and uncomfortable. I thought about Kylie, trying to cope with this every day.

I wondered now, if I was extra conscious of my own reactions simply from having listened to her. Empathetic listening, wasn't that one of the terms on that website? And I'd empathized it right into my own psyche now, my nerves jangled as if wired to the tension of everyone pressed around me. Whatever you wanted to call it, some extra dimensional tapping of others, energy fields or plain misplaced anxiety, it was no fun for the person experiencing the sensations.

The lights on the streetcar flashed off for a moment, then back on. Faces around me suddenly blared into sight, though few expressions changed. One or two people who were reading actual pages looked vaguely annoyed. The floor here, where I cast my eyes again to keep from observing anyone else's nervous expression, was filthy. I imagined all the crap that had been dropped or tracked here, the thousands of people who had stepped on and off since this car had been thoroughly cleaned. The image of all those people compressed through time made the pressure of those present even more oppressive.

Heat began to radiate up from my chest and I felt my cheeks turn pink and my breath grow shallow. I raised my hand to my hair, lifting it briefly from my neck, desperate to feel cool air. The young woman beside me gave me a quick hostile look and pulled away from me. Could she tell about my hot flash, or was she just giving a possible crazy lady elbow room.

In any case, I stood, muttering a quick excuse me to everyone I jostled as I squeezed to the door. I didn't care, I'd walk the extra blocks, arrive late, I just wanted out of there.

Climbing the escalator to the street, the slight breeze soothed me. Never mind that this section of Market Street was noisy, cluttered and busy, at least it was open to the sky. I made my way sternly down the sidewalk, averting my eyes from the less savory sights, the wretched panhandlers and aggressive looking young people taking up too much of the sidewalk.

At least the worst of the heat departed, and with it the grimmest of my inner turmoil. I turned, trying to remember which corner we were to meet – there were Starbucks on every one down here, it seemed.

I located the café and Daniel sitting in it at the same time. Blushed again, from sheer nerves, I hoped, and entered slowly, purposely taking slow deep breaths. I placed a quick order and joined him in a quiet little alcove. I wasn't a big fan of the whole faux café chain, but had to admit the pleasant décor, rich roasting smells, and lilting music made a welcome change from the chaos of the street.

Daniel tipped his cup toward me, eyes just slightly crinkled in that charming half smile of his. He patted his netbook, saying he wouldn't take notes but that he had emailed me some text to look at, wondering if he thought I'd captured the essence of Della's story. So delightful, he added, he was so glad he'd had the chance to get acquainted.

I was hyper aware of the possible visual manifestations of my reactions to anything he said. I focused on my coffee, taking tiny sips, and on the odd, kitschy artwork on the wall.

"But to be honest, there was something else I wanted to mention," Daniel went on, "and I hope this isn't too presumptuous, but it stems from my deep respect for you, and concern."

I couldn't help it, I tuned directly back to his face, which was tilted toward me, a veritable river of compassion streaming across it.

"A couple things came up during my discussion with the ladies, your friends at the convalescent home," he continued. "Nothing direct, of course, but what they said and what you've told me – well, putting it all together with some of my research, I'm a little worried that you may have suffered some abuse. Back in your childhood, I mean. There are some fairly standard signals, characteristics, if you will, of people with repressed memories." Here he paused, eyes sparkling.

I blinked back in surprise. Not what I expected to hear in the slightest, and it almost made me laugh. Was Daniel unreadable, was I not as perceptive as I'd recently become convinced I was? "I'm not sure what you're getting at," I temporized.

"Clarissa," he murmured, voice low. "I think you do. You've described the sudden remembrance of physical sensations, a new awareness of painful memories, awakening with the knowledge of tragic news. Your parents were remote, your childhood seemed riddled with dark silences. I wonder if there are periods you can't remember? Instances when, looking back, you don't really recall the time passing, just that it had passed?"

My mind obediently drifted back, and I swallowed the knee jerk or sarcastic responses that immediately came to mind. Could I remember all of fourth grade from forty years ago – absurd. No one could. But rather than bark that question back to him, I said, "Daniel, I realize how it must sound, that I had forgotten or set aside my own awareness of my mother's pain. But if anything, I've been burdened by remembering too much. You know, mulling over whole conversations, or recalling slights that other people have long forgotten."

"Of course," he said. His face said this reaction was not a surprise at all. "It could possibly be nothing. Just, I would have been remiss in not at least bringing it up. In my research, I've encountered any number of people who make one discovery that's lodged somewhere way back," he tapped his head, eyes all sympathy, "and later it leads to others. Sometimes unpleasant things, yes, but things it's important for them to work through."

Things that you plan to take advantage of, I thought, things you'll sell the damn software for. I eyed him warily – just how perceptive was he, could he tell the direction of my thoughts? "I don't see much point in looking backward," I quickly said. "My interest from the start was figuring out how and why I've come to know certain things. Know them before I'm supposed to. I don't want to go around feeling other people's pain," I added lightly, "and I'm pretty sure my memory is well intact."

Daniel nodded. "You may find—well, other people have found, that sometimes looking into the past can help locate a path to understanding their reactions and perceptions in the present. There are a number of emerging therapies that could be quite helpful. Revealing."

I glanced toward the door. Where was Kylie; she planned to ambush us within minutes of our meeting time.

"Just something to think about," he added. "In your own time."

Again, my mind drifted backwards. I felt lulled by his words, by the lack of pressure. It was the tone of that website, I thought. You're smart and self aware, you'll come to this conclusion on your own. "So you just thought to tell me about this," I finally answered, taking a deep breath, deciding I would have to challenge him on my own. "That I may have repressed memories. I may need therapy. You wouldn't happen to have any secondary financial interest in the topic?"

The tiniest flash of anger touched his expression, which quickly blinked to an open and smiling expression of mild surprise. "Of course I'm interested in the topic. . ." his voice stopped, attention shifting to over my shoulder.

I turned and calmly greeted Kylie, who shrugged off her jacket and dragged a chair up next to mine.

No doubt this time – Daniel looked annoyed. He said nothing, but looked back and forth between us. I had been blind to it before, but he clearly preferred charming the ladies one at a time.

"Sorry I'm late," Kylie said.

"I was just, um, broaching the topic," I muttered back to her.

She tapped onto her phone and held it up to him. "Look familiar?" she asked.

"Sure," he answered, but his blasé tone was contradicted by a sudden nervous shift in his posture. "I'm familiar with any number of organizations and websites. I've been researching this whole topic, as you're no doubt aware."

Kylie shook her head. I could tell she was nervous being this confrontational, but she held her ground. "No, Daniel, not from doing research. From your creation. From your soliciting possible clients and writing about investment opportunities." She glared at him. "Dan C. Lassen, financial advisor, developer of innovative new software systems, expert at convincing the lonely and rich to part with their money."

He and I both stared back at her. Kylie riled up was a force to be reckoned with, that was plain. She wasn't going to back down easily, I – and presumably Daniel too – could see. "Assuming that's even me," he began. At her look, he continued, "Yes, I've published some material under that variation of my name. I'm a writer, Kylie, it's not unusual." (His tone was perfect, I thought – a combination of competent and gentle, with just a touch of condensation toward her presumed inexperience in life at her tender age.)

"You're not just a writer," she shot back. "You've been out there representing yourself as this nice researcher who's just writing his story, and all along you're also, like, soliciting potential clients. You're selling software to therapists and recruiting the people who'll need it. Are you going to be a therapist too – that's the only part we couldn't figure out."

Daniel glanced my way. "So you're in on this too?" His expression now looked weary. "Either one of you could have just asked me, there's no need for the hostility I'm picking up here."

"That's another thing," I added. "You seem to be pretty capable of sensing other people's emotions, considering how often you act like this is all new to you."

I watched his eyes narrow and then what seemed like a blanket drop across his features. Eyes and mouth neutral, body still, he answered calmly, "Naturally, I may have picked up a trick or two. As you have, Clarissa, isn't that right?"

"That's not really the point here, is it? Like Kylie said, I'm not the going around pretending this is all brand new to me. While chatting up who knows how many possible clients."

"Get this," Kylie added to me. "I found out he went to a big meeting of therapists, some holistic alternative conference. Collected business cards and talked about his quote research there too, when you know he's going to be after them for business."

"What, are you following me," Daniel demanded, the gentleness gone from his voice. "Do you think anyone would have a problem with me attending a public gathering and speaking to people about the topic of interest? Is it possible you have a bit too much empty time on your hands?"

"Please don't steer this away from our point," I jumped in, since Kylie looked a bit stricken by his question. "Feel free to go where you want. Write what you want and invest in your wonderful therapeutic remedies. But we have a problem with how you misrepresented yourself to us. And to God knows how many other people who have genuine concerns."

"Listen, ladies," Daniel said, deeper condensation in his voice and manner, "since you're so concerned, I will be happy to delete any references to your particular stories from my articles right now. No biggie." His eyes moved between us, and he continued, "If you ever do happen to read any of these pieces, you'll see that my interest in genuine. The research is sound. And yes, maybe I've got a so called psychic side, but that only makes it easier to relate to all of you."

"Yeah, you relate to us, 'all' of us, by acting like we have the most amazing gifts you've ever imagined," Kylie said. "Then you worm your way in there all sympathetic, and next you'll be setting us up with your fine new therapy plan."

"Excuse me for wanting to help," he sighed.

I watched his face, searching for anything that would clue me in to whether his hurt tone was real. I couldn't tell; I was too far in, too focused. Or he was too good at masking his true nature. "I can't tell just what your motivations are," I said, honestly. "But Daniel – neither of us want to just let this go." I glanced at Kylie for confirmation. "I mean enough with the collection of needy sensitives, okay? We've got enough to deal with, we don't need somebody trying to sell us on expensive software too."

He sighed again, looking put upon.

"We're serious," Kylie said. "You've got to promise you'll stop suckering people or we will publicly out you." She gestured to her phone, sitting on the table between them. "It wouldn't be hard at all. What with my spare time and everything."

I wondered just what nerve he had hit with her, not able to recall her having told me much beyond the sort of basic dissatisfaction with her working life that I took for granted in a younger person. Daniel, meantime, was doing that silent thing of his. Kylie's words hung in the air for us all to examine, while he sat there, absolutely expressionless.

Finally, he looked toward me, weary eyes asking mine if I would also be so difficult and immature. "I'm with her," I told him. "I didn't appreciate your barging in on my friends, or insinuating that I need therapy. And I might have been flattered by your interest at first, but not now that I see that this is just part of your business model."

"Let me try to be polite about this," he snapped back, his voice anything but. "Anything you think you can do online to my name and my image and so on, will come back to haunt you as you can't even imagine. You might be able to anger a couple old school editors or turn off a few readers. But – I don't want to but I could – I could counter back in ways that are deep and personal." He glared between us. "I don't think any of us want to go there."

I felt a tinge of nausea on top of clammy heat rising from my core. I thought of Doug, of Daniel writing some screaming headline about the two of us, spewing his name and my craziness for all his peers to see.

But Kylie's expression was an absolute sneer. "Please," she said, with a withering eye roll, "you really think you're going to put something up that's not already up on Facebook? Or that you could get anyone to take your random postings seriously? Have you been online lately?"

Daniel didn't respond, at least not verbally. He tossed his cup into the compost bin and slapped his computer into his bag. He shot me a narrow eyed, assessing look. "I guess I won't follow up with you after all, so just ignore my email, would you? And thanks," he added sarcastically, "for coming down here for coffee."

Implicit, or at least so I imagined, was a caution that I'd best reason with young Kylie, lest she start some crazy bout of impugning both our images, online and in the world. I watched him stalk out the door, almost running down a pair of giggling and texting young men hovering there.

Kylie stood up too. She hadn't even bought a drink, and she looked almost as out of breath as when she'd arrived. Though less nervous. "I'm sorry, I can't stay," she said. "I barely got here, we had this stupid thing come up—anyway, I've got to get back there. I'll call you tonight?" She yanked on her jacket. "That was kind of fun, actually. He looked pretty damn surprised."

"Yeah, but wait – this is kind of crazy, what he said. I can't have him writing personal stuff about me. He's got a built in readership. He could be putting stuff up right now."

She paused, shaking her head. "He's not going to risk anything like that, I'm pretty sure. We just put him on notice. This was bound to happen at some point, you know? I'll text him, if it'll make you feel better. Gotta run." She hurried out the door.

I stayed put. Around me, airy conversations swirled. Other people sat texting or typing; I was the only one with a cup of coffee as my sole occupation. Self-consciously, I got out my phone.

I didn't want to be one of those people unable to just exist in the world without a device in my hand and the thumbs up following of a social media clique. But at the moment, I felt like I was headed off the deep end. My mind spinning out a thousand worries of all the things Daniel might do online, might be already doing, and how Doug would react, how to break it to him, how to go to work in the morning if my name was somehow publicized in the ominous ways Daniel had threatened. Had he specified anything? I didn't think so, but that just made it worse – a whole world of possibilities expanded like a virus in my mind.

Sitting alone in a public place wasn't helping. I was conscious of my own plainly wracked nerves, my shakiness and inner body heat. Plus other people's voices and faces intruded – the sound of false laughter, jittery tension from people waiting for their drinks, busy, late and stressed. It all seemed to compress around me. My own breath panted rapid and shallow, almost in rhythm.

Is this what a crisis feels like, I asked myself, suddenly thinking of Mags. How she knew she was having the stroke but fell, powerless to stop it and powerless even to call for help. I pressed fingers to my forehead, willing myself to be calm. To just get through the rest of this afternoon, and take on anything else later.

Because it did feel like a direction I could set for myself, I realized. Since Yvette had died, since that voice had come to me again, since I'd started investigating instead of ignoring its meaning, different futures had presented themselves. Now here I sat in a busy downtown Starbucks, trying to choose between my prior life of literal meanings and smooth, dull relationships, or maybe opening to greater abilities from within, to living on a deeper, more open emotional level.

Despite how wound up and overheated I felt, it was hard to imagine returning to my old tricks of just tuning everything out. Settling back with my soothing little routines, with Doug, with only our retirement and quiet decline to look forward to. If I could just make it out of this place right now, I thought. Be quietly alone for a little while, away from the buzzing in and out of my own head.

I picked up the phone again. A quick scroll, and there appeared numbers for Curtis, Daniel and Doug right in a row. Three people I had trusted. Two of whom I could still count on, I thought. My finger hovered for a moment before I clicked Curtis.

He answered right away, and his voice in my ear began to flush out some of the crazy. I assured him things were fine with his mom – poor thing, that's the main reason I ever called. And told him just the briefest outline of what had just transpired, my hand cupped around the phone so as not to broadcast it to those around me. Anymore than it already had been? Though no one had paid much attention to us, I realized. This, oddly, made me feel calmer too. You had to be seriously loud and nuts to even get noticed around here.

Curtis, ever gracious and ever my friend, heard me out. He didn't laugh or deny what I was telling him, and even googled my name as we talked, assuring me nothing new beyond my dull work bio and a couple references to people clearly not me were showing up.

"You remember my parents," I added, just to be sure. "You don't remember them doing anything that might be considered abusive, do you?"

He laughed. "Of course not. We saw you guys all the time. My mom never would have been friends with your parents if they'd hurt you. Anyway, you just told me the guy who said this was a fraud."

"Well, he's full of it, but he's perceptive too." But mostly, he just wanted me to need what he was selling, I thought. I was perceptive too, and bottom line, that much was clear.

"Was there something going on that none of us knew about, you think?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.

"No. I'm sure there wasn't." Images of both my parents hovered in my mind. How shy they were out in the world, how gentle they were with each other. And with me. "I'm sorry," I added. "I don't think I'm really as crazy as I sound."

"If it makes you feel any better, you sound about as crazy as you always do." This was teasing, and I could hear in his voice that he had judged I was okay. Back to normal.

"Gee, thanks." My voice sounded better, and my body felt cooler. I took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say to Doug about this. If anything. He got mad when I interviewed as an anonymous source."

"Well, you should probably mention it," Curtis said. "I mean didn't you say something about being truthful to each other when you stood up and took vows?"

"God, you remember that?" Those handwritten and heartfelt vows Doug and I recited at our wedding. It seemed so long ago now; less than a decade, but the mid-2000s seemed a bloated, optimistic, bygone era.

"I'm thinking he will too," Curtis laughed. "Just be straight with him. It sounds like you misjudged this dude a little bit; that might actually make Doug feel okay."

He had a point. We chatted for a couple more minutes, and by the time we hung up, I felt better. If not my normal self, at least on even enough keel to splash my face in the bathroom and proceed back toward home. Okay enough to face the next hours and weeks, not giving in to the temptation to just shut it all down again and go back to ignoring the pulse of the world around me.

## Chapter 13

I saw Daniel's email at the top of my inbox when I got home. The mere sight of his name triggered a tiny jolt, and I thought about how items once posted stayed in the ether of the internet forever. I had set something in motion and had little power to control it.

But I told myself I to take a breath. I had coped with a good deal in my adult life. The death of my parents, an angry divorce. Childbirth, Sam's babyhood, the scare we'd had when his fever had spiked with an ear infection and we'd rushed him to the hospital. Friends who had gotten ill. What happened to Mags.

This thing I could cope with too. Words on a screen, accusations made online – the fact was that even worst case, it would dissipate before too long. That was the way of the world now – probably what Kylie had tried to say – there was so much crap online now that skepticism came naturally. Counter posts could be made. Daniel's threat scared me because he knew things about me, knew how to get to me, not because he could in fact cause so much harm.

Turning back, setting my shoulders resolutely, I opened Daniel's message. It was just his text about Della, what he had sent before any angry words had been exchanged. I read, drawn in in spite of myself. He did have a good way of capturing the essence of a person and her story. The account itself, her keeling over the instant her mother did a mile away, was compelling. And his description of her, her "aura of calm with a hint of spiciness beneath her smile" was apt.

I clicked the message closed. Didn't reply, but didn't delete it either. As if having it, along with Daniel's cheerful greeting and sign off, would serve as evidence against any further mischief he might try.

A message from Kylie popped up as I sat, contemplating. Just checked his urls, nothing's up. He texted me all nice, sorry about the misunderstanding. I didn't answer. Sorry I had to leave so quick.

I tapped out a quick response, that I hadn't found anything up either, and Daniel hadn't send me anything after the draft about Della. She replied almost immediately that she'd like to take a look at it if I wouldn't mind forwarding it, though her job sucked and she wouldn't have time until later.

I didn't think Della would mind – I was sure she would like Kylie if I ever managed to introduce them. At this point in her life, as she had told me, she pretty much appreciated anyone taking an interest. And I didn't much care what Daniel thought. He was pretty free and easy with sending around peoples' weird life stories, that was clear. It occurred to me unpleasantly that he may have sent his little summary of me to who knows how many people, never mind his assurances he wouldn't publish my name.

Anyway, I wished her luck with work, and refrained from any further wise words about how today's crisis will be tomorrow's forgotten tiny bump in the road. That sort of thing drove Sam crazy, even where he now and then admitted I was right. I pictured Kylie hunched over her computer, toiling away at trying to retrieve what ever data disaster had befallen the place. One eye on her email, answering messages too, maybe a spare thumb texting on her other hand?

I rose from the computer, turning my attention fully away. Another thing I had advised Sam, that he seemed incapable of. The boy was good at multi-tasking, I'd admit. But there were times when he seemed to more be skimming the surface of his three things at once. Nothing penetrating, all the activities (eyes half on a TV show, exchanging snarky messages with his pals, shopping for bike parts, whatever) shortly forgotten.

There was value in doing a single thing well. I'd said that to Sam, Doug and I had said it to each other often enough. This sort of thing was an ongoing frustration in his work life, the lack of full attention from coworkers and clients alike. The young lawyers coming up in the firm, who were so comfortable with every silly switch in tech systems, who easily functioned in the online cloud from wherever they were, even behind the wheel, while Doug really needed a quiet place to sit and focus.

I got dinner started, glancing at the clock. The afternoon had zipped by, I realized – it seemed like just minutes ago I'd been elbowing my way off the streetcar, but it had been three hours.

As if on cue, Doug called. Voice resigned, he told me he would be late, probably past eight. He'd grab something to eat there, I shouldn't wait for him.

He apologized and hung up before I could say more than I hoped it wouldn't be too unpleasant for him. Not that I had much to say, but clearly this was no time to discuss my afternoon. Doug had enough problems right now without piling on the possibility that his wife had just launched a cyber war with her newfound friend, turned – what was Daniel now, I wondered, newly newfound therapy swindler. Who'd been making me all tingly till I finally took a clear headed look at him.

I put half the dinner stuff back and started something simpler just for myself. I tried to think about what we might have on the weekend, when Sam was back. But I was still mulling over the afternoon. Uninvited, Daniel's voice echoed in my head.

I think you know, Clarissa. He said my name in a particularly intimate, possessive way. Even realizing that was part of his game with people, it got to me. That tone, that look in his eyes and smile, pulled me in sure as the sudden crushes of my much younger days. I'd reacted to him in a way one would hardly expect from a married, middle aged woman.

And yet, probably not surprisingly at all. To be sought out like that, listened to so intently, face to face in the here and now – why wouldn't I sit up and take notice. After all, he offered a door to something I'd maybe been thinking about for awhile now – that there have to be better ways of learning and relating for people than sitting in front of a screen and pretending we have 300 friends. Reading their inane messages, clicking a little thumbs up icon, and telling ourselves that's meaningful. Daniel had certainly represented a better alternative.

I remembered something my mother had said, years ago when I was a child. It hadn't been long since we'd moved to California. I was nearly 12, and resentful of having been uprooted, wary of everything new around me, lost in that place where childhood fun was beneath me but my teen years still eons away.

I had been moping around, which I might have done regardless of the move, but here I could assign easy blame on my parents for my lack of friends and interesting things to do. I must have droned on at some length, barely even listening to myself, before she came over and gripped my shoulders, sternly saying my name.

"You can make choices," my mom had said. "That's what sets us apart from the animals. There's a world out there waiting for you. You don't have to sit inside with me complaining about it."

That phrase, you can make choices, had stuck with me. Been a short hand for kicking myself in the seat now and then when I was feeling stuck in a rut in my life. And it was funny, looking back – at the time, I had understood her to be saying I needed to take the initiative to go out and make friends, find my own entertainment, stop bothering her.

But from my perspective now, I imagine she must have also felt some combination of resentment and envy about where I was in my life versus where she was in hers. There I was, young and free, with every material need in place, and the recently invigorated women's movement ensuring I could forge all kinds of career paths previously off limits. While she was entering middle age, also far from her prior home and friends, but with so many of those other choices already made.

Her early life in the Depression and then World War II saw genuine depravation not seen again until very recently. She had married my father – again, something I concluded now, looking back – in large part to fill a void of security from her childhood. They had met, quickly courted, and clung to each other, with a solid but quiet and inwardly facing partnership.

And just 18 years after we'd had that conversation, she would be widowed. My dad died within weeks of his retirement. In all that time, how many choices did she really have?

I thought of our quiet neighborhood, of the small, carefully measured out meals we would eat, how in the evenings they would sit and watch an allotted TV program and then just silently read. Lucky for all of us that we met the Henleys. A true friend for my mom, ready entertainment for all my dad, for all three of us. Another role model for me, certainly. More choices for me – I could choose both the brightness and loyalty that Mags had demonstrated since those early days.

I stood, shaking myself out of my reverie. And I had choices still now. How to react to what Daniel had said, what he had threatened. What if any further steps to take about him – I understood Kylie's anger, but was it really our place to save all our fellow sensitive people from Daniel's manipulative reach? Who knows, maybe some of them would benefit from high priced therapy. And therapy software. (Right, scoffed my inner voice – though still, look how many other things in the world were online these days.)

One thing I felt certain of now, at least: my own memory was quite well intact. Unusual perceptions had occurred, but not abuse. The only repression had stemmed from that hyper sensitivity, and nothing big beyond than that one incident with my mother's miscarriage had filtered up.

Now that I was aware of it, that terrible instance in my mother's life, I viewed both parents with all the more sympathy. What must she have gone through, keeping that all to herself? Didn't Dad ever wonder? Didn't they ever talk about it, in words other than the vague euphemisms they used for anything personal or bodily function related?

If only he had lived longer – I think they would have had to have more of those frank discussions, it just came with the territory. Though always a bit stiff, conservative, behind the times, I felt sure they would have blossomed with the grace that I had seen in other older couples. The way, in fact, I assumed Doug and I would live our later years, in mutual support and friendly communication even as our bodies began to betray us.

I thought for a moment about how that would be, an era when we would both have plenty of free time. Meals, extravagantly prepared because we had hours to do so, would be comfortably early. He could get more wrapped up in the sports stuff, finally win his online league because he could focus more attention to it. I could take Mags out on extended outings, or go visit Sam for the day just for fun. Or better, Sam would move back to the city, Zoe would settle down, marry, have a pair of darling grandchildren that we could babysit for a happy hour or two and then give back. I could better learn to use those innate skills that had lain dormant for so long, find the balance between shutting out the scary stuff and letting all the hyper awareness swamp me.

Clarissa, I said to myself, employing a gentle and empathetic tone ala Daniel – first you need to pay attention to what's right in front of you. Be here now.

The evening passed, uneventful, as did the next day. Nothing untoward appeared online. I spoke briefly to Kylie from work, and we both agreed to banish Daniel from our minds. She, because she felt he had learned his lesson from us and would back off; me, not believing he would do more than tone it down for a bit but just flat out tired of that sort of distraction. I would light into him like a momma bear if he did anything close to dragging my and my husband's names into the limelight. But I refused to get obsessed with how his actions could possibly affect other people I didn't even know. Anyway, I did think (had I picked up something unknowingly or was it just from knowing enough about Daniel to make the judgement?) that he planned to back off. He wouldn't do a thing directly about us unless she and I really went after him so as to impact his online reputation and the related income.

Friday, I tried to bask in the pleasure of a quiet day off. Too much to do though, a dentist appointment in the morning, errands to run, extra food to pick up for Sam, housecleaning, paying bills. The best I could do was be present, be aware without overdoing it. Take note of the day, sunny and breezy, fogless for once. Admire the new plants at the dentist's office, exchange in superficial chat with the hygienist, but glide right past the almost audible layer of tension buzzing around my fellow patients.

Just as at breakfast with Doug: know that he was carrying stress, but try not to annoy him by over analyzing things. Not get bogged down myself in worrying about him and his caseload.

I had my Afternoons with Austen this week, so I left plenty of time to drive over to Hillside. We were getting to the juicy part of Emma; mysteries of the heart from earlier chapters soon to be revealed.

It was gratifying to see the regular crowd making their way into the side parlor as I arrived. A half dozen voices competed, singing out hellos and make ways, plus the usual polite exchanges between residents and aides, as the ladies' chairs were negotiated to prime positions. All women today, also as usual. I was fine with that, although I thought perhaps some of them wished for a bit of actual male presence in addition to the fictional Darcys and Knightleys who populated Austen's world.

I set up my book and plugged in my ipod up front, then made a point of greeting people. Cheerful hellos, a few how are yous to ladies I trusted not to answer in too much detail. Mags and Della rolled in one after the other, apparently sharing a young aide who kept squeezing back and forth between them, not letting either get more than a few feet ahead.

Grinning, wondering if this was the aide's idea or something Mag's insisted upon – she hated the idea of anyone feeling left out or left behind – I waved to both of them. Both had reasonable hearing so they typically stayed toward the rear.

Unlike the dentist's office this morning, I was hard pressed to pick up much tension or emotional buzz. A couple different women were visibly a bit physically uncomfortable, challenged to stay upright in their chairs but determined to be here. And calm. I wondered vaguely – were these older women just not emanating whatever it was I'd been aware of earlier? Yet there were two or three aides still in the room, and they seemed at peace too. Or was this just such a familiar place to me? Or maybe it was just kind of mellow in here, and nobody was very stressed. Interesting, despite it being a room full of disabled people and underpaid assistants.

I kept an eye on Della for a moment, curious whether she had any sense of this, one way or another. She had told me she had lost her skills. But I wondered – she seemed pretty aware; could be that her lessor perceptions were still greater than normal. Della straightened her shoulders, leaning forward in her chair for a moment to right herself, and then edged herself back with an audible sigh.

They were ready, and I opened the book, glancing up for a moment as a hush descended. The story's pace ran briskly here, but I kept my voice clear, loud, and even paced. As I read, there was no need to assess my audience again, or take any sort of psychic reading – they were clearly rapt, with an air of peaceful satisfaction.

How measured, slow paced, and satisfying most of that long ago time was, I thought. At least as portrayed here, especially a few slowly enunciated chapters at a time.

I stopped at a late chapter's end. Before the inevitable declarations of love, but we all knew they were coming. I ducked down to click on the music, giving a little breath of gratitude for my own good mobility in contrast to the older women around me. And we just sat for a bit, listening, lapping in the light melodies and accepting the brief, sunny serenity of this particular afternoon.

Afterwards, I joined Mags and Della, pulling up one of the ornate parlor chairs next to their window alcove. Others were leaving, the more able wielding canes, the wheelchair bound patiently waiting their turns for help. A tranquil aura remained in the room, and I liked to think the soothing reading was part of it.

"You seem well," Della observed, that slight sly smile crossing her face. Her eyes, always deeply lined, crinkled even more.

"I guess I feel like I've resolved a couple things," I told them both, wondering again just how much she could read from me. "I kind of told off Daniel, a friend and I did. You were right about him, Della, he wasn't being straightforward with any of us. I'm still interested in the precognitive phenomena. But not the way he was pursuing it. Not as something marketable."

Both women nodded, seemingly pleased for me. Probably not getting exactly what I meant, but picking up on my upbeat tone. And that was enough, I thought. I had no need to tell them the blow by blow, or beg Mags for confirmation that my childhood had been free of therapy-inducing abuse. No need to go on about the worries I'd had about Daniel making threats, Doug's paranoia about our online reputations.

"Well, as long as you're happy, dear," Mags said. "I sound like a broken record, I just said the same thing to Curtis. But it's good to hear both of you taking matters in hand. Pursuing your interests, never mind what other people have to say about it."

I nodded. "I guess the most important aspect for me just comes down to communication. Paying attention to the words and expressions and whatever signals are right in front of me and not getting so caught up in worries about the future."

Della nodded, smiled slightly.

"Do I sound innocent and silly," I asked. "I don't mean just blithely assuming everything turns out fine, or ignoring world events. Just trying to be more observant and open, realizing what's really there, what's important. Tuning out the TV and computer, freeing up my short term memory, allowing new links to form."

"That sounds positively wise," Della answered. "People need to use their minds, even here. Explore their own talents, whatever those may be."

I thought about Mags, that fine eye she'd always had for color and design. Della with her library of books on tape. And their friendship, so clearly a blessing at this stage in their lives. My relationship with each of them. Enjoying time with important people in our lives.

"Your son is coming back soon?" Della asked. As if she was tracking my thoughts, predicting their direction.

"Today. Tonight, probably, he can be a little vague." But I couldn't help smiling, anticipating. "You knew I was thinking about him?" I asked her.

Della gave a tiny half shrug with her good shoulder. "I suppose it followed. What you were saying about priorities."

"She's a bit of a mind reader, just like you and your dear mother," Mags stage whispered.

"Well..." Della trailed off.

I could see in a glimpse, just in her gentle, pleased expression, that she didn't need to state the obvious here: it was not that hard to tell when I was thinking happily about Sam's homecoming.

## Chapter 14

Back home, I barely had my jacket off when I heard the key in the front door. I turned, hopeful that Sam was arriving early. But it was Doug. He stood for a moment in the doorway, eyes meeting mine. His face was pale, skin clammy looking, eyes both dull and pained. He moved into the room, pressing the door shut behind him and then sinking onto the couch.

"What's the matter?" I asked. I could feel my heart suddenly pounding, my psyche instantly on red alert.

"I thought it was just a virus, maybe," Doug mumbled. He pushed his briefcase aside and ran a hand across his forehead, which was beaded with sweat. "I just said I had to go home." Eyes raised to mine, he whispered, "I think we should go to the hospital. I think it's a heart attack."

Stay calm, an authoritative voice spoke in my head. My voice, and I said it out loud, two or three times, directed at both of us. Jacket, wallet, keys. Mine were only an arm's length away, and Doug hadn't even taken his off. I forced myself to move at a pace less frantic than my own heartbeat's, and stood over him, car keys in hand. Unsure of what to do except for thinking he wouldn't want to be helped up or coddled just now.

Doug stood, unsteadily, a hand absently patting at his upper chest. His passivity worried me as much as his words had. Looking at his face, I could see that everything had melted away for him but the pressure of getting help.

This I missed, I thought angrily to myself. But no time for recriminations. "Should we call 911, you think?" I asked. Like I was, you know, just wondering, the way we might choose what's for dinner.

He opened the door. "That's too much. It wouldn't save time anyway, let's just go."

I followed him out. He was walking, not keeling over in the manner of movie portrayals. He'd made it all the way home already, and he was probably right about the timing; even an ambulance could go so fast in traffic.

I drove as quickly as I could without killing us both. The hospital wasn't far. Not knowing what else to do, I kept up a steady stream of light chatter. Making sure he was still conscious – he was, the entire trip he gripped his seatbelt, hand sliding up and down and loosening it from his chest and neck.

I pointedly did not ask him anything judgmental – what had he been eating, had he ignored warning signs, etc. And I didn't allow myself to think about anything further than the tasks at hand. I whizzed through a just turning light, and up to the emergency entrance. "We're parking here," I told him.

Doug just nodded. Oh God. He could be a stickler for following the rules, and this confirmed he really thought it was an emergency. Together we walked down the ramp and through the double doors that hissed open in a too eager welcome.

"Excuse me," I announced to the first medical person I saw, "my husband may be having a heart attack."

"Right this way," the young woman said cheerfully, steering us to the admitting counter.

A second woman gave him a quick glance. "Can you talk, sir?" she asked. "Do you have your card?"

Doug gave a choking assent, and handed me his wallet. "I can take care of this," I told her. "He needs—"

"Of course," she said, "someone's coming." Her expression remained friendly, and somewhat disinterested. Well, naturally, she saw other people's emergencies every day.

As I fumbled with the admitting form, a pair of businesslike medical technicians appeared, a fast moving gurney wheeled between them. "Just come right on here, sir," one of them said. He looked absurdly young. "Just a precaution." Turning to me, he added, "We're going to run some tests. Someone will be out to speak to you in a few minutes, Mrs..."

"Prather," I filled in. No need confusing things further with our different last names.

They helped Doug onto the gurney, the bigger fellow kind of easing him into lying down. Like he was an old man. How they must see both of us, I thought. Doug raised his head for a moment, looking around for me. "Don't worry," he said.

I widened my eyes at him. "Oh, right, good advice." Somehow that gave us both a laugh, and I suspected he too was recalling the evening we met, the similar assurances we gave each other as we almost got locked in the back of that hotel. The medical guys frowned like we were both nuts as they wheeled him away.

I finished the paperwork, handing it back to the young woman at the desk. The minute it left my hand, I had no recollection of what I'd just written. But it must have been okay because she nodded, and gently suggested that I have a seat.

The lobby was small, surprisingly quiet for an emergency room. There was one other person waiting, a very calm looking woman reading a magazine. I sat on one of the wide, olive green sectional chairs, and tried to unobtrusively see what was going on down the hall where they'd taken Doug.

But the doors blocked most of my view, and it was quiet, save for casual sounding pages over the intercom. The woman behind the counter typed languidly at her computer. Another one, a nurse maybe, poked her head out the door. I half rose, but she smiled and turned away with a quick shake of her head.

"They'll probably be a little while," the first one said brightly. "They'd come get you if it was urgent."

As in, if he was about to die? None of the medical folks had indicated in any way – or at least I hadn't been able to pick up on signals – that Doug and his condition were anything other than completely routine.

I stood, unable to just sit there. "I'll be right out here," I told her. I took my phone out and went to the entranceway. Room to pace, a slight bit of privacy for a call, though I wondered who I might call now, before I knew anything.

Doug would have my head if I went and freaked out his daughters and it turned out to be heartburn. A pair of young nurses walked past, leaning toward each other as one spoke cheerfully about her dinner plans. Not another care in the world; I watched them, feeling incredulous despite having had little else on my mind a mere half hour ago.

Staff here barely looked old enough to drive. God knows what kind of youthful doctor they had examining Doug. Hopefully someone with at least a little experience. Someone actually treating him and not multi-tasking.

I phoned Sam. For all I knew he had arrived at home already and wondered where I was. (Unlikely on both counts, but still, just hearing his voice would surely be soothing.)

"Hey, Mom," he picked up right away. "I'm still at Dad's."

His voice did serve to anchor me. But I could barely speak, not knowing how much was appropriate to tell him. Not wanting Keith involved in any of this, although of course he would hear about it sooner or later. "Well, I was just calling to let you know I'm not home yet either. Actually, honey, Doug needed to go to the hospital." I could hear the catch in my voice. I didn't want to scare him. But at the same time, how I wished Sam was here right now, his broad shoulders and friendly puppy smile supporting me.

"What happened," Sam exclaimed. "Are you guys okay?"

"Don't know yet, they're running tests. He wasn't feeling well at work, and it might be, um, cardiac related."

"Oh, shit, Mom. Sorry. Where are you? Should I come right away?"

Just those words were reassuring to me. That I had a grown son, that he could come and be with us. I told him where we were, assuring him that Doug walked in on his own and they hadn't given me any further info. Knowing Sam would be home soon made me feel better, and I told him that too. I thought maybe I should call him back when I knew more, but I amended that to ask if he'd just keep me company on the phone for a few more minutes until the doctors came back.

Sam – his voice so adult now – kept up the same kind of innocuous patter that I had in the car coming over. The words flowed in and back out of my ears. I could hear my voice answering him, conversing; I had a mental picture of myself all competent and calm. But nothing was sticking. My eyes were glued to the window where I could see if anyone came out.

A few minutes later, one of the original gurney guys poked his head out. I cut off Sam, promising I'd call right back, and raced inside again.

"Everything's fine," he told me, "and you can come this way."

Doug was seated in a small examining room. His color was better, his eyes clearer. Without being able to put my finger on why, I was ready to believe the young technician now.

Another man barged into the room, at a glance an actual doctor. His movements were quick but he took a moment to introduce himself, and I was relieved to note he looked at least mature enough to have attended medical school. "We were able to rule out a myocardial infraction, a heart attack," he said. "Though I am going to advise some follow up tests, just given the circumstances and your age," he added to Doug. "But it looks like today's incident was a panic episode."

Doug lowered his eyes for a moment. Horribly embarrassed, possibly more embarrassed than relieved.

"It's not uncommon," the doctor continued, now speaking to both of us. "Brought on by stress, triggered by any number of things. These incidents can have kind of a cascading effect. And the body reacts as though to actual danger. Thus the adrenaline, racing heart, cold sweat – and becoming aware of these physical reactions can only make them more intense."

Without realizing it, I'd been clutching my own shirt collar, and I let it go, let my breath out and took in the wash of comfort that this news brought me. Like I'd just been handed the rest of the summer, blissfully uneventful, on a platter.

"Now that's not to say we don't need to address these symptoms," the doctor continued. "There could well be underlying issues." He went on in that vein for a bit, but what it came down to was Doug and the pressure he was under. External stuff, work stress, his reactions to it, were the problems more than actual damage on the inside.

Doug nodded humbly, hands folded in his lap like a child. On a normal day he would be telling the doc about his workout routine, his carefully low cholesterol diet. Maybe they'd already gone over that stuff? More likely Doug was on something, somehow sedated whether from medication or just from having at last calmed down. Realizing the physical sensations were coming from unchecked nervous system reactions rather than damage to his heart.

My God, I thought. He's got to learn to be more observant too. It wasn't the same as what I'd been going through recently, but it wasn't totally different either. Our eyes met, and he managed a rueful smile under raised brows. Not the time to bring it up yet, I told myself. But eventually I would.

The doctor handed me a sheath of papers and cheesy looking brochures, and instructed us to schedule his follow up appointment within the week. He gave us a big smile, genuine – well, this must be a welcome sort of emergency, I supposed. But now I could see in his face that he was done thinking about us, moving on in his day, even though he stayed in the room while Doug and I collected his stuff.

Shuffling out into the hall, Doug muttered that they'd given him a shot of something and warned him he'd be tired the rest of the day so I'd better drive again.

"Well, of course," I said. "I'm so glad it's not worse, but don't expect to be one hundred percent right away."

He kept his eyes downcast until we were outside, but then looked up at me. "It was nothing. I feel like an idiot."

"It wasn't nothing. The guy just said the symptoms are real even if they're in reaction to a nonexistent threat."

He gave a grudging eye roll, and stood, again impassive, waiting for me to unlock the car.

"Here, take a look at this stuff," I said, handing him the paperwork. "Um, I have to make a quick call to Sam." I took a quick glance at his expression – only mild mortification. "He was coming over, I wasn't sure how long we'd be, you know."

"Did you call anyone else?" Doug plainly meant his kids.

"Nope. Thought about it though." I tried to explain how comforting it was talking to a newly mature Sam, as I clicked his number.

Doug just said the girls being grown up made him feel old. Chalk up another conversation we'd need to continue later, I thought, greeting Sam with sincere relief in my voice.

It was funny, where I might have expected to be hyper aware of the rest of the day, instead it zipped by. Minutes, hours passed in that same quick flowing way: I participated, said or did what was expected, then quickly lost track of what had just occurred.

Only little snippets stuck. Doug's visible relief at sinking into the couch again, home and reassured of his good health. Cooking together the way we did, like dancing. How quickly Sam had dashed into the kitchen, squeezing me close, then giving a boyish shrug as he wrapped his arms around Doug. Every ounce of the closeness that had grown between them over the years pouring from his posture; I had to turn away lest either of these most important people in my life see how much this moved me.

I gently pushed Doug to at least call Zoe to tell her he was okay, though he protested that she had no reason to think otherwise. But they did know a couple people in common professionally. And besides, it struck me that he would need to take at least a bit of ownership here. Admit to stress being a problem, and who but his lawyer daughter would get that any better.

Tucked comfortably in the living room with Sam, I could glimpse Doug as he slowly paced the hall, chatting with her. His voice had that fatherly quality that only arose when talking to one of the girls, I thought, a combination of all knowing and warm. He was minimizing – though at least not denying – the afternoon's scare. Much less able to turn to Zoe as I had to Sam today, even though she was several years older, an adult, an attorney herself.

"Keith still talks like that to you, doesn't he?" I asked Sam.

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "It's okay though. In small doses."

We treated Sam like more of a grown up, I thought. Doug did anyway – something Sam had always liked about him was how he'd respected him as his own person, since they'd met. As I supposed I'd tried to do with Zoe and Heather. An advantage to not knowing one's spouse's kids since babyhood.

And yet – I thought about my own parents. I was barely 30 when my father died, only 37 during Mom's cancer and that quick and awful decline. But there had been a point, when I was in my 20s, when they started consulting me and Keith like peers. Or almost like we were superiors somehow, racing headlong into the expanding tech bubble of the mid 1990s while they quietly contemplated Dad's retirement.

He'd wanted us – he trusted us, or more, he trusted Keith – to make sure we started saving for retirement, and when Sam came along, for his schooling. At the same time he was flummoxed by the explosion of choices suddenly available, new types of funds and investments, the financial things we needed to know where his solid company pension and social security were presumed to be all he and Mom would need.

All moot as it turned out, his sudden heart attack before either of them had adjusted to his even being retired. I'd been thinking in the back of my mind about my father all afternoon, I realized. Of course, how could I not, the parallels when I thought it could be happening to Doug.

I'd only had an inkling about Dad's death, just vague hints in one of those near waking dreams. But then again my mom hadn't had much time to process it either, neither of us had been aware that anything was wrong. He'd been home, both of them having their typical quiet evening, when he had suddenly pitched forward, as she later described it. An ambulance had come, and she'd at least been able to go too, and sit with him, as he lay unconscious.

They didn't know how bad the damage was – recounting later, the doctors were sure he had ignored earlier symptoms, likely had one or more prior heart attacks already. He hadn't ever revived; he had died before Mom even called me, early the next morning. She'd been waiting, I guess, for something definitive before she bothered me with any of it, or incurred the tiny expense of the call.

They both felt unworthy, somehow. Not just then, it was something central to both of them, a meekness that must have come from the harshness of their upbringing and the things they were expected to do without. Anyway, it just wouldn't have occurred to him to take note of his milder symptoms, to demand appointments and medications or anything but the most urgent care. And she wouldn't have pushed him. Would have accepted whatever happened as their lot. She no doubt waited quietly and patiently for a doctor to tell them what to do, not realizing that by that point there was nothing to be done.

I remembered taking that call early in the morning. Expecting bad news, though surprised still at its totality. How she had apologized for not calling sooner, saying she had expected – she still expected – him to wake up any minute. And I had tried to comfort her as a I could, over the phone and numb with the confirmation of a vague premonition that something was wrong. This just clinked into place, now, allowing myself to relive that moment – more evidence that my mom had been the conduit somehow, the first link in the chain to my unexplained sudden awareness.

Why had I tucked all of that away so quickly, I asked myself now. At the time, during the intervening years, I would have said his death did not affect me very much. Not the way other people's losses did. As for the premonition, it didn't seem important, not compared to my busy life at home with a young child, or to my poor mother's quiet grief.

But tonight, just sitting here with a bit of time on my hand – with a grown son, a husband for whom I was weak with relief that he hadn't suffered something serious, a mature person's experience to understand that this is it, life has no dress rehearsal – I was ready and willing to take it all on. Sorrow about my parents, even after all these years. Regret of a thousand questions I had not yet thought to ask and now never could. And acceptance of my own oddities – my earlier semi-psychic connections with my mom, the subconscious reading of faces or moods or whatever it was I apparently still could do.

I would take this stuff on, embrace it, drag Doug kicking behind me down this path and away from the drearier parts of our recent life together. My sublimation and denial of my own abilities, his extreme but yes, absolutely common level of stress. Both of our complacency in accepting middle age doldrums. We needed to turn ourselves around, face forward again, both of us.

Doug came back into the room. His face expressed the usual optimism and amusement from having talked to Zoe, though the rest of him appeared exhausted. "Zoe's coming up for dinner tomorrow. I couldn't say no."

I smiled at him; as if he'd tried to. "You too?" I asked Sam.

"Totally."

I patted the couch next to me for Doug, and Sam told him the baseball score. Doug sat carefully, then relaxed backward with the give of the soft cushion. We leaned toward each other almost simultaneously. I sat up, and wrapped an arm around him. Sam glanced away, his grin both embarrassed and appreciative – he was happy for me, for both of us.

I took a deep, comfortable breath. Wish I could bottle the fleeting sense of comfort.

"I've been thinking about my dad," Doug muttered.

"Me too," I said. "Both of them. Things I missed."

"Yeah. He'd have had a hell of a pep talk this afternoon." Doug's father had been known for his loud, up-by-the-bootstraps advice. "But he got pretty stressed out too."

I felt him exhale, a forgiving and gentle release, and felt both of our upper bodies move in unison. The warmth, the aliveness of him, of us both. Still here despite those losses. How crazy complicated the structure of bodies is, the miracle of biology and the complex circuitry that gives us thoughts and emotions. And yet, how simple it still felt, sitting here together.

## Chapter 15

So we all gathered in twilight the next evening. Windows open to let in a soft breeze, closing out another warm afternoon. The kitchen filled with the delicious garlicky scent of the dinner we were preparing. Zoe stood at the counter putting together a salad. Sam sliced a baguette, pausing to take in big mouthfuls of the fresh bread, unable to hold out for the last ten minutes or so my bisque needed to simmer.

Doug finished up a long conversation with Heather, and came in to pour himself a glass of wine. Zoe had insisted he tell her the whole story too, and both of them were no doubt plotting any number of modern organic tips for him to de-stress himself. "Heather says hi to all," he said, taking an appreciative sip. "She wishes she were here, not least because it's dark and pouring back there."

"Should you be having that?" Zoe asked, her young face pursed in a mixture of concern and boldness at challenging her father.

I watched just a hint of annoyance sweep across his face. Raised a brow in his direction – that this is how it would be, and we needed to be okay with that.

"It's fine. A glass of red wine is actually good for you," Doug said. "Moderation's the key."

"Yes, Dad," Zoe said, her voice mocking but her eyes light with affection.

They'd had a sweet reunion earlier. Zoe rushing into the house, squeezing Doug hard, clutching his shoulders and daintily brushing away a tear. As though she only now realized he was mortal. There would be a day when she couldn't call him for advice or swing by for dinner, when the fatherly words would all be memories.

It had given me pause, watching. Thinking about my own parents, all the little moments like this we'd missed. And Sam – was it possible at all that he could understand the value of this time together?

I turned to him, laughingly swatting his hand away from the bread. "Leave some for the rest of us!"

Doug invited both kids to the yard to see the new stone steps he was putting in, one of those things we'd been planning for ages. He opened the side door. Zoe followed, graceful and catlike, and Sam lumbered after her, tall enough now to need to duck past the trellis by the door. And I did my level best to just let them go, trying as I had been since I saw Doug's face the prior afternoon, not to make him more self conscious by my hovering concern.

Though even in glimpses, I was aware of his inner turmoil. The man he meant to be and the guy who had let stress turn to panic being strongly at odds. The confident mask he wore talking to the kids had tiny cracks if you knew to look for them. But I knew Doug so well that I felt pretty confident his rational, take charge self would win the internal battles. Not that those were the best terms to use; I was itching, in fact, for my next workday when I could go use the work computer (without him seeing the search history) and really dig into how we might together address this new challenge. How to not make it a battle but something pleasant and enlivening and precious that we took on together.

Clark nudged my leg and squawked a meow. He had been lurking under the table waiting for food to spill, and now stood at my feet, looking up expectantly. I poured him his kibble – not that that would stop him from seeking more of our food again in a few minutes, but it gave me a moment's peace.

I checked my recipe and poked at the simmering pan, then lowered the heat. A little more time, a couple handfuls of fresh herbs, and it would be ready. The meal took some time to prepare, but so worth it. I was sure we as a family had many of our best conversations here in the kitchen, preparing good food.

Outside, Sam appeared to be testing one of the new stones by jumping on it, while Zoe bent down for a closer look at the garden. Doug, I could see just by his posture, was regaling them both with the details of how he'd acquired the stones, negotiating both price and assistance getting them into the car and then rigging up makeshift wheelbarrow on this end.

It was good to seem him out there, both now and the past weekends, mucking around in the dirt and being creative. It provided him with a physical workout and went some ways toward taking his mind off work. Clearly important, given what had just happened, his little panic episode.

Just thinking again about that scene yesterday gave me two little jolts: an echo of the fear that had gripped me, and the contrasting flow of relief that Doug's heart was okay. I watched him in profile for a moment. He looked open, smiling, though maybe still a bit clenched in the shoulders.

Turns out my perceptions hadn't been so far off after all, it struck me. I knew he was holding a lot of work stress, but I hadn't sensed something seriously wrong, as in physical aliments. And that was indeed the case.

But before I gave myself too many kudos, I could think of half a dozen things I might have done or said to help him alleviate the stress, instead of just being quiet witness. I watched the three of them in the yard, the marked difference in body movement between the young people and Doug. There was more going on with him that just the work stuff, I was suddenly sure.

Aging, and the many minor grievances associated there. Doug would be turning 54 in a couple months, and I would soon be 49. Yes, there the pair of us were, riding upwards on that bubble before Medicare but when costs skyrocketed. When serious health problems were more than a vague possibility, but had in fact happened to people we knew, to peers. And when the loss of a job would make him a tech-challenged 50 something competing in a not great economy with people younger, more agile, less burdened.

I worried for my job now and then during the funding crises that had popped up. But I was covered by Doug's health plan, by his corporate firm. He, no doubt, felt he had no such back up. Bigger than the gap between Doug's game face and the barely controlled adrenaline surges that fueled his panic was the chasm we both felt, between our idealized retirement and the reality that we may not ever get there. A few bad turns and we could face years of struggle – bad jobs, poor benefits, harsh conditions that would only contribute to worsening health.

What had that doctor said? A cascading effect. I could almost visualize the swirling chaos Doug might be feeling these days. The work taking so much of his time and attention, draining him from the better parts of his life. And even there, home life, family life, entertainment – weren't these all too on a slow decline? When it came down to it, perhaps he also worried about me. I knew that his ex had given up on their marriage in part because she always felt second fiddle to his job.

That had never been an issue with me. But if I was being honest, I'd have to admit I had maybe taken a step or two toward straying. Busy as Doug was, he had to have taken note of my recent activities, my greater energy these past few months. My sudden new friends, my seemingly clandestine meetings – these could have been factors for him too.

Daniel. Everything about him seemed so irrelevant now. Even on whatever path I eventually strung together toward greater awareness – he would be little more than a stepping stone on the way, a small wobbly one at that. He had fostered some brief insights, but nothing more than I would have stumbled to on my own. Maybe the best I could do is eventually read whatever he published – assuming he ever did publish and the whole thing wasn't a scam for online therapeutics – with mild regard. Look for some small piece of myself in there but then file it away with a collection of items of interest on the topic.

The topic being, what, precognizant dreams, my tiny bursts of ESP? Or more broadly that there are more fulfilling ways to communicate than texts and tweets. That I should keep paying attention to those little hunches, not just write them off. That we all need to slow down, observe, listen, be present in our own lives. Really see what we have, where so often it seems people focus on what's lacking. Even the idea that it's worthwhile to take some risks, make changes, be – even in the tiredness of middle age – spontaneous.

Doug and the kids piled noisily back into the kitchen, as plain an illustration of what I value as imaginable. I ladled out the bisque, breathing in its steamy goodness. Sam's face exuded such anticipation and simple pleasure that it was hard not to laugh, he was like a human version of our cat at mealtimes.

We'd never been ones to say grace, but Doug and I sometimes clinked a glass over our particularly special efforts. Or we toasted the family occasions. I liked the concept – the moment of small g grace when you took that tiny interval just to appreciate the food and the company.

Doug, as if reading my mind, lifted his glass. "To all our kids," he said, smiling equally at Zoe and Sam. "And many more meals together."

"And to you guys too," Sam exclaimed, zipping his glass back up so fast his wine threatened to slosh out.

"And to all our good health," I added quietly.

"And to your anniversary," Zoe finished out the set, grinning impishly.

I met Doug's eye again as we clinked and sipped. Our ten year was approaching. Doug would just as soon not be surprised by some big shindig, but he was a sucker for pleasing his daughters. Who knows what they'd be scheming. At least it wouldn't occur to Sam, I felt confident, that he had a big role in the thing.

For a moment, the only sounds were of silverware and plates.

"Good," Doug murmured. His expression stayed simple: sated with food, mind off the office, and carefully not monitoring pulse or his heart rate.

Zoe had an eye on him too. I suspected she was censoring herself a bit. She liked to talk about her work, and enjoyed both bantering with him and seeking his opinions on cases, but she was making a point not to bother him with anything legal.

Sam entertained us instead, chattering in that way he had where his brain moved faster than his mouth and speeded up his speech till he almost tripped over his words. (I flashed on memories of him from a dozen years ago – small and skinny with a thin piping voice, the way he'd almost hop up and down from the excitement and frustration of trying to articulate all the elements of his ideas. Master of the compound sentence, I'd joked about him back then.)

He had been reading up on studies on brain research involving stem cells, an offshoot of the computer simulations involved in his internship. Brain stem cells, it sounded like, or new stem cells to be somehow introduced into the brains of people suffering from post traumatic stress. The directors at Gallagher were launching a similar sounding effort with a couple other universities, trying to foster shared research and findings. It was somewhat of a departure, as PTSD was not an illness as defined in our charter. But quite fundable, what with the ongoing conflicts and sobering statistics about the number of soldiers who had come back from Iraq and Afghanistan with head injuries and traumatic stress.

I tuned back into Sam's voice, telling myself to pay attention. "They know that people PTSD have a statistically higher rate of developing other stress-related diseases. Maybe even Alzheimer's. This MRI study on returning vets found that the part of the hippocampus devoted to short term memory is smaller. Significantly." He paused.

"So how do you make it bigger?" Zoe asked.

"Yeah, that's the question." Sam paused, attention momentarily diverted to his food.

"It could be years yet before they develop any viable procedures," I cautioned.

Sam, like so many of his generation, expected near instant results. With a newly upgraded, cheaper device available shortly thereafter. I worried that he wouldn't understand, or would be frustrated by, the slower pace of biological or medical applications.

But he just shrugged. To him, I suppose, this was more like an engineering puzzle than a real world human concern. "I read about these guys," he continued, "War vets who come back and then take all these risks, or drink or do extreme sports. Because their brains got used to feeling constantly in danger and it's like it changed their body chemistry and they keep needing a new rush."

"That's sad," I said, feeling an involuntary shiver. I couldn't imagine seeking out dangerous things as a way of feeling better.

"Well, maybe, but it's a real phenomena. I read something else about aid workers. It was like a personality type they found a lot of them have, like a drive to rush in to help in a place where most people are fleeing. They need that kind of emotional intensity just to be able to feel anything inside. They wonder if it was something in their brain that made them want to go, or something that happens to their internal wiring once they're there."

"I think I saw a link to that," Zoe exclaimed. "This guy I went to school with is totally like that, all these different friends were like, yeah, that's Jason."

"That's pretty much the opposite of you, Mom," Sam said. "You need things all calm and quiet and done in the proper order to feel right."

Everyone laughed as I gave a rueful, guilty shrug. I couldn't deny it. I thought about Kylie, the way she talked about airports. The conversations she and I had had about coping strategies for dealing with those sort of places that teemed with other peoples' anxious nerves. Because we both understood that the simplest solution, pure avoidance, was not viable. "Surprisingly enough," I told them, "in spite of that, I will nonetheless give a nod to change and spontaneity. Tempting and comfortable as my regular routines are."

"I've been thinking about Costa Rica," Doug put in. "While we're on the topic of being spontaneous. And our anniversary."

I felt my mouth form a surprised O, and quickly took in how much pleasure eliciting a surprise from me gave him.

"We had grand schemes for a trip there on our honeymoon, you may recall," Doug continued. "Before small hiccups like the time and cost intervened. But both of us have always wanted to go; we talked about it I think on our first date."

I nodded, smiling back, recalling immediately the energy of those early conversations between us, the fun and yes, spontaneous ways our ideas flowed back and forth. How we had squeezed the time for each other out of our busy lives, then luxuriated in it. We could still do that, I told myself.

We had ended up taking a shorter honeymoon, staying very inexpensively at one of the partner's condo in Cabo. It's not that we had been broke or anything, but the wedding had been more than we first anticipated. Heather had just chosen a private college, Sam needed braces, Doug's father had a series of operations that necessitated his flying back several times. Things conspired, the way they do.

"Clarissa's Spanish is quite impressive," Doug was saying, "though I imagine many people speak some English." He continued about some of the rainforest creatures he thought would be interesting.

Zoe told us about a similar trip a friend of hers had taken, only it might have been to Guatemala. Awesome though, they had loved the flora and fauna as well as the slowed down pace.

That got us all talking about what Sam might do – or not do – during the last couple weeks of his summer vacation. The topic of an anniversary trip fell away.

A couple hours later though, Doug and I sat in companionable silence, relaxing in the living room. Zoe had gone, only after extracting promises from Doug that he would take care of himself. Sam was out with friends, hopefully just hanging out in a somebody's old bedroom watching reruns of Battlestar Galactica and hollering dude at each other.

It was too early to admit to wanting to go to bed, though I was tired. Doug looked about ready to melt into the couch, though his eyes were still tracking the Giant's game.

He glanced over. "That was nice," he said. "And I feel okay. Zoe better not check on me more than once a day though."

"She's sweet. I think she was really shaken up." We all were, I thought, but didn't add.

Doug just shrugged. "I don't know how I'll find time to make that follow up appointment. But I will," he added, at my look. "It really will let up a little once we settle the biggest one."

It had better let up, I thought, but didn't even bother to say out loud. He or I or both of us together would just have to make things happened to lower the stress volume in his life. "So were you serious about Costa Rica?" I asked. "In October maybe?"

"I'm holding the vacation time; you are too, right?"

I nodded. We hadn't gotten farther in our planning than that though.

"You know, we could choose anywhere," he added carefully. "I was thinking about Costa Rica from, you know, the honeymoon. But we could go somewhere that you'd really like. Maybe there's a place more in line with the things you want to pursue. The psychic stuff."

His expression, his eyes were without guile. This was genuine, he was reaching out, and I felt a sudden lump in my throat. "Thanks," I finally murmured. Trusting he could hear the gratitude that went beyond just the offer to the acknowledgement that I had these things to pursue. "I can't think so much of a place for all of that, though," I added. "It's more a state of mind, wherever."

He sighed. "Well, I think it'll take me really being somewhere different. Somewhere away from all this." He waved his arm toward the TV, but presumably meant his working world. Cases dragging on, client problems, co-workers texting him, the way he felt tethered to his devices.

"Well, we should do what we talked about back then," I said, sapped energy returning as I recalled the happily energized weeks we spent planning our so called simple wedding. "Get tickets and find a nice base to stay, but no more agenda than that. It'll be a better experience that way. Worth taking some risks."

"No TV. No news. Leave the phones behind." We looked at each other. "Or just take yours," he amended.

"But only for emergencies. Well, and finding stuff. Good local restaurants. GPS." I laughed at how much my idea of roughing it has changed over the years. "But, Doug, this really is what I want to do, what I need to go after – just getting out there. Going somewhere and having the experience. Living it, not worrying before and after. All my senses open."

He grinned. "That actually sounds pretty good. You can tell me what the guides are thinking," he teased.

"Be nice, or I won't translate for you." At his surprised look, I added, "from Spanish, what did you think I meant."

"Not telling." Doug purposely turned his face away.

Even that gesture, it seemed, was another little sign of his admitting I had a small talent of some sort.

We continued to sit in companionable silence. I thought about my so called talent, this thing I'd come to appreciate as a small and rare. And perhaps the knowledge of it was rare as well. More and more we plug our ears and minds from a young age. Kids fantasize about Harry Potter magical powers but drown out those subtle under the surface things that we're all at least somewhat capable of processing.

I thought back to that morning when Yvette had died. How I had heard the voice in my sleep, and understood the loss. But then been focused on explaining it, rationalizing it, disproving it. Coming to terms with its strangeness and with my own odd history of unexplained perceptions.

When the real issue was that my friend had died. That I had had this dear friend, and that she was gone. But that I was still here. She had lived a good long life. I had lived for awhile, but had awhile longer too. I should keep moving forward.

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Myanne's e-book The Ghost Family is available for $1.99 at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36248

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