Mind of My Mind (15 page)

saying these things to her parents—her stepparents—the only people besides Doro whom

she could ever remember loving. It had been very important once—that she protect her

parents from what she had become. She wondered if it was still important. If she still

cared what she said, even to them.

Abruptly she was tired of the argument. Tired of the man's fury pounding at her mind

and her ears. Tired of her own pointless anger. She turned and walked away.

Kenneth caught her shoulder and spun her around so quickly that she had no time to

think. He slapped her hard, throwing all the weight of his big body against her. She fell

back against the wall, then slipped silently to the floor to lie stunned, while, above her, he

demanded that she learn to listen when he spoke. At that moment, violence, chaos

convulsed her treacherous mind.

Ada was quick. She did not need time to wonder what was happening or to realize

that there would finally be an end to her aloneness. She reacted immediately. She

screamed.

Kenneth had hurt her, but suddenly the physical pain lost all meaning in the face of

this new thing. This thing that brought her the pain of a hope roughly torn away.

Since her change, that terrible night three years before, when all the world had come

flooding into her mind, she had treated her condition as a temporary thing. Something

that would someday end and let her be as she had been. This was a belief that Doro had

tried to talk her out of. But she had been able to convince herself that he was lying. He

had refused to introduce her to others who were like her, though he claimed there were

others. He had said that it would be painful to her to meet them, that her kind tolerated

each other badly. But she had looked for herself, had sifted through thousands of minds

without finding even one like her own. Thus she had decided that Doro was lying. She

had believed what she wanted to believe. She was good at that; it kept her alive. She had

decided that Doro had told only part of the truth. That there had been others like her. It

was unthinkable that she had been the only person to undergo this change. And that the

others had recovered, changed back.

This hope had sustained her, given her a reason to go on living. Now she had to see it

for the fallacy it was.

She lay on the floor crying, as she rarely did, in noisy, gasping sobs. Others. How had

she searched for so long without finding them? It seemed that they had no trouble finding

her. And the strength of the first attack, and even of the call that now pulled at her

insistently, was far greater than anything she felt herself able to generate. Such power

gave the unknown caller a terrible air of permanence.

Unexpectedly, Kenneth was lifting her to her feet, reassuring her that she was all

right.

Steadying herself enough to sample his thoughts, she learned that he was a little

frightened by her screaming. He had hit her before and gotten no reaction other than quiet

tears.

The selfishness of his thoughts stabilized her. He was wondering what would happen

to him if he had hurt her. He had long before ceased worrying about her for her own sake.

And she had never forced him to do anything more than stay with her. She pulled away

from him tiredly and went into the bedroom.

She would never be well again, never be able to go among people without being

bombarded by their thoughts. And facing this, she could not possibly continue her present

living arrangement. She could no longer force Kenneth to stay with her when he hated

her as he did. Nor would she exert more control over him, to force an obscene, artificial

love.

She would follow the call. Even if it had been less insistent, she would have followed

it. Because it was all she had.

She would quarantine herself with others who were afflicted as she was. If she was

alone with them, she would be less likely to hurt people who were well. How would it be,

though? How much worse than anything she had yet known? A life among outcasts.

JAN SHOLTO

The neighborhood had changed little in the three years since Jan had seen it. New

cars, new children. Two small boys ran past her; one of them was black. That was new

too. She was glad her mind had not been open and vulnerable when the boy ran past. She

had problems enough without that alienness. She looked back at the boy with distaste,

then shrugged. She planned only a short visit. She didn't have to live there.

It occurred to her, not for the first time, that even visiting was foolish, pointless. She

had placed her own children in a comfortable home where they would be well cared for,

have better lives than she had had. There was nothing more that she could do for them.

Nothing she could accomplish by visiting them. Yet for days she had felt a need to make

this visit. Need, urge, premonition?

Thinking about it made her uncomfortable. She deliberately turned her attention to

the street around her instead. The newness of it disgusted her. The unimaginative modern

houses, the sapling trees. Even if the complexion of the neighborhood had not been

changing, Jan could never have lived there. The place had no depth in time. She could

touch things, a fence, a light standard, a signpost. Nothing went back further than a

decade. Nothing carried real historical memory. Everything was sterile and perilously

unanchored to the past.

A little girl of no more than seven was standing in one of the yards watching Jan walk

toward her. Jan examined the child curiously. Small, fine-boned and fair-haired, like Jan.

Her eyes were blue, but not the pale, faded blue of Jan's eyes. The girl's eyes had the

same deep, startling blue that had been one of her father's best featuresor one of the best

features of the body her father had been wearing.

Jan turned to walk down the pathway to the child's house.

As she came even with the girl, some sentimentality about the eyes made her stop and

hold out her hand. "Will you walk to the house with me, Margaret?"

The child took the offered hand and walked solemnly beside Jan.

Jan automatically blocked any mental contact with her. She had learned, painfully

that children not only had no depth but that their unstable little animal minds could

deliver one emotional outburst after another.

Margaret spoke as Jan opened the door. "Did you come to take me away?"

"No."

The child smiled at Jan in relief, then ran away, calling, "Mommy, Jan is here."

Jan raised an eyebrow at the irony of her daughter's words. Jan had once tried to

condition the family here, the Westleys, to believe that they were the natural parents of

Jan's children. She had had the power to do it, but she had not been skillful enough in her

use of that power. She had failed. But time, combined with the simpler command that she

had managed to instill in the Westleys—to care for the children and protect them—had

turned her failure into success. Margaret knew that Jan was actually her mother. But it

made no difference. Not to her; not to the Westleys.

In fact, the children were such a permanent part of the Westley household that

Margaret's question seemed out of character. The question revived the feeling of

foreboding that Jan had been trying to ignore.

Even the feel of the house was wrong. So wrong that she found herself being careful

not to touch anything. Just being inside was uncomfortable.

The woman, Lea Westley, came in slowly, hesitantly, without Margaret or the boy,

Vaughn. Jan resisted the temptation to reach into her thoughts and learn at once what was

wrong. That part of her ability was still underdeveloped, because she did not like to use

it. She enjoyed touching inanimate objects and winding back through the pasts of the

people who had handled them before her. But she had never learned to enjoy direct mind-

to-mind contact. Most people had vile minds anyway.

"I thought you might be coming, Jan." Lea Westley fumbled with her hands. "I was

even afraid you might take Margaret."

Verbal confirmation of Jan's fears. Now she had to have the rest. "I don't know what's

happened, Lea. Tell me."

Lea looked away for a moment, then spoke softly. "There was an accident. Vaughn is

dead." Her voice broke on the last word and Jan had to wait until she could compose

herself and go on.

"It was a hit-and-run. Vaughn was out with Hugh," her husband, "and someone ran a

red light . . . It happened last week. Hugh is still in the hospital."

The woman was genuinely upset. Even through layers of shielding, Jan could feel her

suffering. But, more than anything else, Lea Westley was afraid. She was afraid of Jan, of

what Jan might decide to do to the people who had failed in the responsibility she had

given them.

Jan understood that fear, because she was feeling a slightly different version of it

herself. Someday Doro would come back and ask to see his children. He had promised

her he would, and he kept the few promises he made. He had also promised her what he

would do to her if she was unable to produce two healthy children.

She shook her head thinking about it. "Oh, God."

Lea was instantly at her side, holding her, weeping over her, saying again and again,

"I'm so sorry, Jan. So sorry."

Disgusted, Jan pushed her away. Sympathy and tears were the last things Jan needed.

The boy was dead. That was that. He had been a burden to her before she placed him with

the Westleys. Now, dead, he was again a burden in spite of all her efforts to see that he

was safe. If only Doro had not insisted that she have children. She had been looking

forward to his return for so long. Now, instead of waiting for it, she would have to flee

from it. Another town, another state, another name—and the likelihood that none of it

would do any good. Doro was a specialist at finding people who ran from him.

"Jan, please understand . . . It wasn't our fault."

Stupid woman! Lea became an outlet for Jan's frustration. Jan seized control of her,

spun her around, and propelled her puppetlike out of the living room.