Mind Over Mind (23 page)

“Not if we’re going to my parents’. They own a restaurant, remember?”

“Well, I’ll be hungry again by then. You know what they say about teenage guys.”

“They’re insatiable?”

“That, too. Also, we can eat like there’s no tomorrow.”

She started to say something, realized how he’d twisted what she’d said in the first place and threw a pillow at him as he made his way to the refrigerator. Still, she had to admit that for all his flirtations and entendres, he’d pretty much given her the time and space she needed to study. In fact, she’d done better studying here than she normally did alone in her apartment.
It’s so comfortable here. I’m so comfortable here,
she thought. She turned to watch him building a Dagwood-style sandwich. His body was moving to the rhythm of some song, although he neither whistled nor hummed, probably in deference to her studying. Suddenly, her stomach gave an uneasy lurch. He was only there for the summer; should she let herself get this comfortable around him?

Worry about that later,
she scolded herself.
For now, study. Cyst removal. Let’s go.

An hour later, she stretched and shut her books. It was just after two, but she’d actually accomplished more than she’d expected. “I’m at a good breaking point,” she said to Joshua, who was sitting at the table with his laptop and an empty plate. “Shall we?’

“Let me just finish this.”

“What are you working on?” she asked as she walked up behind him and leaned over his shoulder.

Quickly, he shut the computer.

“I’m sorry,” she said, backing away. “I didn’t know it was private. I’ll just get my stuff together.” She turned to go, but he stopped her with a touch on the arm. She turned, a little puzzled, but didn’t say anything.

He regarded her a moment, his lips a thin line, one finger tapping the top of his computer tensely. Then, he unfolded it so she could see the message on the monitor, forwarded, apparently, from his father:

Subj: (NLPAssociation) Eye Movements in Psychic Phenomena?

That son of yours sure comes up with some stumpers! If I didn’t know you, I’d think this was a joke.

I’ve never heard of any studies of the phenomena you mentioned, neither among mental health patients nor academic studies. I’ll do a search, as you requested. Be patient.

In the meantime, your observations were certainly fascinating—I’d like to hear more if you can manage it. However, tell him to be careful about who he shares this with. He’s still young in his career—does he really want to be associated with something as fantastic as ESP?

Regards,

“You’re posting Ydrel’s case on the Internet?!” She didn’t know whether to hit him or storm out. He spoke quickly before she could do either.

“No! No, I just sent a description of an anonymous psychic I’d observed. For all anyone knows, it’s a carnival sideshow performer I’m talking about. And it’s posted onto a closed e-mail group for NLP Association members. My dad looked it over before he sent it. I, I just—” He stopped, unsure what to say that would convince her of his intentions.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…

“I’m listening.” She crossed her arms; her expression, like her tone, was closed. But at least she didn’t turn away.

He took a breath.

“OK. One of the main precepts of NLP is if you want to know what’s happening in the mind, look at the eyes. For example, think about the last time you saw snow outside your apartment window.”

He caught her off guard, but grudgingly, she dredged up a memory. “Uh…”

“Your eyes flicked up and left—standard visual recall. Now imagine purple snow in a mountain valley…Up, right. Visual construction. Now, sometimes, people’s motions vary, but always, it’s the same in general—when the brain is at work, eyes move one way for vision, another for hearing, still another for feel; one side for recall, one for construction, or imagining. And it’s different from when the brain is taking in input, like you’re looking at something. It’s not something you can consciously control. It’s a reflex—”

“What’s this got to do with Ydrel and your email?”

“I’m getting to it! Ydrel, when he’s being...well, ‘normal,’ follows the usual pattern. But when he’s having a, um, psychic experience, his eyes are all wrong from what you’d expect if he were making it up—but not if he were remembering or actually experiencing what he says he’s experiencing. Like when he said McDougal was making him manic: if he himself were manic, his eyes would have been doing one thing, and I know what that should be—I’ve seen it in others before. And I know his usual patterns. If he were just pretending, his eyes would have done another. It would have been obvious, at least to me. I’m not bragging or anything; it’s just training. But his eyes were, well, wrong. Ydrel’s pattern is visual-tactile-verbal; anything he comes up with, real or imagined, should follow that pattern. But when he was acting so odd and blaming it on McDougal, his pattern changed to verbal-visual—and anything tactile, he had to make it up. Later, I talked to McDougal—guess how he thinks.”

“Verbal-visual?” Sachiko’s arms were still crossed, but she had turned to lean against the table, and her expression was more skeptical than closed. Encouraged, Joshua went on.

“Bingo! Plus, his eyes kept bouncing, for lack of a better word. It was like his cognitive processes were fighting for control. And his pupils were pinning.”

“Were what?”

“Pinning—pinpointing. Contracting. Birds of prey do it under stress; Ydrel does it when he’s ‘going psychic.’ If you look, you’ll see it. Anyway, that’s another reflex that should be beyond conscious control.” He sighed. “It’s beyond my experience. So I thought I’d ask the people in the field with the real experience, find out what they have to say. Who knows? Maybe there are other people out there who have the same kind of pathos. So far, all I’ve got is, ‘weird stuff, Josh.’”

“Have you talked to Edith about this?”

“Sort of.” His voice was tenser than he wanted. “’Ko, I’m not sure she takes NLP seriously, or me, for that matter. Plus, she’d want to talk to Malachai about it, and I can tell you exactly what
he’d
have to say.” He glanced back at the computer and closed the program. “If I hear something that makes sense of this, I may broach the subject; but for now, I’d rather keep it private. And I swear to you,” he stood and set his hands on her shoulders, “that I will say nothing that even hints at Ydrel’s identity, or even that I’m talking about a patient and not some side-show act.”

She felt the last of her anger melt under his sincere and guileless gaze, but she just wasn’t ready to give in so easily. “I don’t want him hurt.”

“Neither do I. He’s already got enough people discussing his quirks and treating him like some kind of interesting case study.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

He looked away. “I’ll go change.”

CHAPTER 27

He came out of the bathroom silently, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. She had on her riding leathers and jacket; without a word, he took her bag for her and held open the door. Outside, she gave him the extra helmet she had for passengers and showed him how to adjust it, and turned on the mike so that they could talk to each other on the ride. He answered only in grunts. She found herself wishing she hadn’t seen his email—or at least, not when she did. She still didn’t like what he’d done, and found herself only talking to him to give him instructions on how to lean and keep balanced as they made their way to I-138. He held her tightly, but she could tell it was more from nervousness than affection.

Once on the highway, though, he relaxed and finally spoke. “You’re right. My motives are different, but I’m not doing anything different than everyone else has done to Ydrel. Even if nobody else knows who I’m talking about, I know. Trouble is, I’ve already asked, and I do want to know. I’ve been trying to decide what to do about it, and the best I can come up with is to tell him what I’ve done and ask him how he feels about it. If he says it’s OK, I pursue it; if not, I’ll just let it go—treat it like it was an idle observation.”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. “Do you know how wonderful you are?”

Now his arms tightened around her affectionately. “You’re the wonderful one. I’m still new at this. Thanks for being my conscience. But I’m still not saying anything to Edith. I think that’d just open up a big can of worms.”

“Agreed.”

With that settled, the tension around them immediately lightened, and they spent the next few miles in companionable silence, just enjoying the ride and the view. This close to the coast, the traffic was far thinner than in Providence, even at the height of tourist season. The highway was lined with thick woods and a scattering of evergreens and tall brush, occasionally broken by walls of jagged rock where a hill had been chipped away to make room for the highway. Joshua sighed. “It’s so lush along your highways. You almost feel like you could step off the road and get lost in the forest.”

“What, it’s not like that in Colorado?”

“Not where I’m from. The Front Range is lots of arid prairie, low round hills at most. The mountains, now that’s a whole different story. Rugged, tall trees, lots of pine and aspen. ‘Course, you
can
step off the road and get lost. Here, you walk a hundred yards and end up in someone’s backyard—Oh, wow!”

They had come to the first of the two bridges that would take them to Aquidneck Island. Sachiko loved crossing the bridges and seeing the fancy condos and well-kept colonial homes that bordered the gray-blue bay, and hundreds of private sailboats offshore. She felt Joshua’s arms tighten around her waist, and saw through her rearview mirror that he was looking more down than out and across the water.

“’S’matter, mountain man? Nervous about bridges? Are they so different than mountain passes?”

“Mountain passes have mountain on one side and trees and slope on the other. No long fall into the watery depths.”

She thought about teasing him, but noticed he was now eyeing the bridge that paralleled the one they were on, which had replaced it. The old and decaying structure of steel, like an erector-set creation, had never been fully torn down. She supposed it would make anyone nervous. The one they were on was really as much a suspended highway as a bridge; to her, it was no different than driving on the mainland—except the traffic was better, as was the view. And speaking of view…“Look ahead.”

“Oh, wow. That’s something. Really.”

That “something” was the Newport bridge: a four-lane, two-and-a-half-mile suspension bridge leading onto Aquidneck Island. Sachiko always thought of it as a more graceful version of the Golden Gate—light green cables swooping upward, supported in two arches by structures that made her think of cathedral doors in their shape and grandeur. The highway fanned out from two lanes to five as they came to the toll booth. They slowed to a stop for a moment so that she could toss a token into the basket, and guided the Harley back into traffic as the highway again merged into two lanes. She could feel his arms and his knees tense.

“So do you think Ydrel’s psychic?” She broached the subject as much to distract him as to satisfy her own curiosity. She knew how she felt—there was no way Ydrel could have known about her desperate suicide attempt or the reason for it if he didn’t have some paranormal abilities. She’d been too adept at hiding things. No one at work had known about her relationship with Randall, and her parents had thought things were at least stable and satisfying for her. They’d been surprised to hear about her break-up, though she suspected that they had been somewhat relieved…

She realized she’d lost some of what Joshua was saying and struggled to pick it up. “Say again?”

“I said, it’s kind of like believing in alien life: it’s fun to think about, but I’m not sure we’re ready for the reality. I mean, aliens sound cool until they come at you with vastly superior weapons and totally different ethics. And would you really want telepathic abilities? There’s a funny Tom Smith song about a guy who can read minds and how it wrecks his relationship with his girlfriend. I mean, would you want to know what I’m thinking all the time?”

There was a loaded question, and she told him so. “I think there are some interesting twists in that mind of yours, but point taken. Ignorance can be bliss.”

“Exactly. If what Ydrel’s told me is true, being psychic has caused him a world of hurt. And if it’s true, how many other people out there are suffering from the same problems, but without the benefit of the care that his money can buy? So what would be better—if his troubles are the result of a psychosis or if he truly is a fledgling psychic?”

He paused, and she grunted neutrally. She wasn’t sure which situation she preferred.

“Frankly, I’d rather operate under the assumption that it doesn’t matter. Whatever the cause, the real key is getting him to deal with it enough to function in society.”

“You’re sidestepping.” Over the bridge and onto solid land now, she took the highway to its end. It curved past a huge casino with a walled-in parking lot. Flags flapped atop the wall, each decorated with the symbol of a suit of cards. Soon after, they were in narrow streets and older homes.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not ready for ESP, I guess. I love these old houses. Everything in Pueblo West is so new.”

“Here we are.” She turned right and drove a block, past old homes-converted-to-businesses. On the corner lot was her family’s restaurant and home, a large deep red three-story house with evergreen trim. The wrap-around porches held tables swathed in red and white checkered tablecloths. Red and white umbrellas poked above the low hedge in the yard. Above the awning was a large sign in red and black letters:

J
APPERWOPPY

T
HE
F
INEST
IN
I
TALIAN
AND
J
APANESE
C
UISINE

S
USHI
* J
APANESE
S
TEAKHOUSE

“That’s an unusual name,” Joshua commented.

“Dad loves Lewis Carroll and puns,” Sachiko said, then laughed. “We actually had some people try to boycott the place—said the name was insulting to Italian and Japanese Americans. They had camera crews and everything. Dad trotted out the whole family—sometimes, I think half my family works or has worked here—and calmly explained in three languages that this was a family business, and almost everyone in the family was an immigrant, first or second generation Italian or Japanese, and as such, we could name our restaurant whatever we darn well pleased. Then they set up a buffet for the boycotters and had a party. CNN picked up the story and we had so much business that year! I was in nursing school, but I still had to come help out sometimes.”

Sachiko drove through the customer parking lot—which was small and nearly full despite the mid-afternoon hour—and parked near the side of an old garage. They stowed their helmets in the saddlebags and she pointed her fob at the bike. The lights flashed and it chirped.

Joshua laughed. “You’re kidding! They have alarms for motorcycles?”

“You have any idea how much this thing cost? Look.” She pointed to an engraving on the top of the gas tank:
Equipped with GPS tracking. I will find you. S. Luchese.
Joshua laughed again.

“Believe me, mister, on this coast, that’s almost as good as the alarm. C’mon. We have to go in by the front for you to have the full effect of the place.” Feeling like a teenager, she took him by the hand and led him around to the main gate.

_*

Ydrel stepped out of the bathroom in just his shorts, toweling dry his hair. For a moment, he enjoyed feeling chilled in the air-conditioned room, but he knew soon enough he’d feel too warm again. He’d been sweating all morning, too hot and queasy to eat, and had finally retreated to a cold shower. It had helped, but only temporarily. Already, he was starting to feel the heat. He draped the towel over the chair with a sigh.

Maybe I should go to the nurses’ station
, he thought, then just as quickly discarded the idea. What would he do, whine that it was hot and his stomach hurt? Besides, walking seemed like too much effort.

Then he felt the familiar scritching inside his head. Relieved, he lay down and allowed the Miscria to call him away from the heat and pain.

“Thank you!” Ydrel stretched out on the spongy moss, luxuriating in its coolness. He didn’t care if it was an illusion; at least he was comfortable.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tasmae began without preamble.

Ydrel laughed. “Funny. I’ve been trying not to think.” He’d spent the morning burning through some of the novels Joshua had lent him in an attempt to drive Malachai’s comments from his mind. That was probably half the reason his stomach hurt. For the moment, though, he made himself forget the psychiatrist. It was wonderfully cool here.

He relaxed, responding automatically to her questions without giving much conscious attention to them, or to his answers. Sometimes, he didn’t think he was replying so much as letting the information flow out of him, as it used to before he knew what—who—the Miscria was.

That was fine by him. It just felt so good to be away from his body.

“But how do I build a bomb?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he murmured drowsily. Maybe he could nap here a while? “Since standard gunpowder doesn’t work on your world, we’d have to find something else that’ll explode. I’d have to do some research…” He sat up. “Wait a minute! NO!”

“No, what?”

“Look. Up until now, the stuff I’ve researched has been relatively harmless: swordsmithing is more art than weaponscraft to us, and military history is, well, history. If I start trying to figure out how to make a bomb, they’ll tag me as dangerous and really lock me up for life! Forget it!”

“We need to know,” she replied.

He folded his arms over his chest. “For-get it.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in intensity as she spoke. “
I am the Miscria, the Seeker of Change. I call the Ydrel, the Oracle of Change. Ydrel Mentor, Ydrel Guide. You must answer my call. Ydrel brings the tools we need—“

The pull of her words made him dizzy, and he felt his resolve weakening. After all, they really needed him, depended on him. Who else took him so seriously? Maybe he could figure out something…

“No!” Ydrel shouted and mentally shoved against Tasmae’s rhythmic litany. “You don’t have any idea what I go through on Earth. I am a prisoner! I am locked up in a pretty little cage with a pretty little courtyard to run circles in and a library to tell me about a world I’m not allowed to be a part of! Then they watch me and test me and monitor me and if I do anything outside their idea of normal, they question me or drug me! And they tell me you’re just an illusion, then Joshua comes along and says it doesn’t matter if I just act ‘normal’ but Malachai says how can I ever be normal if I believe you’re real and I—”

As suddenly as his anger had come, it fled, leaving him empty with despair. He pulled his knees up to his chin and laid his head on them. Even here, his stomach was hurting again. He wrapped his arms around his legs, a tight ball of misery. He grabbed at his hair and pulled, as if expecting one pain to erase the other.

“Ydrel.”

Although he didn’t look up to see her, he could hear the forcefulness of her voice, feel the strength of her thoughts. He felt her hands firm on his shoulders. He could even smell her: the scent of earth and sweat and fresh air and some flower he couldn’t name.

“Ydrel. I. Am. Real.”

He didn’t know if the thought comforted or frightened him. He shivered.

_*

Once they entered the restaurant, Joshua found himself besieged by handshakes, kisses to his cheeks, and respectful bows. Sachiko’s father, a compact man with swarthy skin and a nose that matched Sachiko’s, led them to a side room with a long table set for ten. He indicated a seat near the door to Joshua, then sat down across from him. Sachiko sat beside Joshua, with her mother across from her. One of the waiters followed them in and took their drink orders and waited.

“You got any food allergies?” Vincenzo Luchese made it sound like a challenge.

Bemused, Joshua shook his head.

Vincenzo glanced at his employee. “Bring us what’s good.”

Sachiko rolled her eyes once the waiter left. “It’s all good, and you know it,” she scolded. “You drive Peter nuts when you do that!”

Her father shrugged. “Keeps him on his toes.”

Sachiko turned to her mother in exasperation. Chiyo shrugged, though her Mona Lisa smile and the glint in her eyes told Joshua she found it amusing. A family joke, then, or a habit the family had made into a joke. He bumped Sachiko’s leg with his and grinned at her. Her annoyance melted and she grinned back.

Before anyone could say anything more, people—relatives, Joshua guessed by their similar looks and restaurant attire—came in to meet him. And to assess him, he thought. After about the fifth cousin, Joshua decided he’d have to ask Sachiko for a cheat sheet on the Luchese/Oshiro family tree. Several brought drinks with them and settled themselves at the table.