The Scattering

by Kimberly McCreight

  The better I’ve gotten at reading, though, the less I want anyone to know. And the fact that my dad has worked so hard to respect my boundaries, not to push or interrogate, has come as a shock.

  But then again, maybe it’s not such a surprise to him that I have to learn this whole Outlier thing on my own. I learned to swim in the same stubborn, lonely way. Gideon ran right up to the pool and jumped in. He almost drowned before my dad rescued him and then showed him how. Meanwhile, it took me weeks of walking back and forth across the shallow end until I could catch even a few strokes. But swim I did, eventually. And all by myself.

  “Hi, Wylie,” my dad says when he notices me in the doorway. He smiles, relieved that I have appeared. “Do you want some pancakes?”

  Gideon huffs in disgust.

  Disgusted that my dad is trying to change the subject. Disgusted by the sight of me. No, that’s not right. Disgusted is too mild. Gideon is enraged by me this morning. It rocks me back on my heels.

  And this is partly why I still have not embraced this whole Outlier thing. Who wants to risk knowing what anyone is truly feeling about them? Also, I’m aiming for normal at the moment. Being an Outlier means accepting the fact that I am never going to fit in.

  My dad puts a huge plate of pancakes down in front of me as I climb up on a stool next to Gideon, trying to ignore the anger pulsing my way. I wish I hadn’t come downstairs.

  “Good news! Looks like the NIH might fund Dad’s official Outlier study!” Gideon shouts. As if this is the final comeback in some long argument we’ve been having.

  And in a way maybe it is. Gideon’s own test results were average. My dad couldn’t lie about that. Which means his nonvisual, nonauditory emotional perception was normal and fine when the auditory and visual limitations were each tested separately, but he—like the vast majority of people—has no HEP. He’s not an Outlier. And Gideon might have been able to accept that if there’d been some hope of changing it. But my dad insists that Gideon cannot be an Outlier because the Outliers are only girls. He may not know why yet, but that has not made him any less certain of this crucial fact.

  At first, Gideon outright rejected the whole “only girls” thing, convinced that my dad had made some small but critical miscalculation. But when my dad refused to waste energy confirming the gender disparity, it sent Gideon into a rage spiral. Like how dare all males be denied.

  It makes me want to point out all the other things boys get the better part of the deal on: like height for instance or running speed or being able to procreate without their bodies being ripped apart. Or, I don’t know, having only the most remote chance of getting raped when girls have to think about it every time they walk out the door.

  But I know how Gideon would take that: as a declaration of war. And who wants to go to battle with a lunatic?

  “The NIH response to our funding proposal has been encouraging,” my dad says. “But nothing is guaranteed.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell her the rest, Dad?” Gideon goes on. “I mean, it is her brain after all.”

  My eyes fly wide open. “Tell me what?”

  My dad takes a loud breath, then looks up at me and forces a totally unconvincing smile. “Everything else is very preliminary. But there is a neuroscientist from UCLA who thinks she might be onto something on the source question. It sounds promising, but it is very early days.”

  Already, my heart has picked up speed. Here it is, sooner than I thought: the dread final diagnosis. I am not prepared. I can maybe accept that I am an Outlier, and I can almost have a little fun learning what that means. But I am still afraid to know why. There is something too permanent about that. I have the urge to put my hands over my ears. It’s only the thought of how much this would please Gideon that keeps them balled at my sides.

  “So tell her,” Gideon says. “Tell her what the neuroscientist thinks.”

  “Gideon, if Wylie wants to know those kinds of details she can ask me,” he says sharply. My dad turns to me. “And you should take your time.”

  “Spoiler: your brain isn’t normal,” Gideon hisses in my ear.

  “Gideon, that is not helpful!” my dad shouts. He takes a breath, trying to calm himself down. “It’s also not true. ‘Normal’ is a meaningless word.”

  “Meaningless?” Gideon shouts, pushing away his plate and jumping off his chair. “Oh, wait, I get it! The more messed up Wylie is, the better she is. Wow, and here I am trying to do the things I’m supposed to do, and all the while what you want is a freak show like her.” Gideon shakes his head. “Except you and I both know, Dad, if I was the Outlier, that would make me damaged, not special.”

  “Gideon.” My dad clenches his jaw tighter and stares down at the counter. “You are special exactly as you are.” My dad is trying, but he is so mad it doesn’t even sound believable. “And Wylie, Gideon is upset at me so he’s taking it out on you. There is nothing wrong with you.”

  “Unless that other guy is right, and it’s some kind of illness,” Gideon says, resting a hand on the back of his chair like all of a sudden he has no plans to go anywhere. “Then, technically, there would be something wrong with her.”

  My dad closes his eyes as his nostrils flare—he is really angry now. It’s obvious he told Gideon something, probably offhandedly, that he now is regretting.

  “What illness?” I ask. I have no choice. My anxiety isn’t going to let a whole “illness” thing just go.

  “I’ve spoken with numerous experts,” my dad does on, all calm rationality now. “And I’m glad because I think it has given me a more complete picture. However, there is one very persistent immunologist who seems set on convincing me that HEP is the result of a disorder that is itself the result of an infection.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “There are a few viruses that could theoretically cause psychological symptoms, and in my exploratory studies some of the Outliers I found had various mood disorders. Not only anxiety, but a whole range of issues: addiction, anorexia, cutting, depression, antisocial and criminal behavior.”

  “You’ve finally found your tribe, Wylie,” Gideon says, pointedly eyeing the remnants of my hacked hair. It’s grown out, but not completely. “Sick, and sick in the head. And by the way, this immunologist Dad is trying to blow off is a professor at Cornell.”

  “Yes, Dr. Cornelia has been associated with Cornell and he is on staff at Metropolitan Hospital in New York,” my dad says. “But, to be clear, his entire premise is suspect. It was by no means all of the Outliers in my exploratory study who exhibited behavioral or psychological difficulties. Not to mention that the other two original Outliers had no such issues whatsoever. So there may be some relationship between mood disorders such as anxiety and being an Outlier, but that relationship is certainly not straightforward cause and effect.”

  I think this is supposed to make me feel better. It does not.

  “Dr. Cornelia from Cornell?” is all I can think to say.

  “Yes, it is a bit ridiculous. Dr. Cornelia from Cornell also has a very controversial book out about bioterrorism that he is actively trying to promote as well as a career in dire need of a restart.”

  “Bioterrorism?” I ask, but Gideon and my dad are fixated on each other now.

  “Still, it’s not like Dr. Cornelia is some random guy.” Gideon turns and looks at me. “And unlikely isn’t the same thing as impossible. Right, Dad? She could still just be sick, right?”

  Gideon is trying to hurt me. The stupid part is how much it is working.

  “No, not right. Dr. Cornelia’s theory does not adequately explain the HEP.” My dad slides the last pancakes off the griddle and onto a spare plate. Then he holds his spatula upright against the counter like some kind of staff. “Would you rather I lie and pretend that you are an Outlier, Gideon? Or that you could be? Because that seems insulting to your intelligence.” My dad exhales, hard. “Wylie is an Outlier, and you are not. Period. This does not mean that I love you any less. Or that you
are any less special. You are simply special in a different way than Wylie is. That’s the truth, Gideon. What else do you want?”

  “I want you to admit that she’s the only thing that matters to you now.” Gideon’s pointing at me. But at least he’s not looking at me, so I don’t have to feel the full force of his hatred. “Your kid and your research all in one place. What do you even need me for anymore?”

  My dad winces. “Gideon, you know that’s not the way I feel.”

  “No, Dad, I don’t know anything about the way you feel.” Gideon’s voice is quiet now, devastated. “That’s Wylie’s specialty, remember?”

  My dad closes his eyes and lowers his head. As he passes out of the room, Gideon knocks hard into my shoulder, almost shoving me off the chair. I push myself back up as he storms to the foyer. My dad and I both flinch as the front door slams shut behind him.

  4

  WHEN MY DAD FINALLY OPENS HIS EYES, HE TRIES AGAIN TO SMILE. IT’S NO more convincing than it was before.

  “That went well,” he says quietly, then motions to the dozen pancakes now stacked on the plate in front of him. “Please tell me you’re hungry.”

  Without waiting for me to answer, he picks up the plate, walks to the garbage can, and presses the trash open with his foot. He reconsiders, though, letting the lid slam shut. Instead, he pulls out some plastic wrap and sets to covering each pancake, then stashing them in small groups inside the freezer. It’s amazing how fast this seems to buoy him. He may have no idea how to fix things with Gideon, but we now have enough pancakes to survive a nuclear winter.

  “So this guy from Cornell who thinks being an Outlier is a sickness . . .” I begin, and then stop. Open-ended is more likely to get an honest answer.

  My dad looks me right in the eye. I can feel him willing me to know that he is telling the truth.

  “Dr. Cornelia is just looking to inject himself into something that he thinks will get him attention from the press.”

  “What press?”

  Despite all of us bracing for an onslaught of reporters and television cameras after what happened at the camp, the only real coverage was a thumbnail of an article in the Boston Globe, mostly about Cassie’s violent death at the hands of a cult. (The police had also officially deemed Cassie’s death a homicide, not that there was anyone around to prosecute anyway.) The article mentioned my dad’s research only vis-à-vis its connection to Quentin, who was described only as a “cult leader,” associated with The Collective, which—it turned out—was a national organization with various beliefs and branches, most of which did not appreciate being called a cult. They made that pretty clear in the online comments on the article. No one seemed to care about the Outliers or HEP, maybe because there had been no official, peer-reviewed study on the topic yet, maybe because science wasn’t as sexy as the word “cult.”

  The only actual interest in my dad’s research came from one blogger—EndOfDays.com—who identified himself only as a “centrist” member of The Collective and who laid the blame for the deaths at the camp squarely at my dad’s feet. EndOfDays had decided that the Collective members were innocent victims caught in the deadly crossfire of scientific recklessness. My dad didn’t want us reading the blog. And so I hadn’t. Gideon, of course, couldn’t get enough.

  “IT IS ONLY the maniacally egotistical who believe that they should insert themselves between man and the will of God,” Gideon was reading from his laptop at the dining room table. “It is an abomination to interfere with this sacred covenant.”

  “What the hell is that?” Rachel asked. She was in the kitchen with my dad, helping with the dinner dishes. Since what happened at the camp, she’d been glued to us even tighter. It was aggravating, no matter how genuine her intentions (and I still wasn’t convinced). “Actually, forget I asked. I don’t care what it is—stop reading it.”

  Rachel often used that overly familiar way with us like she was a member of our loud, no-holds-barred family and she was allowed to shout because it was all out of love anyway. Except we were not loud, and whenever she used that tone, it set my teeth on edge. As annoyed as I was at Gideon for torturing my dad by reading that blog, I was even more annoyed at Rachel for talking to him that way. I had a hard time imagining she ever could have been my mom’s friend.

  Rachel and my mom had met in the third grade in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and somehow had managed to stay best friends for years, through different high schools, separate colleges, and then different graduate programs. When they finally got their first jobs, they had been thrilled to land in Boston together. Rachel was my mom’s maid of honor, and there were countless pictures of Rachel holding Gideon and me as babies.

  Then, suddenly, Rachel was gone. Out of our life. Once, when my mom had been trying to comfort me about the distance between Cassie and me, she had said that she and Rachel had grown apart, too. But their separation had been so sudden and complete. I could tell even then—long before I knew that I was an Outlier—that my mom was leaving out important details. When Rachel reappeared after my mom’s funeral I had thought about asking my dad what had really happened between them, but he’d been so overwhelmed and sad that it had felt stupid and wrong to care. And there was a tiny part of me that had felt comforted being around someone who had even once upon a time been so close to my mom.

  “It’s Dad’s stalker,” Gideon said of the passage, obviously enjoying Rachel’s reaction. “EndOfDays. He’s in The Collective, and he blames Dad for basically everything.”

  “What?” Rachel asked as she handed my dad another rinsed plate for the dishwasher, then dried her hands on a towel. “What is Gideon talking about, Ben? What stalker?”

  “A guy with too much time on his hands. To be honest, I don’t think he knows what he wants. He’s angry, that’s all. No one reads it anyway.”

  “You mean, except the 3,523 people who commented,” Gideon said. “But who’s counting?”

  “Ben?!” Rachel shouted. “Have you talked to the police? That doesn’t sound like something you should ignore.”

  “They did look into it. The guy lives in Florida somewhere,” my dad said, waving a hand. As though Florida was the same thing as Mars. “Anyway, Agent Klute is not concerned.”

  “The same Agent Klute that ran Wylie down?” Rachel asked, eyes wide. “No offense, Ben, but I think you better wake up a little here. You need to protect yourselves.”

  I watched my dad’s nostrils flare. “Don’t you think I know that?” He was angry but hurt, too. He turned and dumped his glass of water into the sink. “Thank you for coming by and bringing dinner, Rachel. But I’m tired,” he said. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben. I didn’t mean to—I’m just, I’m trying to help.” Rachel smiled at him apologetically as she crossed the room. Her mouth was stiff, and I could feel how badly she wanted to cry. “I promise next time I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “YES, WYLIE, THINGS have been quiet in the press so far,” my dad goes on. “But if I can convince the NIH to fund a full-scale study of the Outliers and get peer-reviewed publication that will change, and quickly. There’s already some Senator Russo, from Arizona. He’s on the Intelligence Subcommittee and he’s insisting on a meeting. Somehow he got wind of my funding application. My guess is he’s worried about protecting some secret research the military has been doing.”

  “Secret research?” Fear surely shows on my face.

  My dad grimaces, then holds up his hands. “I just mean, in the way everything the military does is secret. They’ve been looking into how to use emotional perception in combat for decades,” he says. “They haven’t succeeded, but I’m sure they’re not thrilled about competition, or about not being able to control the flow of information.”

  My dad’s phone pings then with a text. I feel worry jolt through him as he looks down at the screen.

  “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing—it’s not about the research,” he s
ays.

  He hands me his phone. I look down at the text: Accident file for Hope Lang will be available for review at 9 a.m. today. Sincerely, Detective Oshiro.

  I have to read the message three times before I fully understand its meaning, like it’s coming out of nowhere, even though I am the one who has called Detective Oshiro pretty much every day since I got back from Maine, asking to see my mom’s accident file. I feel surprisingly foolish, too, now that I have gotten what I wanted. It’s because of what Quentin said—that my mom’s death wasn’t an accident—that I got so obsessed. It’s not as if anything else that Quentin claimed up at the camp turned out to be true, but knowing that hasn’t loosened my grip. Even my dad admitted that he had considered the possibility that my mom’s death hadn’t been an accident, though he backpedaled hard as soon as he could tell I was fixating.

  “I am only going to say this once, Wylie.” My dad’s voice is quiet and firm. “And I am saying this as your father, but also as a psychologist and because I don’t want to see you hurt any more than you already have been. Looking in your mom’s accident file could be extremely traumatic for you. Extremely. There might be photographs or details that are far more upsetting than you can possibly anticipate.”

  It is true that I have thought a lot more about getting my hands on the file than about what it would be like to actually look in it. It seemed so unlikely I ever would. Detective Oshiro had said that he needed clearance, higher-up approval, permission. Case closed or not, they didn’t ordinarily have the families of victims coming by to rifle through their files.