“It’s still interesting,” Tess said.
“Not really, but merci, mademoiselle.” Another smile, self-deprecating but pleased too, proud of his work.
They settled into Dr. Augustin’s office. On the walls were framed newspaper clippings. Some were about psychics who’d used their powers to find missing people and solve crimes. Others were about hypnosis, using it on witnesses to do the same.
“Thérèse, is it?” he said. “I notice Jackson uses the French pronunciation, but you seem to be an English speaker.”
“I’m from Ontario but originally French. Well, I think so. I’m tracking down my roots.”
“Ah. Your parents let you travel so far afield at your age? How old are you? Seventeen?”
“Almost. As for my parents, that’s what I’m looking for. I was raised in an orphanage.”
“Really?” His brows shot up. “I did not know such things still existed. I suppose they must, but…” He shook his head. “They should not. There are so many people who wish children but cannot have them. Raised in an orphanage with no idea who you are? It sounds like something out of a Dickens novel.”
She smiled. “It wasn’t as bad as that.”
“Oh, I know. This is not Dickens’s London, Dieu merci. Forgive me for prying, mademoiselle. As Jackson can tell you, I am a terribly nosy old man. Too much time in laboratories and libraries. The lives of others hold endless fascination.”
“Everyone’s life is interesting, if it’s different from your own.”
A broader smile creased his wide face. “Very true. And you are most gracious to forgive my interest, but I will turn my attention to your original purpose in coming to see me, before Jackson explodes from impatience.”
Jackson murmured an apology. The old man only laughed and told him to go on.
“We’re interested in psychic phenomena,” Jackson said. “A specific manifestation that may or may not be a recognized type.”
“Now that is intriguing.” Dr. Augustin leaned toward Tess. “Dare I hope that you yourself are the one who has experienced it?”
“No, sorry,” she said and went on to tell the story they’d agreed on—that it was a fellow orphan, and since they were at McGill, Jackson had suggested they ask Dr. Augustin about it.
She started by describing the figures she saw in the present day.
“They aren’t ghosts,” she said. “My friend can’t communicate with them, and they make no attempt to communicate with her. They’re just going about their lives.”
“That does not mean they are not ghosts. While it seems your friend is hoping for a more unique explanation, I fear that would be my first guess.”
“There’s more,” Jackson said.
Tess explained the other visions—the ones where “her friend” seemed to shift into the past. As she spoke, the professor’s eyes widened.
“Retrocognition,” he said. “Oui, of course. That would explain the spectral figures as well. They do not seem alarmed or confused by being in the present day because they are not. It is as if a tiny window opens between past and present, and they cross over. Their image crosses over, that is. Rather like a projector playing an old movie.”
“I don’t understand,” Tess said.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle. I am rushing on. This is exciting. It is a rare phenomenon, as psychic experiences go. As Jackson may have told you, I am not truly a believer. I merely study it. There are, however, some alleged manifestations that I find more possible than others. Retrocognition is one of them. More commonly, people claim to have precognition—they see the future. I do not believe that is possible. I certainly hope our lives cannot be laid out on such a definitive path. But retrocognition, as the name implies, means seeing the past, often by stepping into another time altogether.”
He stood and pulled a book from the shelf. “I have the most famous account of it here.” He laid the book in front of her, opened to a page talking about something called the Moberly–Jourdain incident, when two young women had visited the Palace of Versailles and somehow found themselves back in the time of Marie Antoinette.
“When your friend passes into another period, does she ever find herself in a different place?”
Tess shook her head. “It’s the same place where she is. It’s just another time.”
“That is usually the case with retrocognition. In fact, if the person claims to step into another location, it is widely believed to be a sign that the answer is more likely an active imagination than psychic abilities.” He lowered himself back into his chair. “I do not suppose there is a chance I could speak to your friend? I could certainly bring her here—pay her train ticket and boarding. As I said, retrocognition is extremely rare. I would very much like to speak to her.”
Jackson glanced at her, and Tess could tell he wanted her to admit it wasn’t a friend. Yes, it would be nice to talk to someone like Dr. Augustin, who would take her seriously. But she suspected Dr. Augustin wasn’t going anywhere soon. No need to rush.
She said that she’d speak to her friend and then sneaked a look at Jackson, but he only gave a small nod.
“There’s one other thing,” Jackson said. “It’s departmental, rather than specific to your studies. I’m interested in Dr. Hebb’s work. The sensory-deprivation experiments in particular. The subject came up in my psych class last year, and it intrigued me.”
It did not intrigue Dr. Augustin. Tess could see that by the flash of disappointment.
“Of course, I know Donald,” Dr. Augustin said. “He is a wonderful man, and one of Canada’s greatest contributors to the field of psychology. I will admit, though, that I find the sensory-deprivation work distasteful.”
“Because of the military connections?” Jackson asked.
“Oui. I understand in Donald’s case the military claimed to be exploring a concern about brainwashing, but I cannot help but fear…”
“They were looking for methods they could use themselves?”
“Oui, but as you know, I am something of a…” A brief but warm smile. “What does your mother call it? Conspiracy nut?”
“She means it in the most affectionate way.”
Dr. Augustin laughed. “She has many of us in her social circle, so I take no offense.”
“On that topic then, can you tell me anything about Dr. Ewen Cameron?”
“That is psychiatry. I am not much involved with the research or politics of that department.”
“Dr. Cameron is apparently doing research based on Dr. Hebb’s.”
Dr. Augustin couldn’t disguise a brief grimace of distaste. “Then that would explain why I do not know his work, despite his illustrious reputation.”
“Not even if it’s rumored to be funded by the CIA?”
Dr. Augustin’s head shot up at that, and Jackson laughed. The professor waved a finger at him. “You are as bad as your maman, do you know that?”
“I thought it might catch your interest. Nothing then?”
“Non, and now I will have to investigate, drawing my attention away from my studies. As my Anglophone students would say, thanks for nothing.”
Jackson grinned. “Sorry. If you do investigate and find anything, Tess and I are staying on campus.” He named the dorms. “We’ll be here for a few more days. After that you can always reach me through my mother. I touch base every day or two.”
“As a good son should. Your maman likes to give her children their freedom, but she does worry. We were speaking just the other day and she told me you were off on this journey of discovery.”
Jackson tensed but only said, “D’accord. I will call her later and tell her I saw you. She’ll like that. Now, Tess and I should leave you to—”
“Are you having any luck with your investigations?” Dr. Augustin asked.
“Yes, quite a bit, actually.” Jackson motioned for Tess to rise, and when she wasn’t quick enough, he took hold of her sleeve and tugged her up. “It’s been very productive, but we should get back to
it and leave you to your own—”
“I presume there is a connection then?” he said. “Between your birth parents and Thérèse’s?”
Tess turned a slow look on Jackson, but he ducked it and prodded her toward the hall, mumbling some nonanswer. He practically shoved her out the door and almost closed it between them as he spoke to Dr. Augustin in rapid-fire French. As fast as he talked, though, she could pick up enough to know that he was saying goodbye and thanking Dr. Augustin for his help…while briefly answering Dr. Augustin’s queries about this other investigation, the one that apparently involved his parents. His birth parents. Tess listened until she’d heard enough. Then she strode down the hall.
A moment later she heard, “Tess?” Then “Tess!” and running footsteps behind her. She picked up her pace and kept going.
Twenty-Six
“TESS!” JACKSON CALLED as she strode out of the building. “Hold on! I can explain.”
“Of course you can,” she said as he caught up. “I’m sure you will. However, it’s about two days and twelve hours too late.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No?” She turned to face him. “All right. What you’re telling me is that you happen to be searching for your birth parents at the same time I am, and we happened to end up in the same place. Yet that’s a total coincidence, and therefore there was no reason to tell me.”
“I—”
“Furthermore, given that the two are unconnected, you are helping me out of simple curiosity, and you certainly never agreed to help me—and take my money—only because my search might actually provide answers for yours.”
He rubbed his mouth and looked around. “Can we go somewhere and talk? Please?”
“That’s what I was trying to do, presuming you didn’t want to have this conversation in the middle of the psychology department.”
He nodded and gestured for her to follow him. She did, and they wound past a few buildings before coming to a bench between two of them.
They sat. When Jackson didn’t speak, she said, “Start at the beginning. The part where your parents aren’t your birth parents, which would be none of my business normally but obviously is, under the circumstances.”
“They’re my aunt and uncle,” he said. “Dad is my birth mother’s older brother. That’s what I think of them as: Mom and Dad. I’ve never known my birth parents. I didn’t even realize they existed until I was old enough for my parents to explain. That’s why my sisters are so much older. When my birth mother was a teen, she got into some trouble. Dad stepped in to help. She had…issues. Psychological. He got her on the right path, and then she met my birth father and wanted to drop out of school and get married. She was seventeen. When my parents tried to change her mind, she took off. She got married and had me, and they never even knew I existed until my birth father showed up on their doorstep with me, six months old, and said she was dead.”
Tess blinked, the words I’m sorry on her lips, but he continued.
“She’d had postpartum depression, like that woman you saw in the hall. She’d always had problems with depression, and having me only made it worse.”
He was leaning forward, gazing straight ahead, some piece of paper—it looked like Dr. Augustin’s card—between his hands, nails shredding the edges as he spoke.
“She…committed suicide. Pills. My birth father was a mess. My parents say he really did love her, but he was just a kid himself, and he didn’t understand her problems. He thought he could fix them by being good to her. Loving her. Looking after her.” The breeze caught a tiny scrap of the card and floated it away. “That’s not enough. It just isn’t. He brought me to my parents and asked them to take me until he got on his feet again. He’d heard of work in Newfoundland at the fisheries. He’d make some money and come back. He died on the way out there. Drove all day and then decided he could drive the rest of the way that night. He fell asleep at the wheel.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gave a half shrug. “I don’t know them as anything more than photos. It’s like a really tragic story that happened to someone else, you know? A story about two kids who weren’t much older than I am now, who only wanted to get married and be happy like everyone else, and it went really, really wrong.”
“Your mother,” Tess said. “You think that house, that experiment, has something to do with her depression…but there’s no way you could coincidentally happen to be in the same house, on the same mission, when I showed up.”
He turned toward her. “There’s this man. He contacted me when I started at McGill. It was a letter at first, to my dorm room. He wanted to talk to me about my birth mother. If I agreed, I was to wait by a pay phone the next day at a certain time.”
She raised her brows.
“Yes, I know it sounds very cloak-and-dagger,” he said.
“Mysterious man contacts you to set up mysterious meeting via pay phone? No, not at all strange.”
“It’s true, Tess. I swear it.”
“Just tell me your story.”
“I went to the pay phone. He called. He said there was more to my mother’s story than I knew. I asked him what he meant. He said he didn’t know the specifics, only that the situation was much more complicated than postpartum depression and suicide. I demanded more. He said I’d need to get answers myself. I hung up. I had no idea what was going on, but it seemed like someone was just trying to cause trouble. It seemed too weird to be legitimate. That’s why I freaked out when you said you were sent to the same place. It seemed like proof I’d been set up, though I had no idea why.”
“But you did eventually talk to the guy again?”
“He continued to send messages to my dorm. I ignored him for almost six months. Then I took one of his calls. By then I hoped that if he really had anything to tell me, he’d tell me and stop playing games.”
“Did he?”
“Not really. He said he knew that my mother had been involved in something. He had no idea what it was, but he could set me on my way if I was interested in investigating. I needed more. Where did this information come from? What was the information, so I could judge it for myself? This time he hung up on me. Then last week he called my parents’ place. I was home by then, the term over. He gave me the address for the house outside Sainte-Suzanne. He said if I wanted answers, they would be there in a day or two.”
“Because I was going there? You must think I really am stupid, Jackson. There’s no way this man could have known I was heading to that house. The only person who did was—”
“Whoever gave you that address. She must have called and told him.”
Tess shook her head. “If the matron knew of someone who could help, she would have told me.”
“Maybe he didn’t know you were definitely going, only that you’d gotten the address somehow.”
“That’s awfully…” She trailed off. “When did he call?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“I tried the Sainte-Suzanne number that day,” Tess said. “When the operator said it wasn’t in service, the matron spoke to her and explained a bit about the situation.”
Jackson nodded. “Then it was the local operator. I bet she’d been told to call this man if anyone used that number. He knew you’d get that number when you turned eighteen, and if I wouldn’t investigate, maybe you would. Then you called it early, and he used that excuse to send me up there. At least one of us would take the bait. While I don’t like doing the bidding of some mysterious guy too lazy to get off his ass and do it himself, there are answers here, answers we both need. I think we made some real progress today.” He pulled out his notepad. “Let’s compile what we’ve found and—”
“No.”
He went still, notebook half open, other hand reaching for his pen.
“Do you really think it’s that easy, Jackson?”
His jaw twitched, as if to say, No, but I’d kinda hoped it might be.
“Look, Tess, I know you’re upset with me. M
aybe I didn’t handle this well—”
“Maybe? There’s no maybe about it. You were a jerk.”
He flinched hard at that. “I don’t think—”
“No? You hauled me out of that basement, blamed me for inconveniencing you and kicked me out to sleep in the woods. The next morning, I offered to hire you, and you took my money—to do exactly what you’d come there to do anyway.”
“I hadn’t figured out what was going on, if you were on the level or if that man had sent you up there, so I decided to pretend—”
“You lied to me,” she said. “How many times did you tell me that if you were going to help, I had to be honest. How many times did you make me feel bad for not being completely honest?”
“I—”
“You were a jerk, Jackson.”
“Okay, I’ve been thoughtless. Inconsiderate. I know I can act like a jerk, but I think I let you see beyond that.”
“You let me see a lie.”
He rubbed his mouth again, his gaze focused forward, distant. Then he turned to her. “The story I told was a lie, but what you’ve seen—”
“What you’ve let me see, as you worded it yourself. That small, safe window you allowed me to peek in, mostly as a way to make me feel like I knew you, so we could work together. Don’t try to make me feel special because you let me in. I’m not special. I’m just the sucker who fell for your lies.”
“That’s not—”
“I paid you. I gave you five dollars to help me. I bought all the food you needed. I even got your bus ticket. And you let me, despite the fact—”
“It was temporary. Part of me playing a role.” He fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “There. That’ll more than cover it, and you can keep the extra.”
The Unquiet past Page 15
