Clarity

by Myanne Shelley

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 me
als 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 phe
nomena. 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.