Lies I Live By

by Lauren Sabel

  As always, an image comes to me, and this time, I’m looking down on a building on the edge of a large field of snow.

  The scene is frozen, as if I am seeing outside of time, or looking at an ink drawing of something that happened long ago. It’s more like studying a picture than being in a moment. This is very common in the remote viewing world, as it happens more often than true bi-location, where I am two places at once.

  “I’m floating above a building,” I say aloud.

  “Focus,” Indigo says, so I do. Time passes, and nothing happens, no movement. Sketching as I would from a photograph, I draw every detail I can see of the building’s roof and the field of snow below.

  “Can you tell the time or location?” Indigo asks.

  I study the image below me, and try to feel my way into it, but I just get that crawling-skin sensation. “There’s snow on the ground,” I say, but I don’t say, “it looks like winter,” even though I’m sure Indigo is thinking it too.

  I hear Indigo write something on his notepad. “Can you see into the building?” he asks.

  I focus on the roof, and suddenly a scream tears through my ears. It grows louder and louder until it vibrates through my bones, making my teeth chatter. It’s so haunting that I am caught up in it, and it takes me several minutes to realize why all of the hairs on my neck are standing on end: the scream sounds familiar.

  Someone I know is being tortured. The thought pops into my head, and once it’s in there, I can’t shake it out. I zoom toward the building, needing to get inside, to find out who is screaming, and why. But before I can dive into the building, an inky blackness bleeds in from all directions, erasing my view of the scene.

  As soon as I come to, I tell Indigo what I saw and heard, and how a strange blackness stopped me from seeing into the building. I want to include every detail in my post-session report, but Indigo suggests I include the scream, but not the familiarity of the screaming because it’s clearly analysis. This familiarity would make the entire report an AOL, and if it’s deemed by the CIA to be so, it would discount potentially important information from the entire mission, like the snow around the building.

  “But why do you think it sounded familiar?” I ask Indigo. “Off the record, of course.”

  “Most likely your mind heard a scream and associated it with the person you are most afraid of getting hurt,” Indigo says. “Did it sound like your mom? Your boyfriend?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. It didn’t sound like either of them, but . . . I’m not sure. It was like hearing something for the first time that you’ve heard many times. Am I making sense?”

  Indigo smiles. “No. But you often don’t.”

  “True,” I say, and I’m glad at least one of us still has a sense of humor. “But what about the darkness? Why can’t I see into the building?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Indigo says. “And it seems to me that the building must have psychic protection.”

  “And by that, you mean—”

  “I mean that a psychic is mentally blocking off the building’s interior,” Indigo says. “It’s unusual, but not impossible. Some big corporations even hire psychics to protect their secrets from enemy psychics.”

  “Then why doesn’t the CIA hire psychics to protect their classified files?”

  “How do you know they don’t?” Indigo asks, and I shrug. “Besides, a lot of government officials don’t believe in psychic energy, which is why we’re constantly on the verge of losing our funding.” He studies my half-finished drawing from the session. “Also, it’s very expensive to hire a psychic to do this,” he says, looking up again. “The psychic has to be focused on one specific location twenty-four hours a day, which is both psychically exhausting and physically impossible for one person to do.”

  I look down at my sketch of the building on the edge of the snowy field. Half of the drawing is missing due to the inky blackness that bled in from all sides. “But if I can’t see through it, what do I do?”

  “You need to stay away from it for a while. In the meantime, I’ll put the other viewers on it,” Indigo says, and I must look upset, because he adds, “Callie, if that building is being protected, and psychics are watching, they’ll know you have tried to break in. It could be dangerous for you.”

  “What do you mean by dangerous?”

  “Whoever is watching the building knew you were there if they blacked over the scene. They’re expecting you to come back, and if you do, they could enter your mind, since they already know when and where your mind will be open,” Indigo says. He’s keeping his voice calm, but he’s nervously bending an edge of the envelope. “And if the building is being watched by more than one psychic, the stress they could put on your mind could push you over the edge. They could break you.”

  “Like what happened to Michael?”

  He nods. “So I do not want you viewing the building until we know it’s safe for you.”

  “But—”

  “I’m serious, Callie. Do you want to end up like him, locked up in an insane asylum?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why don’t you write your report,” Indigo continues, “and then we’ll go get something from the snack machine for lunch.”

  I nod in agreement, and when Indigo leaves the room with the envelope in hand, I’m already half a page in. It’s difficult to write the truth while also leaving out specific details, but when I’m done, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of it. Telling the truth but not the whole truth is what I do in my daily life, anyway.

  I sign and date the bottom of the report, and then I stand up and open the door. It misses hitting Indigo by just a few inches.

  “I was wondering what took you so long,” he teases.

  “Perfection takes time,” I respond, handing him the report.

  He takes the report and pushes the door open the rest of the way. “Ladies first,” he says.

  “That would be me.” I step out into the bunker and blink rapidly in the bright fluorescent lights.

  “My treat,” Indigo says when we get to the snack machines. He pulls dollar bills out of his pocket and feeds them into the machine. “I wasn’t prepared enough today to get sandwiches. Not after such a long night.”

  For some reason, it didn’t even occur to me that after I left for Charlie’s show, some of the other viewers stayed and continued their sessions. “What did you find out last night?” I ask, not expecting an answer. Surprisingly, Indigo gives me one.

  “The good news is that we found some useful intel about the person we were looking for,” Indigo says. He presses B2 for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pulls it out when it drops. “But now we are searching for their location.”

  “Hence the building in the snow.”

  “Hence that,” Indigo says, handing me the sandwich. “You’re too young to say hence.”

  “You’re too old to know what young people say.”

  We walk across the bunker to the conference table, where Pat is slouched in his seat, dunking a candy bar in a cup of coffee. Indigo pulls out a chair for me and I lower myself into it and take a big bite of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  “Pat and Jasper were here all last night viewing,” Indigo tells me. “They got most of what we needed.” He looks at Pat across the table appreciatively. “I told you both to stay home today and get some rest. I don’t want anyone going . . .” Indigo rolls his finger around his ear.

  “I’m an insomniac,” Pat says. “This is better than lying at home, praying for sleep.” He dunks his candy bar in his coffee again. “I can be Callie’s monitor today if you’re busy.”

  “Or you can have Anthony take you home before you push your mind over the edge,” Indigo says sternly.

  “So Jasper’s at home today?” I interrupt.

  “Yep. Apparently he’s smarter than this one here.” He gestures to Pat. “Disappointed?”

  I shake my head. It’s better that Jasper’s not here toda
y. I wasn’t looking forward to the whole awkward post-kiss conversation.

  Pat sighs and gets up from the table, stuffing the rest of the candy bar in his mouth. He leaves his half-empty coffee cup on the table. “Crappy coffee anyway,” he says as he walks toward the end of the bunker, where Anthony is waiting for him in front of the underground garage.

  “Told you you shouldn’t have come today,” Anthony says when Pat reaches him. “Indigo don’t play around.” He looks across the room at Indigo. “Do you, boss?”

  Indigo shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. “Why don’t you head home too, Anthony, after dropping Pat off? I’ll take Callie home.”

  “Yes, boss,” Anthony says. He opens the garage door and they head out.

  I stand up and stuff the rest of my sandwich into my mouth.

  “Still hungry?” Indigo asks, and I shake my head. “Then let’s go back to work,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Unless you’re babysitting today.”

  My heart plummets to my feet, and the dread of Indigo knowing I’ve lied to him—after all he’s done for me—pins me to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words muffled through a mouthful of peanut butter. “More sworry than I can sway.”

  “You have your reasons,” Indigo responds. “But I’d like you to enlighten me as to what they are.”

  I swallow hard and force myself to look into Indigo’s disappointed eyes, but it’s painful, like staring at the sun. “You said yourself that if anyone I love knows about my job, they could get killed. You said that ‘loving people is a liability, a weapon to be used against you.’ After all that, do you think I could ask my mom to sign her death certificate?”

  “But the form just said you were a government intern, so she wouldn’t have—”

  “Known? Right. My mom is a MENSA certified genius. Do you really think she wouldn’t have dug until she found out the truth?”

  Indigo taps his finger against his lips. “Still, you’ve put me in a very tricky position.”

  I stare at him, unable to form any of the words I want to say. At this moment, I want to remind him that I’ll be eighteen in less than six months; that I’ve seen more in my mind than most fifty-year-olds, so I shouldn’t need my mother’s permission, and that Mom’s signature on the form is real, even if she doesn’t know why she signed it, but I don’t. I just cringe silently and watch Indigo make his decision.

  “I’ve never been much of a pencil pusher,” Indigo finally says. “Let’s get back to the real work of saving the world.” He cuffs me on the shoulder, and we walk together across the bunker and into the viewing room.

  Indigo and I work for a couple of hours, but we’re careful to avoid viewing the building, in case enemy psychics might be expecting me. Usually it’s not a problem, because enemy viewers wouldn’t even know where to look, but now that they do, I’m more at risk.

  Finally Indigo insists that my mind has had enough for one day, and that we’ve found everything there is to find in this mission, whatever that means. “Back to the regular office on Tuesday,” he says.

  “Why Tuesday?”

  “I’ll be out of town tomorrow, just for the day,” Indigo says. “You’ve worked hard all weekend; take the day off.”

  We walk through the concrete bunker to Indigo’s car, where he wraps the blindfold around my eyes and helps me into the car. He shuts the door behind me and gets in the driver’s seat. “You’ll be home in no time,” Indigo says from the front seat.

  “I’m not going home,” I respond. “Will you take me to Pier Forty-Five instead?”

  “Sure,” Indigo responds. “Why?”

  I sigh. “There’s something I have to do.”

  It’s a normal Sunday on Pier 45, which means that half the tourists in San Francisco have flooded onto the docks to eat expensive fried seafood and gawk at the barking sea lions. I hate crowds, I always have—but I’m almost glad for today’s masses. With the amount of fussing children and bellowing tourists, I can blend in and feel invisible, which buys me time to think, and maybe even muster up some courage to confront Charlie. I’m not even irritated when I’m jostled by elbows and overstuffed camera cases as I make my way to the museum; being pushed and shoved fits how I feel inside today.

  When I’m about twenty feet away, Laughing Sal chuckles that creepy animatron laugh from the museum’s open doorway. Har har har. I swerve around the crowd, shielding my eyes from the setting sun glinting off the museum’s metal siding and walk around the side of the building. Pennies clink as people drop them into the machines. Now halfway around the museum, I see the back entrance, where Charlie sneaks me in after hours on nights that he has to work late.

  Someone is lingering by the back door, waiting to be let in. I squint into the sun, and make out Amber’s slim figure. With her tousled blond hair and T-shirt tied in a knot above her belly button, she looks just like the boyfriend thief she is.

  I duck behind the building, realizing that Amber is wearing the same outfit today that she was last night at the lighthouse. As unlikely as it is that Grace would let him get away with it, the thought of Amber spending the night with Charlie still freezes the blood in my veins. I flatten myself against the metal siding and tip my head out to watch Amber flicking the dead ends of her hair with a painted fingernail.

  “Charlie,” Amber says, drumming on the door with her nails. Tap tap tap. “It’s me.”

  A cold feeling settles in my gut as the door opens and Charlie pops his head out. After looking both ways, Amber sneaks into the museum and I’m left alone outside, the hot metal siding burning my skin. I stare at the back entrance for a minute, and then I walk away, the seals barking a sorrowful good-bye as I head toward home.

  “The Embarcadero,” the bus driver says over the bus’s intercom a few minutes later. People around me gather their things as the bus slows to a stop. The doors open, and a man stumbles onto the bus smelling like liquor. He has so much facial hair I can hardly see his skin, and his clothes are torn at the elbows and knees.

  “A great flood will come so suddenly,” the man mumbles as he walks down the aisle. I duck down in my seat, praying he won’t sit in the empty seat beside me. He passes my row and continues down the bus, getting off at the back exit before the doors close. “One shall not have place or land to attach,” he slurs as he half falls onto the sidewalk.

  There seem to be more crazy people on the streets than ever lately, I think, watching him stumble away. It makes me wonder if we’re coming up to another end-of-the-world date. It happens every few years: some ancient prophet claims to have figured out the exact day the world ends, and the crazies come out en masse. The doomers head for the hills, the Mayan calendars are pulled out and studied, and everyone goes completely crazy, as far as I’m concerned. But I haven’t heard anything about that lately.

  When the bus starts moving again, I notice that while I’ve been thinking about the end of the world, I’ve also been sketching idly on the window. I’ve redrawn the sketches from my session, and the building stares back at me from the windowpane. But this time, the building in the snow—and the screaming from inside of it—have caught me with their teeth, and won’t let me go.

  Leave work at work, I remember Indigo saying. It’s the only way to stay sane. I wipe the window with my open palm, and then lean back and pull my hood down over my eyes.

  I half doze the rest of the trip, and the bus is pulling up to the Panhandle stop when my phone vibrates in my jeans, waking me up. I dig it out of my pocket and read the text: Meet up later? 8pm lighthouse?

  Wondering what I’m going to say to him, I swallow hard and write back: C u there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I get off the bus at the lighthouse later, after a dinner of falafel and french fries. Stepping into the cool sea air, I feel relief flood through me. It always makes me feel better to be here. Even though the vile memory of Amber running her hands through Charlie’s hair still haunts me, the lighthouse is the only place that
I feel truly safe, like no one could find me here.

  When I get to the top of the lighthouse, Charlie’s already here, but he’s not alone. Colin is building a Lego tower across from where Charlie is standing, staring out to sea. I wish Charlie hadn’t brought Colin. Even though he’s playing by himself twenty feet away, I know that he’ll be listening. He can’t build a high enough Lego tower to seclude himself from this mess.

  Charlie doesn’t turn around when I approach, and I can feel the awkwardness stretch between us as palpable as the thin silver cord from last night. “Charlie?” I say, and he turns around and looks at me. He doesn’t respond, and I realize that both of us are waiting for the other one to speak first. I take a few tentative steps toward him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your show,” I say, and I mean it.

  A few silent seconds tick by. Charlie’s ruddy faced, like he’s been running, or crying. The wind blows his hair into his eyes, and I try to think of what else to say, but nothing comes to me.

  “Where were you?” he finally asks, brushing his floppy brown hair out of his copper eyes. “You promised you’d be there. You know how much it meant to me.”

  What can I say? That I was working on a top secret government assignment? Or that I was kissing my coworker? “I lost track of time,” I say softly.

  Charlie crosses his arms protectively across his chest. Around us, the wind picks up, rattling the iron lighthouse railings. “Lost track of time?” he asks, shaking his head. “You didn’t even call me last night to say where you were.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “My phone died.”

  Charlie bites his lip and looks down at his sneakers. “I was waiting at the noodle shop for over two hours. I was late hanging my photos for the show, so I wasn’t ready when the few people who bothered to come did arrive. And I was worried about you all night, and when you didn’t respond to any of my texts—”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “And during the show,” Charlie continues, “I kept telling people you’d be there, that you’d never miss something that important to me—” His voice cracks. “So you just lost track of time? Or is it something else, Callie? Or someone else?”