by Dima Zales
“You use Guiding for therapy?” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
“Of course, the ability can be—and has been—used to help people. I’m one of the few psychologists who can truly modify a patient’s behavior. That’s why people value my services so much, and why my fees are so high. Other doctors can only boast of being able to do this. My Guiding ability is invaluable when it comes to treating conditions like OCD and other disorders.”
“But in my case, you couldn’t use it because you thought there was a chance you could pull me into the Mind Dimension?”
“Right. Had I been sure that you were just a delusional patient, I would’ve helped you, after you were old enough.”
“Old enough?”
“We don’t Guide young children. It’s one of the ancient taboos that we still follow in modern times. And it’s a good thing. From what I know about developmental psychology, Guiding a child might leave adverse, long-term effects,” she says.
“What about adults? Are there side effects to Guiding?” I wonder.
“It depends on the situation. The way I Guide my patients is completely harmless and improves their quality of life.”
I think about all this. The taboo makes sense. I can see a number of creepy reasons someone might have a rule not to touch children, even in the Quiet. And especially in order to mind control them. The therapy she does is interesting, though. I picture using Guiding to stop someone from obsessive hand washing. It wouldn’t be hard. The person would just think his OCD is going away rather than that he’s being mind-controlled by his therapist. And would it be so wrong to do this? Probably not.
“You know,” I say, looking at her, “I would’ve thought a Leacher’s power would be more helpful to a therapist.”
“Perhaps it would be, but I wouldn’t know,” Liz says with a shrug. “To me, some of the usefulness of talk therapy is in the talking itself. A Leacher wouldn’t need to talk to the patients as much.”
“I have to admit, you’re making me feel better about this power. Upon first hearing about it, I thought it sounded a little creepy,” I say, watching her face to see if she takes offense.
She doesn’t. In fact, the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile. “Yes, I could see how it might seem that way. That’s certainly how Leachers justify their hatred of us. Our ability seems unnatural if you don’t think about it deeply. That’s mostly due to the misconception we have about free will. Specifically, that it exists.”
“Do Guides think free will is an illusion, then?” As soon as I ask the question, I realize I made a mistake. This is a philosophical discussion—and those, in my opinion, have as little place in polite conversation as money, politics, sex, and religion.
“I’m not sure if that’s a group-wide view,” Liz says. “I, personally, don’t believe in free will. I’ve read studies that have convinced me of this. People concoct reasons, after the fact, for behavior that’s outside of their control. A classic example of that is how a person’s brain signals an arm to move before a person is conscious of deciding to move it.”
“That doesn’t fully make sense to me,” I say. “I like to think that we can choose what happens to us. Otherwise, if it’s all outside our control, people can get fatalistic.”
She laughs, ending our debate. “You know, you’ll feel right at home when I introduce you to my friends,” she says, still smiling. “I can tell you’re going to get along with some of them.”
She wants to introduce me to her friends? That could be a problem.
“Actually, Liz, I’m not sure how eager I am to meet any Guides besides you,” I say slowly. Pausing, I look at her, and then decide to just say it. “You see, I think a Guide is trying to kill me.”
Chapter 18
“What?” Liz’s whole demeanor changes. “What are you talking about?”
I give her a carefully edited version of what happened to me at the hospital. I describe the attempt on my life, and lie that my mom—the detective—spoke to the nurse who tried to kill me. I say that the nurse reported blanking out during the whole ordeal, and that my mom, who is a seasoned investigator, seemed to believe her. This is as close as I dare get to the truth—which is that my friend, one of the ‘evil Leachers,’ read the nurse’s mind and found out that the woman has amnesia.
“That is very strange,” Liz says when I’m done. “It’s true that if the nurse had been Guided to do something so out of character, she would’ve forgotten the event completely. But how do you know that she’s not a Leacher agent just trying to make it look like one of us was after you? Or that it wasn’t a strange coincidence?”
“Even if she was a Leacher, she wouldn’t be able to lie to my mom any better than a regular person, I would imagine,” I tell Liz. “And coincidence sounds like too much of a stretch to me. I mean, how often do people just forget something that they did, unless they’re under the influence, or on drugs?”
“That does seem suspicious,” she concedes. “But in any event, even if you’re right, meeting the Guide community would be your best course of action. Trying to kill one of our own is not tolerated. If some Guide did try to harm you, he or she would face serious consequences.”
“Oh? What exactly would happen to him?” I ask, intrigued.
“I’m not sure. We don’t have much Guide-on-Guide crime. Back in the day, someone like that would’ve been sterilized or even killed. Now, I’m not sure. I know that we wouldn’t let this person be taken into the regular judicial system. Not given what we can do. Most likely, this person would either face the Elders or receive vigilante-style justice from our community.”
The Elders? I vaguely register the term, but I’m too interested in the topic at hand to ask her to explain. “So you’re certain I would be safe?” I say instead.
She nods. “Even if someone wanted to kill you, I can’t think of a safer place than where I want to take you,” she says. “Not everyone will be there, only the more open-minded folks, who also happen to be my friends. And I’ll introduce you to Thomas. He was in the Secret Service, so if anyone can protect you, it would be him.”
Secret Service? It’s funny that I thought about that agency just a few minutes earlier. “Unless this Thomas is the person trying to kill me,” I say, half-jokingly. “Then I’ll have brought myself to him on a silver platter.”
“That’s impossible,” Liz says. “He was a patient of mine, like you, so I know what he’s capable of. He wouldn’t have any motive to try to kill you, in any case. If anything, he would find you a kindred soul. You were both adopted—” she says, then suddenly stops. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Doctor-patient privilege and all that.”
I think about this for a moment. It’s not so much her certainty of my safety, but sheer curiosity on my end that helps me make the decision. If I accept Liz’s invitation, I can meet more Guides. More people who can do what I do. I can learn things that I wouldn’t be able to learn otherwise.
“Okay, I’ll meet your friends,” I say. “How do we arrange it?”
Liz smiles. “There’s a party tonight, and now you’re invited. Every one of them is going to be there.” Then, glancing down at her watch, she says, “We best get back to our bodies. We’ve talked for quite a while, and I don’t want to deplete my time.”
Without giving me a chance to respond, she approaches her body and touches her frozen face, bringing us out of the Quiet.
I find myself back in that chair, looking at Liz and unsure what to say.
“Would you like to use up the rest of your hour? And do you plan to continue with your therapy?” she says, her therapist mask back on.
“I think I want to go now,” I say after a moment of consideration. “As to the long-term therapy, can I get back to you on that?”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s entirely up to you. I have your contact information, and I’ll get in touch with you about the party later today.”
I leave Liz’s office, chuckling sli
ghtly at the sight of the doughnut box in the trashcan. I bet Camilla threw out some perfectly good food to stay consistent with her earlier lie.
My head itches from the bandages, and I shudder at the thought of meeting new people while looking like this. On impulse, I make a decision to visit Doctor Searle across the hall from Liz’s office.
“You have to make an appointment,” the lazy-looking receptionist says, barely looking up from her computer. “We’re booked through this month.”
The conversation with Liz has altered some of my perceptions. I don’t feel as much hesitation about Guiding people to do what I want. Somehow, it’s better than Pushing them. It’s semantics, I know, but it seems to work for me. Without any guilt, I phase into the Quiet and make the receptionist realize that the doctor will indeed see me now.
The good doctor needs a similar treatment. Without it, he failed to see why he, a dermatologist, should be dealing with gunshot wounds. After he’s properly Guided, however, he gladly takes my bandages off, thus expanding his specialty. I even learn that my stitches will dissolve and disappear with time—so if all goes well, there will be no need to see another doctor. I’m healing quite nicely, all things considered. I just have to be careful when getting my next haircut.
The mirror in the doctor’s bathroom improves my mood another notch. There’s a small patch of shaved hair around the stitches, but nothing too obvious. If I brush my hair more to the side, you can barely see anything.
With that taken care of, I’m off to Saks Fifth Avenue.
If I’m going to a party, I need to get some clean clothes.
Chapter 19
Wearing my new getup, I return to the hotel. The leather jacket I bought for the occasion is a touch warm, but I should make a good impression on the Guides I meet.
My phone rings, and I see that it’s Mira’s number.
“Hi,” I say, picking it up.
“Hi Darren.” She sounds uncertain. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better today,” I say, trying to sound both cheerful and sick at the same time. “Thank you for checking.”
“That’s good,” she says, now sounding more sure of herself. “I’m happy to hear that.”
Mira is checking on my wellbeing? It’s both amazing and difficult to believe.
“So what are you up to?” she asks.
Suddenly, it hits me. She wants to see me. She’s just being coy about it. But I already have plans, and I know that I can’t bring her with me. Not to this party, not with her attitude toward Pushers.
“I think I’m going to try to take it easy tonight.” I feel like an ass for lying, but I see no other choice. “I’ll drink some chamomile tea and turn in early.”
“Add honey and lemon to your tea,” she suggests. “That’s how my grandma cured almost any ill. Well, that and fatty chicken broth, but I don’t recommend that one.”
“Yep, I’ll do the honey and lemon, thank you. I’d like to see you, though, as soon as I’m better—which should be after a good night’s sleep. Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?”
“Yes, I think I would,” she says softly and somewhat out of breath. Her voice sounds almost sensual. “Let’s get in touch in the morning. Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll call you. Thanks, Mira,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Say hello to Eugene for me. Bye.”
“Bye,” she says and hangs up.
Well, that was interesting. All of a sudden, I’m less excited about the party. If I hadn’t agreed to go, I could’ve met up with Mira tonight. I bet catching her in this weird, pity-inspired ‘let’s not kill Darren today’ mood would’ve been fruitful. By tomorrow, she might remember how she really feels about me.
The excitement about the party slowly comes back to me during my room-service meal as I speculate on the different ways the whole thing might go. I am all ready and psyched again by the time I get a text from Liz.
Where are you now?
I text her my hotel address. I guess I trust Liz with my life at this point. Then again, if something goes awry, I can always switch hotels.
The limo will pick you up in ten minutes.
Now I’m impressed. My therapist definitely knows how to get attention. A limo to a party is seriously stylish.
I’m downstairs when I see the limo pull up. It’s a black, high-end limo, not one of those new Hummer-types. It comes fully equipped, right down to a guy in a chauffeur hat who calls me Sir and opens the door for me.
On the way, the driver doesn’t talk much, and I return the favor. I only have time to drink half of my glass of champagne before we arrive somewhere in the Meatpacking district. I don’t recognize the place, but Liz is standing outside. She looks stunning. Her usual office attire is already sexy, but it pales compared to what she’s wearing now. I have to make a concentrated effort to keep my eyes above her neck.
“I’m glad you came,” she says. “Let me show you inside the place.”
We go past the long line and the huge bouncers as though we’re invisible. I have no idea if Liz just used her persuasive power, or if Guides own this club and Liz comes here so often that the bouncers recognize her. We also don’t pay anything, even though places like this usually try to get you to pay a cover or buy bottle service to get in.
We go down half a flight of stairs and make our way into the most fancy club I’ve ever been in. I am not a fan of clubbing, but as a guy who has to carry on conversations with girls in their early twenties, I have to at least know the names of the more trendy clubs. However, this one I’m not familiar with—which is pretty suspicious. Can the Guides somehow Guide NYC denizens to keep their club a secret?
We walk onto a giant dance floor, and I follow Liz as she navigates through the crowd and toward a different set of stairs. As we make our way, I see some Hollywood stars on the dance floor, plus an heiress who’s been in all the tabloids and at least one Victoria’s Secret model. Actually, the model might be from Playboy—it’s hard to tell them apart. The heiress might’ve also been in Playboy, come to think of it. As to why I know what’s in Playboy—well, I subscribe. For the articles, of course.
Once we reach the stairs, we go down a floor and find ourselves in another large hall. Only here, things are much quieter. It’s a cocktail party, and it’s full of people dressed in suits and nice dresses. They walk around leisurely, holding champagne glasses, seemingly oblivious to the anarchy happening just above. I see the Mayor of New York City chatting with the Governor, and at least a dozen CEOs from Fortune 500 companies. What is this place?
Not our destination, it seems, as Liz leads me through this room. On the way, I see more prominent government and business leaders whose faces I recognize.
We walk down another flight of stairs. How deep does this place go? I didn’t think New York building codes allowed so many things to be happening in the basement areas. Then again, given the people I just saw, whoever runs this place knows people who can bend the rules if needed.
The activity on this next floor is downright creepy. It’s a masked ball. A bunch of people dressed in cocktail dresses and suits are wearing an assortment of medieval-looking masks. I half-expect to see an orgy or some kind of pagan ritual. Did these people see Eyes Wide Shut one too many times? To my disappointment, this isn’t our destination either. Liz just waltzes right past the masked people.
This is when I realize something. Nobody seems to notice us. They act as though we’re not here. Has someone Guided them to behave in this strange manner? That’s the assumption I have to make.
This new floor features a room that’s noticeably smaller than the others. A bunch of people I don’t recognize are gathered in the center of the room, listening to someone sing. More people are sitting around on comfortable chairs and sofas located on the edges of the room. The place looks like a cross between a lounge and a country club.
To my surprise, I recognize the man singing in the middle of the room. He’s a famous blind opera singer, w
hose name escapes me at the moment. He has dark bushy hair with some white strands around his face and a white beard. I notice he looks a little fatter than I remember him being.
“We’re here,” Liz whispers in my ear. “Let’s wait for the end of the concert.”
The opera singer is a genius. I am not a connoisseur, but I find the concert extremely moving. Possibly my mental state at the moment—alert anxiety—is a good fit for this sort of music.
When the singing is over and my hands are hurting from enthusiastic clapping, I look around the room. And this is when I get my first shock. There is a man looking intently at me—a man I recognize.
It’s my boss, William Pierce—or Bill, as I call him in my head and behind his back.
He waves at me. When the clapping subsides, I make my way toward him. As I walk, I see him look down at his phone and then look up at me with a smile.
“I don’t know what to say,” I exclaim when I reach him. On instinct, I extend my hand for a handshake. It’s not something I do in the office on a day-to-day basis; in fact, I can only recall shaking his hand twice—one time before and one time after my interview with him—but it just feels right for some reason. It’s like we meet for the first time again.
He shakes my hand with a bemused expression. “Darren, what a pleasant surprise. It’s an interesting coincidence that you’re here now, given that I just received the most interesting email from you about the stock I asked you to research. The write-up is outstanding, as usual, and it’s particularly impressive given that you managed to send the email while listening to the opera with me. Great multitasking. Particularly admirable given that Bert informed me recently that you’d been shot. Most diligent, even for you.”
I am so busted.
“Okay, Bill, I fess up. I might’ve scheduled that email to go out at an opportune moment,” I say, figuring the fact that my boss and I are both Guides changes our professional relationship anyway. And that does seem to be the case—he doesn’t so much as blink at my familiar use of his first name.
