Some Faraway Place

by Lauren Shippen

  “Maybe he found an effective way to take care of his own interior life,” Owen suggested. I tried not to scoff. “Meditation, or communities, even journaling,” he added with a small smile in my direction, “can all be ways we actively participate in our own mental health. But that doesn’t mean your brother couldn’t benefit from therapy in the future—it’s an ongoing process, not a one-and-done sort of thing.”

  I just nodded at that and Owen seemed satisfied. The entire tour he talked like he was reading from a brochure but a brochure he really believed. I don’t know what I expected from an AM employee, but I’m not sure Owen Green was it.

  In fact, nothing about this place is really what I expected. Other than a few typically matter-of-fact and therefore a bit cold doctors, everyone has been really nice and not scary. The whole complex is enormous and winding—a mix of old, turn-of-the-century ivy-covered stone and modern glass and steel. Like Bag End slammed into a modern art museum. So far, I think I’ve seen a tiny portion—just my room, the cafeteria, and a few labs—but just in those areas alone, I feel like I’m looking at millions of dollars’ worth of facilities. Everything is state-of-the-art. Except the food. The food could definitely use some improvement.

  I don’t know how my family is paying for this. And now I’m feeling really guilty because I never even thought to ask. My family isn’t struggling, but we’re not rich. I’m not sure I really know where the AM gets its money from—the government? Its patients? Do they have an Atypical stashed away somewhere who’s spinning yarn into gold? Whatever they’re doing seems to be working—they seem to have a lot of people coming back to take advantage of the programs. My group therapy is mostly people who come in once a week. I can’t say I understand it.

  “Everyone, we’ve got a new face joining us today,” the therapist, Dr. Loving, started. “This is Rose,” she continued and before I knew what I was doing, my hand had lifted in an awkward wave, made somehow infinitely more awkward by the chorus of “Hi, Rose” that came from the rest of the group. It really did feel like we were kids away from home for the first time, getting ready to dive into icebreaker exercises. Except, we weren’t all kids and, according to Dr. Loving when she greeted me, most of the folks sitting there had been in group for a little while.

  “Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves,” Dr. Loving continued and I braced for the “name, grade, and a fun fact about you!” rundown. I wasn’t that far off.

  “We can start with first names and your personal pronouns,” she said, “and, if you’re comfortable, you can share your ability as well. “I’ll start: I’m Dr. Loving, she/her, and while I don’t have an ability, I’ve been working with Atypicals for fifteen years.”

  Dr. Loving felt like the exact type of person you would want for a therapist, a perfect blend of confidence and cool. She’s a tall Black woman with trendy square glasses and a better fashion sense than I’ve ever seen in a doctor, which makes her feel younger than she probably is, like she’s one of us. And then she talks in that warm, assured voice she has, and you’re instantly pulled into a sense of security and vulnerability.

  So we went around the table and all introduced ourselves. There was Sharon, a middle-aged Asian American woman with superspeed that seemed to bleed into her very high-energy personality; Marco, a thirtysomething shapeshifter who changed his appearance so often throughout the session, I never got a grip on what he actually looks like. Then there was Ralphy, a young teenager with pale white skin and a shock of red hair who spoke softly, and refused to share what their ability was.

  Two young, brunette women introduced themselves as a unit, Cam speaking while Cat, who’s Deaf, signed. Cam can make force fields and Cat can walk through walls—everything about them seemed predestined to click and watching them talk throughout the sessions was … hard. I’ve never had that kind of connection with anyone and couldn’t comprehend how they so easily understood each other. It wasn’t just that Cam was interpreting Cat—I don’t know any ASL, but Cat definitely makes her voice known simply by the way she expresses herself—it was the way they looked at each other, the way they both giggled at jokes that the rest of us didn’t understand.

  Eventually, it was my turn, and I’d been so distracted by learning everyone’s ability (and wondering what Ralphy’s could be) I didn’t even have time to be nervous.

  “I’m Rose,” I said, sticking my hands between my legs and the chair to stop myself from giving another awkward wave. “And, um, I can dreamdive?”

  It came out like a question, like I wasn’t sure of my ability or I was asking for some sign that I’d done that right. Dr. Loving smiled and gave a tiny, encouraging nod as if my question was looking for an answer and not just a result of having never done this kind of thing before.

  “Thank you, Rose,” Dr. Loving said, bringing the group’s attention back to her. But not before I could notice everyone’s expressions—a mix of surprise and awe and curiosity.

  Thankfully, Dr. Loving launched into the sharing portion of group therapy. I wasn’t expected to say much beyond my name in the first session and I could definitely feel my eyes getting heavy at some points, the sweet lull of sleep wanting to take me away, but I was able to fend it off. It helped that the discussion going on was fairly engaging.

  It wasn’t quite the support group for superheroes that someone might expect from a therapy session with a bunch of Atypicals—it was far more … normal. Sharon can’t seem to sit still—her hyperspeed manifesting in her emotional life, as Dr. Loving put it—Cat and Cam have bonded over the fact that Cat is the only one who can breach Cam’s force field, and Marco has a hard time being truly vulnerable with people because he can always mold himself into someone else. Ralphy remained a mystery.

  But it’s interesting—everyone clearly sees themselves as capital-A Atypical. Like it’s just as big a part of their identity as their race, their gender, their job. It affects how they relate to one another, to people who aren’t Atypicals, people who know their secret and people who don’t. Their abilities directly reflect the way they think about themselves and their place in the world.

  And there I was, sitting silently and just thinking about the fact that all of them were living with their abilities existing, in that moment. I barely knew who I was before all this happened—always trying to balance fitting into my family with how I wanted to spend my own life—and now I’m even more unsure.

  community/TheUnusuals post by n/thatsahumanperson

  My sister is still at That Place, so things have been pretty quiet in the house. Not that she’s loud but, before her ability started, her thoughts were definitely loud, even if she didn’t voice most of them. It’s not that I miss her thoughts—I hadn’t really been listening that much anyway—it’s just … well, it’s been easier to notice stuff with her gone. Like what’s going on with my dad.

  I mentioned a while back that his thoughts had been behind a fog and I wasn’t sure if there was something going on with my ability. When everything went down with my sister, I kind of forgot about it, chalking up the weirdness with her thoughts to the fact that her ability was coming into being. But that doesn’t explain my dad’s thoughts being altered too … unless there’s some kind of interference? I mean, we now have four Unusuals in the same household—could we all just be screwing up each other’s abilities? I haven’t talked to either of my parents about them having issues with their powers, but maybe I should.

  I bring all this up because it happened again with my dad. He was out in the yard, just standing there. When I asked him what he was up to, he kind of just shook his head and mumbled something about gardening, but I felt that same weird fogginess when I tried to look into his head. It dissipated pretty quick but it’s still got me wigging out.

  Anyway. Just thought y’all might want an update.

  chuckxavier

  Definitely keep us posted—the interference theory is an interesting one.

  tacotacotaco

  Maybe it’s time
for a full family checkup where your sister is? Might be worth getting everyone looked at to make sure it’s all okay.

  thatsahumanperson

  My mom really doesn’t like it there. She’ll go once a year for her physical, but that’s it. But … you may be right. Maybe I can convince my dad to go get checked out.

  OCTOBER 3RD, 2016

  Okay, so, bit of a setback.

  I had group therapy again today and I guess I’ve gotten too confident about not falling asleep randomly anymore because I really let my guard down. I was sitting there, half-listening to Marco talk about how he’d introduced himself to a girl with a different face and it turned out he now really likes that girl and has to figure out how to reintroduce himself with his real face so that he can genuinely date her as himself, and then I fell asleep.

  I wonder now if it’s because I was so emotionally exhausted from the previous ten minutes. I had unloaded way more than I was planning to, even saying some things that I hadn’t even realized I’d been feeling. That’s the point of therapy I guess.

  It all started with a simple question.

  “How has your time at the AM been so far, Rose?” Dr. Loving asked, and five pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at me.

  “Oh, um,” I started, even though she’d warned me that I’d be asked to share this go around. “It’s been fine.”

  Even as I said that, I was sure that it wouldn’t be enough. Dr. Loving was good at gently poking someone until they cracked open like a piñata—she’d been doing it pretty effectively in our one-on-one sessions and I braced for impact.

  “Is there anything new you’ve discovered about yourself? About your ability?”

  Those five pairs of eyes somehow stared harder.

  “Um, not really,” I admitted. “I mean, I’ve been sleeping a little bit less, which is good. So I guess I have more control? But nothing has really changed.”

  “Do you feel like you have more control?” Dr. Loving asked, and I was a little confused. She’d asked that question plenty in our private therapy—where exactly was this getting us?

  “Not really,” I answered, the same answer I’ve been giving her this whole time. “I don’t feel that different, to be honest. I’m just … conscious more of the time.”

  A few light chuckles came from the rest of the group, but they weren’t laughing at me. It was the kind of dry laugh that you give when you get it.

  “Like, if anything,” I continued, “this has just been further proof that I have the least cool ability ever.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cat signed, Cam interpreting for her. “You can go into people’s dreams.”

  I didn’t need Cam to interpret that emphasis—the movement of Cat’s hands made it clear that she thought my ability was pretty freakin’ cool.

  This is what had terrified me about the idea of group therapy. I don’t like people commenting on my life, especially people I don’t know. At least in this case, it seemed to be positive, even if Cat calling my ability cool while she was sitting there in a leather jacket that made her look effortless and amazing made me feel like a huge fraud and disappointment by not actually being cool.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, watching the flurry of Cam’s hands instead of looking at Cat directly in the eye, too intimidated by the fact that she seems to be able to look at someone head-on without flinching, a skill I’ve always wanted but have no idea how to acquire. “But it’s really not that cool. People’s dreams are mostly boring and stressful and besides, it’s not like I’ve been diving much while here.”

  “You haven’t?” Sharon asked.

  “Not yet,” I said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it felt like something inside my brain was itching. It’s been over a week since I was in someone’s dream, the AM having made good on their promise to keep me isolated from other people at night. They’ve been running tests on me while I sleep, putting that cap on me to measure brainwaves and monitoring my vitals or whatever, but they manage to keep their distance. It’s been good to get a full night’s rest without any big black voids or trips to high school, even if it means the one interesting thing about me has been taken away before I even have time to explore it.

  “Not yet, so you’re going to?” Sharon asked.

  “I don’t know, I assume they’ll have me do it,” I said. “But I’m not sure what good that’ll do. I don’t really know what I’m here to learn. It’s not like dreamdiving is an ability that can help people or even help me. The rest of my family all got these cheat codes for life, and I’m stuck with … this.”

  “What do you mean ‘stuck’?” Dr. Loving followed up quickly and calmly, but I should have known that I’d just thrown out chum for the sharks. And for some reason, I couldn’t avoid tossing out more.

  “I mean,” I sighed, “my mom gets to see the future and, yeah, she doesn’t let it completely dictate her life, but she does use it when it’s important. And my dad is a telekinetic who works as a contractor! He’s so much faster and cheaper because he doesn’t need half the equipment that the regular guys need, or the amount of people, because he can just use his brain to help him lift stuff.”

  “He’s out in the open?” Marco blurted, his eyes wide in horror.

  “No, no, not at all.” I rushed to clarify. There was one thing that had been abundantly clear from my scant interactions with other Atypicals so far: everyone was terrified of getting caught. But it’s not like we’re in a comic book and we have to hide from the government or else—we’re all here, sitting at the AM, talking about the ins and outs of our abilities. Who do we have to hide from?

  Other people is the answer.

  “He still has a crew and equipment and stuff, especially for the bigger jobs,” I explained, “but just not as much as a regular person would need. And he still acts like he’s actually lifting whatever or that there’s more crew people on a job than there actually are, but then he just uses his telekinesis. He does personal construction—houses and stuff—so he can usually manage most of a job on his own. Besides, most people don’t know anything about construction. They’re not surprised when my dad does something super fast because no one knows how long something should take.”

  “That’s kind of brilliant,” Cam said, Cat nodding beside her.

  “Yeah, it’s cool,” I agreed. “And that’s what I mean—my dad has built his entire career around his telekinesis. It makes him better at his job. Safer. I don’t think there’s a job out there where being able to walk into people’s dreams is a benefit. If there is, it’s definitely not working in a kitchen.”

  “What about your brother?” Dr. Loving asked.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s telepathic, right?” Marco asked.

  “Yeah, he’s telepathic.” I sighed. “And, okay, maybe it doesn’t help with his job—”

  “What does he do?” Sharon asked.

  “Well, he’s figuring it out right now,” I said. “He wants to go back and finish his degree eventually, but right now he’s just working freelance doing tech stuff. He wants to do computer science.”

  “So what’s his cheat code?” Cat asked.

  “I mean, he can read minds,” I said. “That’s the biggest cheat code there is!”

  “What do you mean by that?” Dr. Loving asked.

  “Like, he never has to worry about not understanding someone or saying the wrong thing or wondering if someone likes him because he always knows.”

  “Do you think that’s easy for him?” Dr. Loving asked. “Do you think he views it as a cheat code?”

  “I mean, I don’t know,” I mumbled. Dr. Loving stared me down, lifting one eyebrow in a gentle challenge and I sighed dramatically.

  “Okay, no, he doesn’t,” I admitted. “I know it’s hard for him. Things are a bit better now, but when his ability first started up, it was really, really awful. And not just for him, for all of us.”

  Now that I’d started to talk about Aaron, it all came pour
ing out, rising up in my throat like a tide before spilling out over the rest of the group.

  “He couldn’t stop the voices, couldn’t turn the volume down like he can now,” I went on. “So he was just reading our minds all the time, and it seemed like the only way he could get it out was by saying it all back to us, telling us what we were thinking at any given moment. And I couldn’t take it, couldn’t stand having him reflecting all of that junk back on me, so we started fighting about it and it was just … there was no way I could ever win that fight. Not with Aaron in my head, using the most fleeting unkind thoughts as weapons against me. I never hated him, I never could hate him, but that—that invasion, that violation—was something that I didn’t know how to handle so I just made myself smaller and quieter in the hopes that he wouldn’t be able to find me and now I don’t know how to be loud anymore.”

  I wasn’t sure I even knew I felt that way until I said it out loud to a bunch of strangers. I looked up, expecting to see six shocked faces, but was met instead with expressions of understanding. No judgment, just a few nods like they knew exactly where I was coming from. For that moment, I belonged.

  That didn’t last.

  I hardly even remember what the dream was about now, which is a bit strange. It was flashes of different scenes from a life that wasn’t mine—eating dinner with two adults I’d never seen before, walking through an unfamiliar college campus, a thin figure in a black hoodie standing in a lobby that was familiar in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. Sometimes my dreams—or other people’s dreams—are disjointed and confusing. In fact, they often are, but I’ve never gotten such clear, distinct, real flashes in quick succession.

  I woke up suddenly, jarringly, my legs flailing for a moment against the plastic chair and linoleum floor, like I was trying to find solid ground beneath my feet. Every head swiveled to look at me, as if they’d just been watching me sleep, unperturbed, even though they know I CAN GO INTO PEOPLE’S DREAMS.