Mind Games (5 page)

Everything seems different. Richer. More vivid. Just breathing in the spicy smells of the restaurant is a sensual experience, and as I breathe, my silk top whispers against my shoulders. “It’s wonderful.”

“Nothing’s different. You were just so focused on your emotions and yourself that you never fully experienced anything. Very common.”

The price suddenly strikes me. “I shot my darkness into you. Are you okay?”

Eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, he says, “I alone can handle it.”

I smile at his dark lord talk and don’t look away from his handsomeness anymore. I just enjoy him: the wonderful meatiness of his nose, the stray curl that kisses his cheekbone, the rough puff of his lips. My stomach tightens as I imagine running a finger over those lips, and maybe even kissing them. Possibly tracing that finger down his neck, unbuttoning one button. Maybe the next. I swallow, overwhelmed by the sudden desire to feel and taste him.

Ever so slyly, he looks over. “Your experience of life will be unfiltered for about an hour.
Glory hour
, we call it. You’re smarter and more perceptive now in every way, and all your senses are ratcheted up. As long as you don’t give into your baser appetites, it can be a powerful advantage. Don’t worry—you get used to it, and it only lasts an hour. But your immunity to health fears could last for weeks. After that, you’ll want to zing somebody again.”

I tear my attention away from Packard and sip my ouzo, savoring its tartness, schooling my features, like I do when I’m in an attack. “This has got to go against some natural law. Could this be dangerous? Physically?” Oddly, I find I can say this without fear, as though it’s all just theoretical.

Packard laughs, rich and deep.

“Seriously.”

He regards me with that look of awe again, like a jungle explorer beholding the mythical winged monkey. “Oh, we have been waiting for you. We should start training tomorrow.”

I watch him coolly, but inside, I’m awash with clean, sweet energy. And desire. “It’s wrong to go around attacking people.”

“Is it? We effect changes in the hearts of criminals—changes they wouldn’t come to for years, eons, maybe lifetimes, who knows? And we give victims a sense of resolution.”

“That still doesn’t make it right.”

Packard smiles, like I’ve made quite the joke. “You’re glorying right now, but you’re not showing it. An excellent poker face comes in handy for a disillusionist.”

“I’m serious. I said I couldn’t join.” Though all I want to do is stay. And suddenly one thing becomes very clear: if I don’t get away now, I might never leave. “The demo’s over, right?”

Packard stops smiling.

Fighting my every instinct, I stand and sling my purse over my shoulder.

“This won’t last. You’ll go back to the way you were.”

“I know.” I put my sunglasses on top of my head, like a headband. “Thank you, Packard, for all this. But I told you, I can’t be in your squad. It’s not right to psychologically attack people.”

My heart pounds as Packard rises, tall and lean and cool. He is way too alluring—another reason to get out. “Justine, you have a mental illness that will end in institutionalization and death.”

He doesn’t like that I mean to leave. Probably no one ever has.

It’s not easy, but I do it—I thank him again and get out of there. I feel stronger once I’m outside, heading happily down the shady sidewalk. Cars zoom brightly by, a soft breeze kisses my arms and neck, and up above, the sun warms the brick building faces. Best of all, I feel no fear. No fear of fear, even. I can think about vein star syndrome without any sense of doom whatsoever. Flying bricks? No worry there, either. Everything’s perfect. Even a crumpled Twix wrapper on the sidewalk seems perfect.

This is the state of mind people search for all their lives, I realize. Hermits in little caves, monks in their
moldering monasteries. It’s all anybody could ever want.

“Justine! Hey!” A black convertible rolls up beside me. Carter. “I told you I’d give you a ride home.”

“I know. That’s okay.”

“You sure?”

I reconsider. If I went home, I could enjoy a luxurious bath, a delicious meal, rollerblading at top speed along the river. I swing in and sink into the cushiony red seat.

We peel out. Carter shifts again and again, hands clad in racecar-driver gloves, bright hair blowing over freckled cheeks. I think it would be fun to swim, too. Or run. And then it hits me: it would be funnest of all to have sex. I imagine the weight of Cubby’s hands on my thighs, the feel of his exultingly hard erection in my hand, skin soft as a rose petal.

“Can you drop me off at my boyfriend’s place?” I give him Cubby’s address.

Carter smiles.

“Something funny?”

“Glory hour,” he says, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. My face goes hot. “So I hear you’re not joining.”

“It’s not my cup of tea.”

Silence. I run my finger along the cool metal door.

He says, “The way I was before I became a disillusionist, sheesh. I was actually one of those guys who would beat you up for looking at him the wrong way. I’d get in fights with whole mobs of guys—the more the better. When I was fighting, it blotted out the feelings, you know? I was a line cook at the time. If I hadn’t met Packard, I’d be dead.” He jerks into another lane, then another. “Do you know that thing where people look at you with pity and fascination, and you know they’re thinking,
You pathetic loser, what is ever gonna become of you?
You know that look?”

“Oh my God.” I turn to him. “I can’t believe you know the look!”

“All us disillusionists know the look. Used to, at least. You should reconsider,” Carter says. “You belong with us.”

It feels wonderful that somebody would say that to me. “I would love to join, but I believe in things like right and wrong. And fair trials—what about that?”

“What about the unfair ones?”

And then we’re on the tangle. Around and around we go, past dirty buildings, then fat, shadowy pillars supporting industrial-strength bridges, then blue sky. At the very top you can see the glinting cluster of glass buildings downtown, with the sparkling lake beyond. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful. And then we’re back under a bridge, and that’s beautiful, too.

I slide my gaze over to Carter, keenly aware of his pleasure at the wheel and the rage under his surface, cool and inert, like a gun. And I slice my hand into the velvety air.

          Four

C
UBBY AND
I spend an enchanted afternoon together, lips pressed to naked skin, fingers in mouths, everything everywhere. I’m transfixed by his lusciousness, and he’s transfixed by my newfound happiness.

The utter delight of glory hour wears off soon enough, but my freedom from abnormal fear remains, just like Packard said it would. Those next few weeks are the best of my life. They’re the best weeks ever for Cubby and me, too. This is what normal people have, I think—the freedom to be happy without worrying that veins in your head might burst or leak. Sometimes when I’m doing things like showering or washing dishes, I smile for no reason.

On day twenty, I notice some scalp tingling, but I force my attention away. Day twenty-two is when the intermittent pinprick sensations start. Day twenty-four: a horrible new theory—what if my false well-being masked significant symptoms? What if I’ve lost precious time?

Suddenly I’m back to the all-night Internet binges and I’m a zombie at work, standing behind the counter, face frozen in a rictus of glee while I secretly panic.

What if the zing degraded my vascular integrity? After all, I do have a genetic weakness for vein star syndrome. The girls at the shop start giving me the
look again, wondering what will become of me. The moments where I know I’m being crazy come less often.

I also find myself cravenly revisiting Packard’s arguments. What if disillusionment does reboot criminals and help victims feel resolved? Surely it’s superior to locking somebody up or executing them.

Still, it doesn’t feel right. What about trials and all that?

Day twenty-seven: Rainy afternoon. Cubby’s on his couch, frowning. We’ve had to stop the movie. “Bodies have pains, Justine.”

“People who die unexpectedly have pains, too.” I’m using my fingertips to move my scalp around, hoping to alter the location of sensation and thereby prove to myself that it’s the musculature surrounding the skull and not a vein star underneath.

“You’re fine.”

I stand. “How do you know? You’re not a doctor. If you’re not going to drive me to the ER, I’m calling a cab.”

“What happened? You haven’t had your vein thing for weeks.” He presses his palms to his eyes. “I thought you were over this. You need to decide to get over this.”

“Decide
to get over it?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m calling a cab.”

He holds out a hand. “Don’t go.”

“Cubby, this is both tingling
and
pinpoint pain, and sometimes it feels like someone’s pushing on it. That’s new!” I pull out my phone. “If they catch it early enough …”

He stands and wraps his arms around me. “Trust me, you’re okay.”

I pull away. “I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.” He watches me put on my shoes and
grab my purse. He says, “I’m not going, because I know it’s not real.”

“I know it
is!”

He’s silent for a long time. Then, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore. If you go.”

My heart sinks. “I have to go,” I whisper, eyes hot and misty. And like the prisoner I am, I march myself out.

   The ER waiting room is a scene of unruly children, germy magazines, and people in the grip of both terror and boredom. One of the nurses recognizes me and scowls. It’s two hours before I’m seen, two more hours before I’m lying still in the CAT scan tube while my panic tornadoes.

When I come out, I detect a flash of alarm in the elderly tech’s eyes. What did she see?

After some tense waiting in yet another room, a doctor I’ve never seen before breezes in. “All clear,” she says. Nothing else. Just
All clear
.

I feel hazy. “All clear?”

“We didn’t find any vascular irregularities. What you have here is anxiety.”

After she repeats herself several times, I thank her profusely, bounce out of the hospital, and just walk. No vascular irregularities! All clear! I stroll past gray parking ramps and stone office buildings. I wince understandingly at a woman wearing a pink hardhat. I linger pleasantly at the windows of old-time department stores, where pointy-boobed mannequins in newscaster fashions dangle purses from grasping hands.

It’s all quite the bowl of cherries until I consider how suspicious it was that the doctor diagnosed me so fast. I often suspect doctors write notes to one another on my record.
Take with grain of salt
. I don’t recall her studying the scan too diligently. Did she study it at all? And what about the alarm in the elderly tech’s eyes?

Suspicious sensations return. Were they ever really gone? Clearly the tech saw something; it’s this thought above all that spurs me onward to a degrading odyssey of more cabs, more ER waiting rooms, and increasingly stern medical personnel, hating myself every step of the way. The fear hounds me harder than ever—grinding, sickening fear that’s all the more oppressive because I remember how great life was without it. I wander down side streets, no longer sure which direction the lake is in, or if I’m crazy or sane, or even whether I’m hot or cold. And I’m rationalizing a return to Mongolian Delites. It was almost like a cure, I tell myself. Sure, maybe they’re vigilantes, but they do help people. And anyway, it’s not like I’d join forever. Just for now.

Eventually, I manage to reach the restaurant. It’s midnight, an hour after closing. I rap firmly on the face-door, praying Packard’s still around. The gold curtains jerk apart and there’s Shelby, smiling her chipped-tooth smile. She disappears and the door swings open.

“About time.” She wears a silky Japanese dress, and an oversized watch slides around on her slim wrist. She takes my hand and leads me through the sea of empty tables toward Packard, who sits between two men at the bar. The flickering candles make his penny-colored curls shine darkly; his smile is beautiful and slightly evil.

“You’ve changed your mind,” he says.

“Yes.”

He regards me carefully, green eyes the color of old moss in sunlight. “You want to join now? You’re sure about it?”

“Yes, quite.” I say this nonchalantly, as if I’m accepting a mint bonbon from a butler instead of a new vigilante lifestyle from a slightly maniacal mutant.

He introduces the large, agitated, bearded man next to him as Helmut. The anti-Santa Claus, I think as I
shake Helmut’s hand, wishing Packard would get on with it.

The short brawny man on the other side of Packard jumps off his stool. He has the thickest neck I’ve ever seen, and he peers at Packard through big round glasses, reminding me, oddly, of a bespectacled caterpillar. “The hypochondriac?” he barks. He seems angry.

“That’s right,” Packard says to him.

There’s this awkward silence where Packard and the brawny fellow are in this stare-off that seems to contain a mountain of significance. I glance at Shelby. She doesn’t look surprised. Maybe this is just how disillusionists act. The brawny man shakes his head angrily, then turns and walks out, hands raised in the universal
I wash my hands of you
gesture.