Placebo (25 page)

I find myself dozing on and off as we fly east. Eventually I wake to Amil's voice telling us that we're approaching Chicago's Midway International Airport. The lights in the cabin, which have been low for the last few hours, are still dimmed, but he turns them up slightly.

Xavier is in the back of the plane snoring contentedly, but Charlene is across the aisle from me resting, her eyes closed. I'm not sure if she's asleep.

She has a blanket pulled up to her chin, and I watch her for a moment, thinking about when I observed her in the Faraday cage earlier today. She's as unaware now that I'm watching her as she was when I was viewing her on the video screen.

I feel like I'm intruding on her somewhat, admiring her like this, and just as I'm looking away she opens her eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

She yawns. “So we're almost to Chicago?”

“It looks like it, yes.”

She rubs her eyes and repositions herself in her seat so it's easier for her to talk with me. “I guess we didn't get a chance to connect with your father.”

The comment takes me back a bit. I hadn't even thought of my dad since my conversation with her earlier in the day.

“When this is over, I'll be in touch with him. I promise.”

“It might not be over for a while.”

I wasn't exactly sure why it was so important to her that I talk with my dad, especially since she'd never brought it up before this week, but I figure she has her reasons, and right now I decide I'm not going to probe. “Give me a couple days. I'll call him on Friday afternoon, okay? Even if we're still caught up in the middle of all this.”

Another small yawn. “Fair enough.”

She closes her eyes again, snuggles up in the seat, and I wonder how awake she really was, if she'll even remember our brief conversation later.

Far below us, the steady flow of cars accelerating, decelerating, pumping through the city streets looks like glowing blood cells passing through dark veins. The cars look so small, but obviously, their size and speed are distorted by distance and by the plane's velocity.

It's all about perspective.

Only by taking into consideration our current elevation and airspeed could a person calculate the actual size and speed of the cars. As my mentor in magic, Grayson DeVos, used to tell me, “Only perspective brings truth into focus. Where you stand when you look at the facts will determine how they appear. Never forget that when you design your show. The audience's perspective is even more important than how well you execute the effect.”

Maybe that's what we needed here.

Perspective.

Maybe you're looking at all of this from the wrong angle entirely.

When you study illusions, you have to study the limits of memory to better understand short-term and long-term memory and how to use them to your advantage in a performance. Long ago I read about memories people have in which they see events not through their own
eyes but as if they were hovering in a corner of the room watching the events take place.

Most people have them, often from traumatic incidents. In fact, they're so common that neurological researchers have a name for them: observer memories.

I have one of them myself, from when I was nine and a group of half a dozen junior high–aged boys surrounded me. They began to drag me toward an old quarry that people had turned into a junkyard before it was filled with water to create a small lake for fishing and ice-skating on that otherwise neglected side of town.

No one dared swim in the lake because the bottom was still strewn with junk—bedsprings and broken glass and rusted car parts that were visible beneath the surface on the rare days when the lake was clear enough for you to see down more than a few inches.

It was a lake we all feared. But they dragged me toward it, and when I recall it now, it's not from the point of view of a boy being pulled toward the water by the other boys, but from a distance, as if I'm watching it unfold from a perch in a nearby tree.

I can see the older boys laughing and I can see myself struggling to be free, crying out for them to let me go. Finally, at the water's edge they shoved me to the side, into a stand of tall grass. Then they smiled at each other and patted me on the shoulder:
It was just a joke. We were never gonna hurt you; we were just kidding around.

I ran home but never told my parents for fear that they would think I'd overreacted or, worse yet, been a coward.

And since then, when I remember that day, I don't see the events through my own eyes, but as if I were watching it all happen from somewhere beyond myself.

Observer memories.

But how could they even be called memories when my mind was filling in the blanks, making up the details, viewing things from another, imaginary person's point of view?

Observer memories are fictions that our minds tell us are true.

The same as optical illusions.

In magic we play people's expectations against them. The observer's mind fills in what he or she would
expect to see
rather than what's
actually being seen
.

I notice that Charlene has her eyes open again. She's watching me quietly. “You look deep in thought.”

“Just thinking about how our minds can do strange things, can convince us of things that aren't real. Sometimes we see things that aren't really there, sometimes we don't see things that are. We're all experts at fictionalizing the truth.”

For a moment she's quiet. “There's a legend that when Columbus was sailing toward the New World, none of the natives saw the boats, that the idea of the giant boats approaching was so foreign to their way of thinking that even though their eyes sent the signal to their brains, it didn't register.”

“Not until they landed onshore, you mean?”

“Well, actually, while they were still out in the water, a shaman saw the ripples and was curious what was forming them. He stared at them, studied them, until eventually he saw the boats. When he told the villagers, they were shocked and at first didn't see anything. But they all believed in him and eventually came to see for themselves that the ships were there. So the story goes.”

“So, it was their belief in him that helped them see the boats.”

“Yes.”

We begin our initial descent to the airport.

“Jevin, you've told me you have nightmares. About your boys. About Rachel in the van.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had one when you were awake?”

“You mean a hallucination?”

“A nightmare, but only you have it during the day.”

“No.” But there's something in her tone, something beneath the words. Then I catch on. “But you have? Is that what you're saying?”

“When I was a girl, a man killed three people in my neighborhood. Stabbed them. His wife, his daughter, then the woman who lived next door.”

I'd never heard this before. “That's terrible.”

“I was eight at the time and I heard the sirens outside—you know, from the police. Someone from the neighborhood had called them. I was standing at our front window; I saw the man walking toward our house, right down the middle of the street, holding that knife in his left hand. It was still dripping blood.”

The plane banks and we slope down into the final descent.

“My parents had gone over to a neighbor's house just down the block when it happened. I don't remember exactly what they were doing or why they'd left me alone, but they didn't make it home until it was over. The first police car came racing around the corner, but the man, Mr. Dailey, didn't stop. He just kept walking directly up the driveway to my house. He must have seen me inside the window because he smiled and tipped the knife in my direction. I should have run, I suppose, or hidden in the closet or something, but I didn't. I was just too terrified to move.”

I hear a palpable chill in her words from the dark memories that haunt her.

The ground draws closer. My ears pop from the pressure, refuse to equalize.

“Right as he was walking up our steps, they shot him. The police did. He wouldn't put down the knife. I was watching through the window, just a few feet away. He died right there on our porch, his blood splattered across the glass right in front of me. That's when I ran to hide. I've never told anyone I saw him die. Not even my parents or the police knew I was there when he was shot. They thought I was downstairs watching TV.”

When she pauses, I sense that it's just to regroup, not to give me a chance to respond, so I wait and at last she goes on, “Since that day, I sometimes see Mr. Dailey. I'll look up from reading and he'll come around the corner in my bedroom and hold that knife up and smile
and just stare at me. I've seen him in restaurants and at bus stops. Sometimes I'll be sitting talking with my friends and he'll walk into the room, just like you or me, and I can't tell if he's real or not. And then he pulls out a knife. Sometimes he'll walk up to me and swipe it toward me, toward my stomach.”

I'm reminded of what happened in the chamber last night when Banner tried to kill her by swiping the blade toward her abdomen.

Apparently she's thinking the same thing because I notice her gazing at the arm where she got her stitches. “I guess it's a hallucination, but I've always thought of it as a nightmare that I have while I'm awake. A daymare. I know it's not real, but everything inside of me tells me that it is. That's how powerful our thoughts can be. They really do change things, Jev, our thoughts do.”

There's not a whole lot of difference between her daymares and my observer memories. In both cases our minds were filling in details, forcing us to see what wasn't real.

Why don't we just call observer memories what they are: retrograde hallucinations?

The saying about our eyes playing tricks on us comes to mind. But the saying isn't true, I've known that since my early days of magic. Our eyes don't play tricks on us, our minds do. Our eyes only gather information; our minds interpret it. We perceive the world not so much by what we actually see but by how our minds expect it to look, by what construct we use to make sense of the data.

Observer memories.

Fictionalized truth.

Hallucinations.

Perspective.

Our wheels touch down. The landing is a little rocky, as if the plane is unsure of itself as it settles onto the runway.

Clearly, Charlene is deeply moved and upset from sharing the story about Mr. Dailey. I reach across the aisle, put my hand gently on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

It's not true what they say about things being “only in your head.” If it's in your head, it's in you, and you can't escape your thoughts, can't flee their effect on you. Call it psychosomatic if you want, but when thoughts affect your physiology, the problem is never just in your head.

Misdirection.

Seeing what you expect to see.

Why did the suicide bomber put the shirt on over his vest? If the video was simply of a malfunction in the vest, what did it have to do with RixoTray? With Dr. Cyrus Arlington?

I consider that for a moment. The implications for what we're trying to do here.

Eyes playing tricks on you.

A different perspective.

Captain Fontaine stops our taxiing beside the charter jet terminal.

Charlene folds up the blanket. “I hope Dr. Tanbyrn will be alright.”

“So do I.” But my thoughts are still on the video, on the behavior of the suicide bomber, the ways perspective and expectations affect what our minds tell us is real.

I'm not sure what any of it means and I make a decision to look into it later, but it'll have to wait. For now Fionna McClury and her four children are already waiting for us just outside the nearest hangar.

I put a call through to the hospital in Oregon and find that there's been no change in Dr. Tanbyrn's condition, and by the time I'm done the door is open and Fionna and her kids are lining up to board the plane.

Fionna has a shock of red hair that she always seems to have a hard time taming and endearing green eyes that beg you to look deeply into them, but it's not easy to. One of her eyes wanders, and when we first met, I found it difficult to guess which of her eyes to look into when I spoke to her. For a while I kept switching my focus from one eye to the other until she abruptly told me to just choose one because going back and forth like that was making her dizzy.

She has two girls and two boys, all four years apart, almost like clockwork. Mandie is five, Maddie nine, Donnie thirteen, and Lonnie is seventeen. I'm not sure why she gave her boys and girls names that sounded so much alike, and I have no idea how she keeps the names apart, but from the first time I'd met her, I've never heard her call any of the children by the wrong name.

After two marriages that didn't work out, she's sworn off men, but she's also mentioned to me how important it is for her kids to have a good male role model, and I could tell she was conflicted about the whole issue.

Amil stows the McClurys' luggage in the back of the plane, and Fionna lets the kids troop aboard first, their eyes wide, mouths gaping.

“Sweet.” It's Donnie, the ponytailed thirteen-year-old who has looked up from his cell phone just long enough to take a quick glance around before texting someone again. Last year he'd somehow convinced his mom that he needed an earring, and in his tattered jeans and long hair, he looks more like an aspiring rock star than your typical Midwestern homeschooled kid.

Lonnie strolls aboard, confident, perceptive, lean, and already handsome at seventeen. Mandie, the youngest, has both arms wrapped around a stuffed dog that's nearly as big as she is. Nine-year-old Maddie wears stylish glasses and is toting a well-worn copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo
.

Fionna ascends the plane's steps just behind them. She's wearing two buttons on her jacket: “Moms against Guns” and “NRA Member.”

She is not an easy woman to figure out.

She offers me a nod and a smile. “Jevin.”

“Hey, Fionna.”

Because of how often we use videoconferencing, it's been a few months since we've all been together face-to-face. She leans in for a peck-on-the-cheek greeting.

As the kids pass by Xavier, they all greet him as “Uncle Xav.” Then they settle into their seats.

“It's great to see you, Fionna,” Charlene tells her.

“You too.”

Xavier shakes her hand. “Hello, Ms. McClury.” He lends a degree of respect to her name.

She regards him lightly. “Hello, Mr. Wray.”

“And how is the homeschooling going these days?”

“Quite well, thank you. How's the search for the Loch Ness Monster?”

“It's coming along.”

It doesn't take long before we're in the air again. Fionna asks for
an update and I quickly brief her on what's going on, what we've found out.

When she hears about the documented negative effects of mind-to-mind communication and the idea of using a thought-borne virus to stop someone's heart, she shakes her head. “That's about as unnerving as a warm toilet seat at a highway rest stop.”

“Ooh . . .” Charlene cringes. “That one's just troubling.”

“And memorable,” Xav mutters. “I don't think I'll ever look at rest areas the same way again.”

Fionna smiles. “Thanks.” Then she turns to me. “So, you have Tanbyrn's iPad?”

Charlene retrieves it and hands it to her.

Earlier, Fionna had said that she could hash the password in two minutes or less. I decide to time her. A password prompt appears on the tablet's screen. She begins to tap at the virtual keyboard. I start my watch.

From behind us I hear Xavier talking with Maddie, the nine-year-old, who's staring out the window at the receding lights of Chicago.

“So, a field trip, huh?” he remarks offhandedly.

“Yes.”

“Should be fun.”

“Yes.”

“A chance to get out of the house.”

Oh, don't do this, Xavier. You're going to regret it if you—

“Uh-huh.”

My watch tells me Fionna has one minute fifty seconds left. Without looking up, she calls back, “What makes the biggest difference in a child's education, Mr. Wray? According to the latest research, what's more important than the teacher's educational background, the school district, technology available in the classroom, socioeconomic and racial demographics, even parental involvement?”

She's still working on the iPad.

One minute thirty-five seconds left.

“Let's see . . . the culture of the school? At some inner-city schools, no one even takes books home because of peer pressure. Because it's not considered cool.”

“Yes, that's a factor,” Fionna admits—her fingers are flying across the virtual keys—“but I'm talking about the most important factor: class size. The smaller the class, the better kids learn. Until you get down to twelve students, where it levels off. And what educational alternative offers that the most readily?”

“But what about socialization?” he counters.

Oh, bad move, Xav.

This was going to be brutal.

I look his way and notice Maddie staring at him questioningly. “Socialization?”

One minute left.

“Yes,” he tells her. “It's how you make friends.” He directs the next part of his answer toward Fionna. “Some people call it preparing for the real world.” It's not sarcasm, not even criticism in his voice, but there's definitely a challenge there.

Fionna stops typing. Gazes at him.

Forty-five seconds left.

Here we go.

“Yes, that's right,” she agrees, “socialization. It means preparing for life beyond school and learning to get along with people of all ages in a healthy manner. Maddie, why don't you go ahead and answer Uncle Xavier. Does homeschooling do that?”

Back to the iPad's keyboard.

Thirty seconds.

The socialization objection is such a typical one leveled against homeschooling that I wonder if Fionna has coached her children on how to respond to it. But Maddie doesn't look like she's trying to recall what her mother might've told her, she looks like she's really thinking about it.

Xavier waits.

We all watch Maddie to see what she'll say.

After a bit she replies, “So do you think the best way to prepare kids for the real world is to bus them to a government institution where they're forced to spend all day isolated with children of their own age and adults who are paid to be with them, placed in classes that are too big to allow for more than a few minutes of personal interaction with the teacher—”

Twelve seconds left.

“—then spend probably an hour or more every day waiting in lunch lines, car lines, bathroom lines, recess lines, classroom lines, and are forced to progress at the speed of the slowest child in class?”

Two seco—

Fionna punches one final key. “Done,” she announces, looking up from the iPad.

Man, she really was worth her pay.

It's quiet in the back of the jet for a moment, and Charlene whispers to me, “Not too many times you find Xavier speechless.”

“I heard that,” he calls to her, then clears his throat slightly, addresses Maddie. “Your mom taught you to say all that, didn't she?”

“No.” She pauses, thinks about that. “But if she had, wouldn't it show that she prepared me for the real world?”

Silence. Then Xavier's voice. “Amil, do you have any more of that cheese?”

Fionna smiles faintly:
Gotcha.

The password prompt clears away, revealing the desktop screen. “Now, let's see what Project Alpha is all about.”

Fionna is fast, but most of the files require her to type in another unique password. I have no idea how Tanbyrn could have kept them all straight, but it's taking Fionna awhile to work through them.

Finally she gets discouraged and sighs. “I think I need a break from this.”

“You probably need some sleep,” Charlene tells her. “Rest. Get back at it when we reach Philadelphia.”

The truth is, we probably all need some sleep.

So that's what we do until the sun begins to glow on the eastern horizon and the City of Brotherly Love lies beneath us, its bridges straddling the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers, its skyscrapers rising into the cobalt-blue, unfolding day. Strands of high and lonely clouds stretch across the lower part of the sky.

And we land at the Philadelphia International Airport.