The Thought Readers (8 page)

She turns around and walks to her frozen body, which is standing a few feet away.

I don’t get a hug this time around.

I’m driving the piece-of-shit car I picked up at the rental place. They didn’t have anything nice, but at least this thing has Bluetooth, so I’m listening to Enigma’s “T.N.T. for the Brain” from my phone on the car speakers. I raise the volume to the max.

In a confused stupor, trying to digest everything I’ve learned today, I follow my phone’s GPS directions. I know I need the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano Bridge after that, but once I get on Staten Island, I typically get lost—usually only a few blocks from where my moms live.

I called ahead to make sure they were home, but mentioned nothing of what I want to discuss. I plan to ambush them with my questions. They deserve it. I love them dearly, but I’ve never been angrier with them than I am now—not even during my rebellious mid-teen years. I’m especially mad at Sara.

Alternative lifestyle aside, Sara and Lucy are living, breathing stereotypes of two similar, yet different, kinds of moms.

Take Sara, for instance. She’s a Jewish mom to the core. Never mind that she’s the most secular person you’ll ever meet. Never mind that she married a non-Jew, which isn’t kosher. She still regularly hints—and sometimes outright says—that since I’ve finished my degree from a good school (of course), I should meet a nice girl (meaning a Jewish girl) and settle down. At twenty-one. Right. And she has all the usual guilt-trip skills down to a T. For example, if I don’t call for a couple of days, I get the whole ‘you don’t need to trouble yourself to call your own mother; it’s not like I’m in any way important,’ et cetera, et cetera. And then there’s the weird stuff, like if I’m out late and make the mistake of mentioning it to her, she’ll want me to text her when I get home.
Yeah.
Never mind that on other nights—when I don’t talk to her—I might not come home at all, and she’s fine with my lack of texting.

Lucy is no better. Well, in truth, Lucy is better now. She only expects a call from me once a week, not daily. But when I was growing up, she was worse than Sara. She must’ve read that book about being a Tiger Mom and tried to apply it literally, with probably the worst possible subject—me. In hindsight, I think I had ADHD when I was a kid. When it came to the violin lessons she tried to force me to take, I ‘accidentally’ broke a dozen of the stupid instruments to test her resolve. When I broke the last one (over another student’s head), I was expelled, and that did it for musical initiatives. Then there were the ballet lessons. I was kicked out for beating up a girl, which was not true. I knew from a very early age that you don’t hit girls. Another girl pushed the victim, but I, because of my reputation in the class, took the rap. Lucy also wanted me to learn her native Mandarin. I don’t care if I mastered a little bit from her when I was a baby, or that I can string together a few sentences even to this day; that was just not going to happen. If I’d studied Mandarin for her, I would’ve had to take Yiddish lessons for Sarah, too. Oy vey.

So, finishing school early and going to Harvard was partially an attempt to make my mothers happy, but even more so a means to get away from their overzealous parenting techniques and experience some freedom in Boston. Not to mention that finishing college allowed me to get a job and my own place as soon as possible. Ever since I gained some distance, my love for my family has deepened greatly.

As I pull into their driveway, I see three cars outside. I recognize the extra car as Uncle Kyle’s old Crown Victoria.

Great, he’s here. That’s the last thing I need.

“Hi Mom,” I say when Sara opens the door. I’ve never really seen much of myself in her, which makes me wonder that much more now about who my father might have been. We both have blue eyes, and I could’ve inherited her height, I guess. At five foot seven, she’s tall for a woman. She seems particularly tall when, like now, she’s standing next to my other mom. Lucy is barely above five feet tall, but don’t let her size deceive you. She’s tough. Plus, she has a gun—and knows how to use it.

“Hi sweetie,” Sara says, beaming at me.

“Hi Mom,” I say again, this time looking at Lucy.

“Hi Kitten,” Lucy says.

Hmm. Are they trying to embarrass me in front of Uncle Kyle?

“Hey Kyle,” I say with a lot less enthusiasm as I walk in.

He smiles at me, a rarity from him, and we shake hands.

I have mixed feelings when it comes to Kyle. Even though I mentally call him uncle, he’s not my blood relative. Sara was an only child. He’s a detective who works with Lucy. As former partners, I guess he and Lucy are close—a camaraderie I don’t pretend to understand, having never put my life in danger the way they have.

I imagine my moms decided to ask Kyle to come around when I was growing up so I’d have a male role model in my life. However, their choice for the task couldn’t have been worse. As far back as I can remember, I’ve butted heads with Kyle. Pick an issue, and we’re likely to be on opposite sides of it. Doctor-assisted suicide, the death penalty, cloning humans, you name it, and you can be sure we’ve had a shouting match over it. I like to think of myself as a free thinker, while Kyle clings to what was digested and fed to him by some form of authority, never stopping to question anything.

The biggest mystery to me is actually why someone so traditional even accepts my moms’ relationship. My theory is that he has a mental disconnect. I imagine he tells himself that despite their marriage, they’re just best friends who live together.

I also think he has a rather tragic crush on Lucy. He would call it brotherly love, but I’ve always been skeptical. Especially given his very professional, cold attitude toward Sara, a woman he’s known for over twenty years. An attitude that was chilly all along, but grew downright frigid after the huge fight they had when he decided to discipline me with a belt when I was nine. I was clever enough to scream and cry like a banshee, and predictably, Sara had a major fit. She actually threw a vase in his face. I think he had to get stitches. After that, he only used words to discipline me, and his interactions with Sara became even more aloof.

Having said all that, after I stopped needing to deal with Kyle regularly, I began to feel more fondness for the bastard. I know he usually means well. He’s the closest thing to a father figure I have, and he did come around a lot, generally with good intentions. He told me cool stories about back in the day when he and Lucy kicked ass and took names—stories Lucy never chose to share, for some reason. And I wouldn’t be half as good a debater now if not for all that arguing with him. For better or for worse, he played a role in the person I’ve become, and that’s an honor usually reserved for people you consider close.

“How’s work?” Kyle asks. “Are we due for another financial meltdown anytime soon?”

Kyle isn’t a fan of anyone in the financial industry. I can forgive that; few people are fans of them. Or should I say of us? Also, only a tiny portion of the population understands the difference between bankers and hedge fund analysts, or can tell any financial professional from another.

“Work is great,” I respond. “I’m researching a biotech company that’s going to use magnetic waves to manipulate human brains for therapy.”

Lucy narrows her eyes at me. She knows I’m trying to start an argument again. But I have to hand it to Kyle: this time, he doesn’t take the bait. Usually he would go into some Luddite bullshit about how frightening and unnatural what I just said sounds, how dangerous it is to mess with people’s brains like that. But no, he doesn’t say anything of the sort.

“I’m glad you’re making a name for yourself at that company,” he says instead. Is that an olive branch? “I was just on my way out, but I’ll see you at Lucy’s birthday party in a few weeks.”

“Sure, Kyle,” I say. “See you then.”

He walks out, and Lucy walks out with him. He probably came to get her advice on a case. He does that to this day, despite not having been her partner for decades.

“When will you grow up?” Sara chides, smiling. “Why must you always push people’s buttons?”

“Oh, that’s rich, you defending Kyle.” I roll my eyes.

“He’s a good man,” she says, shrugging.

“Whatever,” I say, dismissing the subject with a single word. The last thing I’m interested in right now is an argument about Kyle. “We need to talk. You should actually sit down for this.”

Alarm is written all over Sara’s face. I’m not sure what she imagines I’m going to say, but she has a tendency to expect the worst.

“Should we wait for your mother?” she says. They both say that in reference to the other, and it’s always funny to me.
Your mother.

“Probably. It’s nothing bad. I just have some important questions,” I say. Despite everything, I feel guilty that I’ve worried her.

I notice that she pales at the mention of important questions.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, looking me up and down with concern.
Please, not the too-thin talk again.
If it weren’t for Lucy intervening, my own lack of appetite, and my stubbornness, I would be the chubbiest son Sara could possibly raise. And the fatter I’d get, the happier Sara would be as a mom. She would be able to show me around and say ‘see how fat he is, that’s how much I love him.’ I know she got that ‘feeding is caring’ attitude from Grandma, who wouldn’t rest until you were as big as a house.

The fact that Sara doesn’t pursue the food topic now shows me how concerned she is. Is it some kind of guilt thing? Does she suspect what I’m about to ask?

“No, thanks, Mom. I just had some sushi,” I say. “But I would love some coffee.”

“Did you go out partying all night?” She appears even more worried now. “You look exhausted.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m okay, Mom.”

She shakes her head and goes into the kitchen. I follow. Their house is still unfamiliar. I preferred the cramped Manhattan apartment where I grew up, but my moms decided a few years back that it was time for the suburbs and home ownership. At least they have some of the same familiar furniture I remember from childhood, like the chair I’m now sitting in. And the heavy round kitchen table. And the cup, red with polka dots, that she hands to me. My cup.

“I smell coffee,” Lucy says, coming back.

“I made you a cup, too,” Sara says.

“You read my mind,” Lucy responds, smiling.

I decide I’m not going to get a better segue than that. Is it literally true? Can Sara Read Lucy’s mind?

“Mom,” I say to Sara. “Is there something important you want to tell me about my heritage?”

I look at them both. They look shell-shocked.

“How did you figure it out?” Lucy asks, staring at me.

“I’m so sorry,” Sara says guiltily.

The vehemence of their reaction confuses me, considering my relatively innocuous question. I haven’t even gotten to the heavy stuff yet. But it seems like I’m onto something, so I just say nothing and try to look as blank as I can, since I’m not sure what we’re talking about. I sense we’re not exactly on the same page.

“We always meant to tell you,” Sara continues, tears forming in her eyes. “But it never seemed like a good time.”

“For the longest time, until you were in your mid-teens, we couldn’t discuss it at all. Even among ourselves,” Lucy adds. She isn’t tearing up, but I can tell she’s distraught. “We even tried reading books about it. But the books recommend saying it as early as possible, which we didn’t do . . .”

“Saying what?” I ask, my voice rising. I’m reasonably certain I’m about to find out something other than what I came here to verify, since I’m not aware of any books about Reading.

Sara blinks at me through her tears. “I thought you knew . . . Isn’t that what you want to talk about? I thought you used some modern DNA test to figure it out.”

A wave of panic washes over me. I try not to phase. I want to hear this.

“I want to know what you’re talking about,” I say. “Right now.”

I look at them in turn. Daring them to try to wiggle out of it. They know they have to spill the beans now.

“You were adopted, Darren,” Lucy says quietly, looking at me.

“Yes,” Sara whispers. “I’m not your biological mother.” She starts to cry, something I’ve hated since I was a little kid. There’s something wrong, weirdly scary, about seeing your mom cry. Except—and the full enormity of it dawns on me—she’s not my birth mom.

She never has been.

How would anyone react in my shoes?

I don’t know if it’s seeing my moms so upset or the news itself, but I can’t take the flood of emotion for long. I phase into the Quiet. Once the world around me is still, I pick up the coffee cup and throw it across the room. It shatters against the TV, coffee spilling everywhere. I get up, grab the empty chair next to the one where my frozen self is sitting, and hurl it across the room after the cup, yelling as loudly as I can. I stop myself from breaking more stuff, though; even though I know it will go back to normal after I phase out, it still feels like vandalism.

Then I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to pull myself together.

This explains things—things that Eugene and Mira told me about. Sara didn’t lie to me. She never had my ability. She reacted to my descriptions of the Quiet as a normal person would. I should probably feel relieved. I feel anything but.

Why would they not tell me? After all, it’s not like we haven’t had conversations about being adopted. We had them all the time. Sort of. We talked about how Lucy didn’t give birth to me, but loves me just as much as Sara who, allegedly, did. This would’ve been just more of the same.

I take more deep breaths. I sit on the floor and perform the meditation I have used four times already today.

I begin to feel better—well enough to continue talking, at least. I look at the shocked expression on my frozen face. I reach out and touch myself on the elbow. The gesture is intended to comfort the frozen me, which, once I do it, seems silly. The touch brings me out of the Quiet.

I take a deep breath more demonstratively in the real world. “If you’re not my biological mother,” I manage to say, “then who is?”

“Your parents’ names were Mark and Margret,” Lucy says. To my shock, she’s crying too—something I’ve almost never seen her do. A knot ties itself in the pit of my stomach as she continues, “Your uncle might’ve told you stories about Mark.”

I’m almost ready to phase into the Quiet again. She said ‘were.’ I know what that means. And I have heard of Mark. He was the daredevil partner who worked with Lucy and Kyle.

“Tell me everything,” I say through clenched teeth. I’m trying my best not to say something I’ll regret later.

“Before you were born, we really did go to Israel, as we always told you,” Sara begins, her voice shaking. “It’s just that what happened there was different from what you know. Our friends Mark and Margret approached us with a crazy story, and an even crazier request.”

She stops, looking at Lucy pleadingly.

“They said someone was out to kill them,” says Lucy in a more even voice. “They said Margret was pregnant, and they wanted us to raise the child. To pretend it was our own.” She gets calmer as she tells this, her tears stopping. “We always wanted a child. It seemed like a dream come true. They were the ones who came up with the whole sperm bank story. They said the danger they were in could spill into your life if anyone ever found out about the arrangement. I know it sounds like I’m making excuses for not telling you, but when they got killed, just as they moved back to New York to be near you . . .”

“Lucy and Mark were close,” Sara jumps in, wiping away the moisture on her face. “Back then, they worked in the organized crime division together. Lucy and I just assumed the unit where they all worked had something to do with why Mark was killed, which is why I begged your mother to switch to another division.” She looks at Lucy again, silently urging her to continue with the story.

“I investigated their deaths,” Lucy says. “But I still, to this day, have no idea who killed them and why. The killer left no clues. The crime scene was the most thoroughly investigated one in my career—and nothing. All I know is that Margret was shot in the back in her own kitchen, and it looked like Mark was killed a few seconds later when he tried to attack the person who shot her. There were no signs of a break-in.”

My mind’s gone numb. How am I supposed to feel about something like this happening to the biological parents I never knew existed? Or about them giving me to their friends to raise, even though they knew they’d be putting Sara and Lucy in danger?

I can’t take it anymore, so I phase into the Quiet again.

Once everything is still, I walk up to Sara, whose face is frozen in concern. I still love her, just as much as I did on my way here. This changes nothing. I’ve always loved Lucy the same as Sara, despite knowing we’re not related by blood. As far as I can tell, this is no different.

I put my hand on Sara’s forearm and try to get into the state of Coherence, as Eugene called it. I’m so worked up that it’s much more difficult this time. I don’t know how long it takes before I’m in Sara’s memories.

* * *

We’re excited Darren is going to visit.

I, Darren, feel ashamed somehow at the intensity of Sara’s enthusiasm. If it makes her so happy, I should probably visit more often.

We’re devastated at having the dreaded adoption conversation with Darren, after all these years. Our own little family secret. Before I, Darren, am naturally pushed out by getting to the present moment in Sara’s memories, I decide to go deeper. Picturing being lighter, trying to focus, I fall further in.

We’re watching Darren pack for Harvard. We’re beyond anxious. I, Darren, realize that I am not far enough and focus on going deeper.

We’re on a date with Lucy. She’s the coolest girl we have ever met. I, Darren, realize how creepy this thing I am doing can get, but I also know that I can’t stop. I overshot my target memory mark and need to go back out of this depth, or in other words, fast-forward the memories. I, Darren, do what I tried before when I wanted to get deeper into someone’s mind, only in reverse: I picture myself heavier. It works.

We’ve been obsessing about Israel for months. Our heritage must call us, as our mom Rose said. I, Darren, realize that Rose is Grandma and that I am close—and I jump a bit further this time by picturing myself heavier again.

We’re in Israel. It’s awesome. Even Lucy’s initial grumpy ‘there are almost no other Asians here’ attitude gets turned around after spending a day at the beach.

We look around the beach. The view is breathtaking. I, Darren, make a note to visit this place someday.

“Hi guys,” says a familiar male voice.

We’re shocked to see the M&Ms, Mark and Margret, approach our chairs. So is Lucy, we bet. What could they possibly be doing here, in Israel? The last thing anyone expects when going overseas is to meet friends from New York.

I, Darren, see them, and Sara’s surprise pales next to mine. It’s not like they look exactly like me, Darren. But it’s almost like some Photoshop genius took their facial features, mixed them up, added a few random ones, and got the familiar face that, I, Darren, see every day in the mirror.

“What are you doing here?” Lucy asks, looking concerned.

“We need to talk,” Mark says. “But not here.”

I, Darren, picture feeling heavy again, so I can jump forward a little more.

We’re listening to the M&Ms’ crazy tale.

“Who’s after you? If you don’t tell me, how am I supposed to help?” Lucy says in frustration after they’re done. We feel the same way. We can’t believe our friends are springing this on us and telling us next to nothing.

“Don’t ask me that, Lucy. If I told you, I’d put you and, by extension, the unborn child in danger,” Mark says. I, Darren, realize that his voice is deep, a lot like the voice I hear on my voicemail. My voice.

“But what about you?” we say, looking at Margret. “How will you be able to go through with this?”

Margret, who has been very quiet through this conversation, begins crying, and we feel like a jerk.

“Margie and I are both willing to do whatever it takes to make sure our child lives,” Mark says for her. “Regardless of how much it hurts us to distance ourselves this way.”

“So you won’t come back to New York?” Lucy asks. That’s our girl, always the detective, trying to put every piece together.

He shakes his head. “My resignation is already prepared. We’ll stay in Israel until the baby is born, then come back to New York for the first year of the baby’s life to help you guys, and then we’ll move to California. We hope you can come visit us in California once the baby is older. Tell her—or him—that we’re old friends.” Mark’s voice breaks.

“But this makes no sense,” Lucy says, echoing our thoughts. “If you’re going to quit and move anyway, the child should be safe enough—”

“No,” Mark says. “Moving barely mitigates the risk. The people who want us dead can reach us anywhere. Please don’t interrogate me, Lucy. Just think how wonderful it would be to have a child. Weren’t you guys always planning to adopt?”

“We couldn’t think of better people to trust with this,” Margret says. “Please, help us.”

We think she’s trying to convince herself of her decision. We can’t even imagine how she must be feeling.

“We’ll pay for everything,” Mark says, changing the subject.

We’re in complete agreement with Lucy’s objections to the money, but in the end, the M&Ms convince us to accept their extremely generous offer—money we didn’t even know they had. We know what Mark’s approximate salary range is, since he works with Lucy, and he can’t be making that much more than she is. To someone with that salary, this kind of money is unheard of. Nor is it likely that Margret makes that much. We wonder if having so much money has something to do with the paranoid story of people coming after them.

I, Darren, however, don’t think it’s the money. Could it be the Pushers? After all, Pushers killed Mira and Eugene’s family. Could they be behind killing mine? Learning more about Pushers becomes much more personal for me all of a sudden.

I, Darren, can’t take any more of this unfolding tragedy. I might come back here someday, but I can’t handle it right now. Still, like a masochist, I progress into the memories.

We’re driving back from Margret and Mark’s funeral. We haven’t spoken most of the way. We have never seen Lucy this upset.

“Please talk to me, hon,” we say, trying to break the heavy silence.

“I was the one who found the bodies,” Lucy says, her voice unrecognizable. “And I did the most thorough sweep of the crime scene. And with all that, I have nothing. It’s like a perfect, unsolvable crime from one of your detective stories. I can’t take it. I owe it to Mark to find the fucker who did this . . .”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” we say. “You’ll figure it out. If you can’t, no one could.”

“We should have moved,” Lucy says.

She hits a weak spot—our own guilt. We wish we had told Mark and Margret not to come to New York for that first year, not if they were in that much danger. But we didn’t tell them that. We could’ve offered to come to California for a year. Something. The biggest source of our guilt, though, is that we thought the M&Ms were crazy. We didn’t delve deeper into their story because it led to the most miraculous result—Darren. But now that Mark and Margret are dead, they are vindicated. We don’t think they were crazy anymore. We just feel horrible for doubting them and not preventing this disaster somehow.

I, Darren, officially can’t take any more. I jump out of Sara’s head.

* * *

I’m back in the Quiet, looking at Sara. Much of my anger has dissipated. How can I be angry after I just experienced how this woman feels about me? I feel a pang of guilt for having invaded my mother’s privacy to get the truth, but it’s over and done with now.

I walk toward myself and touch my elbow.

Though I’m out of the Quiet, Sara is still pretty much motionless, waiting for my reaction.

“I don’t know what to say,” I say truthfully.

“It’s okay. It’s a lot to process,” Lucy says.

“You think?” I say unkindly, and immediately regret it when she winces.

“I’m sorry it took us so long to tell you,” Sara says, looking guilty.

“Even today, you told me under duress,” I say, unable to resist. I guess I still feel bitter about that—about being kept in the dark for so long.

“I guess that’s true,” Sara admits. “Like Lucy said, we had a hard time talking about this for years. Once you don’t talk about something, it becomes this strange taboo. But if you didn’t already know, what were you asking about before?” She gives me a puzzled look.

“Never mind that now,” I say. No way am I ready to spout some crazy talk about being part of a secret group of people who can freeze time and get into the minds of others. I was only going to bring that up when I thought Sara was a Reader herself. “The most important thing is that what you told me doesn’t change anything for me.”

I know from just Reading her mind that this is what she most wants to hear. I mean it, too. Yes, I’m mad and confused now, but I know with time what I just said will be one hundred percent true. It will be as though this adoption conversation never happened.

For those words, I’m rewarded by the expressions of relief on their faces.

“If you don’t mind, I want to go home right now. I need to digest all this,” I tell them. This is riskier. I know they would rather I stay and hang out. But I really am beyond exhaustion at this point.

“Sure,” Sara says, but I can tell she’s disappointed.

“We’re here to answer any questions you might have,” Lucy says. Her expression is harder to read.

Lucy is right. I might have questions later. But for now, I kiss and hug them before getting out of there as quickly as I can.

The drive to Tribeca happens as if in a dream. I only become cognizant of the actual mechanics of it when I start wondering where to park. Parking in the city is a huge pain, and is the reason I don’t own a car. I opt for one of the paid parking lots, despite having to pay something outrageous for it tomorrow. Right now, I don’t care. Anything to get home.

Once I get to my apartment, all I have the energy to do is eat and shower. After that, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.