Песах Амнуэль - Zion's Fiction - A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature

I don’t know how this conversation ended. I don’t know how it began. But it was close to the end.

There’s another memory.

Still in the pillow. Still dark. Later still.

Her father’s voice behind her, more reasonable than ever, calmer than ever, “You will come to dinner and you will eat.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes, even though he can’t see her. Please, please, go away. You don’t understand. Go!

“No one cares that you’re depressed,” he goes on with an emotionless voice. More emotionless than ever, he tries to show her what nothing should feel like. “Depression is a choice. A luxury.”

She wants to cry. But it’s her father. She worships him. She needs him to understand. “You don’t know.” Stephanie turns around on the bed, looking at him, her voice plaintive like a six-year-old. “You have no idea what depression is. Or you wouldn’t say that. You don’t know.”

“Ridiculous. I feel as depressed as the other guy. But I do not let it bother me, because I cannot afford to.”

“Dad,” she bursts into tears, feels the hopelessness of explaining emotion to him, but needing him to get it. “You don’t feel as deeply.” It’s the first time she’s ever said this to him. “You don’t know what depression is. You don’t know what it does to me.”

“Depression…” his voice grows even colder “…is an indulgence, nothing more. Any reasonable person can put it aside.”

That’s all there is of that memory. I break down into tears.

Her pain is in me. Her pain washes over me and I bathe in it and I can’t stop crying and I don’t want to. I know that pain. I love that pain. I need that pain. Stephanie understands me. Anyone who feels this understands me.

An hour later I’m still crying, and now I can’t stop.

I missed one class. I can’t go to the other, even if I do stop crying.

That exhaustion you have after you’ve cried a lot, they’ll feel it, they will all feel it. And see it on my face. And hear it in their heads. I can’t go.

I’ll stay here, with Stephanie.

Her emotions are better, clearer, stronger, more powerful.

She can handle those emotions that are greater than mine. But not me. I can’t even handle my own, stupid world.

This isn’t good. It isn’t healthy. I… I need help.

There’s no one to turn to, though. There’s no one who will understand. There’s no one who….

I walk over to the morgue and unlock the door. I pull her out.

Stephanie. Stephanie….

Have you ever been as alone as I am now?

My hand hovers a few millimeters from her cheek, almost touching.

Have you ever been as desperate?

I almost touch her.

Have you ever needed someone to love you so desperately?

My finger doesn’t touch her, but something in the air is—

She collapses on the bed, feeling violated .

My finger wavers in the air and the contact is broken.

Jesus. I need to breathe.

That was like staring into an emotional mirror. She is everything I’m not, and yet she is everything I am, only more. Her emotions are more powerful than my lame ones. She has unreachable depths, whereas I only travel in the shallow end. She has an ability to deal with pain, while I… I don’t even know who I am.

Help me, Stephanie. Help me!

The door creaks when I open it. I can hear my breath. My chest is tight. Her back is turned to me. She’s typing on a computer.

“Professor Parks?”

She swivels in her chair. “Ms. Watson?”

She stands up, extending her hand. I practically jump backward, belatedly realizing that she is wearing gloves.

She pulls back her hand and sits back down. “How can I help you?”

“I… It’s not important.”

“I didn’t ask you if it was important, I asked how can I help.”

“I… I have a question.”

“All right.”

“I… uh.” If I ask her, she’ll know I’m unstable and kick me out. But if I don’t, I’ll go crazy, and she’ll kick me out. But if I ask her, she’ll know I’m unstable. But if I don’t, I’ll go crazy. But if I ask, she’ll know I’m unstable. But if I—

“Ms. Watson?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You had a question?”

“No, no, I don’t. Thank you.”

“Trust me, Ms. Watson,” she puts her hand on the table and stares into my soul. “You had a question.”

“Well, I did, but it’s not important now.”

“Still. I want to hear it.”

Oh, damn.

“Ms. Watson?”

“Well, see, if I ask it now, it’ll be magnified and it’ll seem like this huge thing, when it’s this really, really small question.”

“I see. That’s fine.” She swivels back, and starts typing again. “You have a question for me, Ms. Watson, and you’re not leaving this room before you ask me a question. I don’t care if it’s the question you came in here to ask or another question. But you’re going to ask me a question.” And on she types, not looking at me.

“I have another question,” I say.

“All right.” Her back is still turned. She’s still typing something on her computer. “Ask away.”

“It’s a theoretical question.”

“Good.”

“Is it possible…?” Something in me sinks. She’s going to know.

“Is it possible?” she reiterates.

Just plod on. Just plod on. Just plod-plod-plod on. “For someone….”

“For someone,” she repeats softly, as she searches for a function key. She finds it and presses it, “A-ha!”

“To become the person you’re…. To have her thoughts overtake you?”

Parks swivels on her chair, looks at me, and says simply, “No.” She turns back to the screen. “There. You’re free to leave now, if you want.”

“Thank you.” She’s all right.

I’m near the door, when she says, “Alexandra?”

Alexandra?

“Yes, Professor Parks?” She’s facing me, leaning closer. I can feel that her mood is soft and smooth.

“It’s like this. Your brain is your own. You cannot become a different person. When we feel someone else’s thoughts or emotions, we simply find the corresponding thoughts or emotions in us. If it doesn’t exist in us, then we can’t feel it. Everything goes through your mind, and every emotion is actually yours. That’s why even with telepaths we don’t know that the pain someone else feels is the pain you feel. We still don’t know if we see the color red in the same way. Because when we read someone’s mind, we interpret it through our own mind and emotions. So, no, it’s not possible to become someone other than yourself. It is possible, however, that you need a gigantic hug.”

I laugh and look down.

“Well, I’m not allowed to hug you.” She stands up. “But I am allowed to feed you.”

I look at her, surprised.

“I’m on my way out to the city. There’s a fantastic fish restaurant there, my treat.”

“But…”

“I’m not going to touch you. I’m not going to read your mind. I’m not going to delve into your business. I am going to feed you.” She saves her document and turns off her screen. “And anything we say…” she turns off the light in the room and leads me out “…will not be held against us. All right?”

“I… I don’t….”

“Say ‘yes.’” She likes me. I can feel it.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

She’s got a ten-year-old Mazda that smells new.

Inside the car feels like outside the Academy. I lie back and sink into the seat.

She drives us around the Academy and toward the gate.

The same guard that let me in that first day is there now. He opens the gate as we approach.