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

Nothing. I’m not getting anything. Either they’re asleep or not home.

I straighten the mattress and the put the pillow back in the room. I look at the room.

Bye, room.

I open the door. Silence. I walk into the living room, and, as silently as possible, I call a cab.

I go past the guard at six fifteen a.m.

There’s plenty of time. But I can’t, I can’t, I can’t go to the morgue in the same clothes again.

I go to my dorm, take the quickest shower I’ve ever taken, get dressed, take my cell phone, and get to the morgue at fifteen minutes to seven.

I unlock the door as quickly as I can, close it behind me, and go for the freezer. I wheel her out and remove the sheet.

Oh, that face. I love, I love, I love that beautiful face.

I take off my glove and stare at her.

Show me they’re wrong, Stephanie. Let’s go through the end again. Show me how powerful your pain was.

I touch her, readying myself for the shock I felt yesterday. And….

Nothing.

What? No!

I play another emotion in my head.

Nothing. She lies there, unmoving, beautiful.

Still touching her, I replay a memory I’ve gone through.

Nothing.

Dammit!

Bendis said we usually had a week, well, six days, and it’s only been four! You can’t do this to me!

I try again.

Nothing.

Please.

Nothing.

No! I didn’t get everything from her! I didn’t get her essence into me! I’m missing memories! I’m missing experiences! You can’t disappear on me, Stephanie. You have to let me remember you. You have to let me carry on your memories forever.

I touch her again.

The coldness of her cheek hurts me. There is nothing.

There is nothing left of her.

Oh, god.

There’s a hole in the world, and it has Stephanie’s shape.

There’s a hole in the world. There’s a hole in the world.

I didn’t get all of her. Oh, god, I didn’t get all of her.

I leave the lifeless body in the fridge. I lock the door behind me and just stand there.

What time is it?

Seven a.m.

Maybe I should try again?

Leave her alone, she’s gone.

My stomach tightens.

Parks. Yes. Professor Parks touched her, and she’s my friend.

I walk up to her office.

It’s closed. What time is it? Seven-oh-eight.

I’ll wait.

There’s probably a procedure about what to do with the dead bodies. As soon as the rest of them find out about her, I’ll probably have to go with the wagon or burn the body or something.

Maybe I should try to touch her again?

Leave her alone. Leave her alone. Stephanie’s not there anymore.

What time is it?

I sense Professor Parks coming from around the corner.

She appears around the corner, surprised to see me.

“Stephanie is gone,” I tell her.

There’s a flash of something in her eyes, but I can’t detect what it is. She looks at me and, at length, says, “I’m sorry.”

She takes out her keys and opens her office. She walks in. I follow her. She settles in the chair behind her desk.

“I need your help.” I say.

She looks up at me, and I still can’t sense anything she’s feeling. “How can I help you?” she asks, her words deliberate.

“You read her mind.”

“I did.”

“And you probably read more of her memories than I did. You’ve seen more of her emotions. You read her more deeply than I did.”

“It stands to reason.”

“Please… I need to see who she was. I need to see her core.”

She leans back, and as she changes into her teacher mode, she lets slip some worry. “What do you mean when you say ‘her core?’” And her question is so cold that it’s as if she asked for a definition.

“I mean her soul , the center of everything she was. The core that made her…. Her core.”

Parks leans forward. “Sit down.”

I sit down and lean forward, my right hand on her desk. She looks at my hand. “Take off your glove.”

And suddenly I’m afraid she’ll know about last night. But I have to do this.

I have to know. I do as she says.

“Put your hand back on the desk.”

I put it on the desk.

She takes off the glove on her left hand. My heart hammers. I can’t let her know! I can’t!

“I’m not going to touch you,” she says, as she slowly puts her hand down, fingers spread, a few millimeters from mine.

“From this distance, with my ability, we’re safe. I only feel what you want me to feel, and you only feel what I want you to feel. Let’s test it.”

And suddenly I’m smack inside Stephanie’s and Michael’s kiss. I feel his tongue inside mine, I feel the buzz it gave her, and it feels like blood actually fills her eyes and blots her eyesight. She slides her cheek down the wall of her bedroom slowly, playing that kiss again, exhilarated, fearful .

And then it’s gone. That was her.

Thank you! I send her waves of gratitude.

She ignores them and says, “What do you mean when you say ‘her core?’ Give me an example.” And with her eyes she gestures at my fingers.

When did I feel it? When did I not feel it?

She’s looking at her eyes in the mirror. So ugly, so disgusting, she thinks .

“It’s the power of her emotion!” I say. “The way she hates hers….”

“Don’t use words,” she says. “Give me another example.”

“Oh, gawd!” Stephanie shouts into the pillow, and her pain is unbearable. This is exactly like her mother. “This isn’t about you! Not everything is about you! This is my pain! Stop making everything about yourself!” And she shouts so loudly that she becomes hoarse, having uttered just those words. And without words, she keeps shouting in her head: This is mine. Mine! Don’t you get that?”

Did she see? I look into Parks’s eyes. There’s something noble in the pain. Something so deep….

It slips out of me before I can finish my sentence—

She looks at her body before she dresses for the date with Michael, checking for spots, blemishes, new fat, old fat, each depressing her more, each an impossible hurdle. Will he notice? Will he still like me?

Beyond my control, faster than I can think—

I’m sweating in my bra, and it’s not even hot. My panties are too tight in one place and too baggy in another. My dress is too conservative. They’re going to know .

I pull my hand away. “I’m sorry. That was mine. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I think I understand what you’re saying. Put your hand back in place. This time it will be my turn to transmit.” I put my hand back on the table, a millimeter away from her fingers. The part closest to the tip of her closest finger is slightly warmer, but I feel nothing else.

“Tell me if I have it right,” she says.

And suddenly I’m Stephanie, again. It begins slowly—Parks is giving me a chance to look around .

Stephanie is nervous because of Mrs. Wright. She’s been ordered to stay after school to talk to her about her behavior. We’re in the eighth grade, now. Stephanie is thirteen .

Before Mrs. Wright got a chance to bawl Stephanie out, her cell phone rang, and she answered it. Her boyfriend is breaking up with her .

Events speed up to normal. Mrs. Wright is still talking to her boyfriend .

“No, come on.” She glances at Stephanie in fear, then turns her back to her and lowers her voice. “Let’s talk about this later, but let’s not decide until we talk about this.” And Stephanie felt the pain in Mrs. Wright’s voice .

“Come on, Steve….” And in Mrs. Wright’s cracked voice, Stephanie recognized her own feelings. Too many of them. Mrs. Wright is like a future Stephanie. It made her want to cry .