Heidi Julavits - The Vanishers

I rebuffed them all. What good had ever come from my abilities? I’d never been able to control them. Always someone suffered; often that someone was me. My good intentions meant nothing. Asleep, I proved powerless to refuse the voyages. I intruded upon a ski chalet where a man with a bald spot dumped spaghetti into a colander while another man with a bald spot massaged his neck. I visited a girl trying on a gaping orange G-string for an audience of three boys. I visited a little grave.

None of these visions were conclusive, or so I told myself. Nor were they even terribly vivid: the colors muddy, the image flickering like a movie screened on a projector with a hair stuck in the lens. They could have been dreams. But nor did I seek to corroborate them as valid regressions. I did not ask the woman with the chin tuck to show me a picture of her husband so that I could cross-reference him with the image of the bald men I kept in my head. I did not ask the French woman if she owned an orange G-string. I did not ask the former model if her tiny baby, when she’d left him in the doctor’s office, was breathing.

Instead I provided answers to their questions with a fortuneteller’s vagueness. You are the current cause of your husband’s sexual fulfillment. You inspire others with your spirit of adventure. Happiness comes to those who are well-rested.

But while I soon became one of the most popular guests at the Goergen, I remained unimpressed, even disenchanted. My brain was flabby, clumsy, a geriatric detective that farted on the job. Even at my strongest point — at the Workshop, while regressing for Madame Ackermann — my successes were sheer accidents, flailing sword thrusts into the psychic ether.

So I decided — in the interests of reducing the harm I could cause by amateurishly bungling about in such matters — to do some secret exercises. This, I rationalized, was the responsible way to manage what was going to occur despite me.

First I stole a rump roast from the kitchen and stashed it atop my armoire, wrapped in an ammonia-soaked towel to hide the stink from the chambermaids. Three times a day I lay on my bed, arms and feet canted outward in a modified corpse pose, and tried to petrify the roast.

It became for me a little bit like praying.

I did not check my work for a week. When I unwrapped the meat — noting with a surge of hopefulness that I detected no putrifying stink whatsoever — I found a caramel-colored geode, half the size of the original rump and five times the weight. On one flank I’d created a crystallized ulcer that allowed me to see the jeweled interior, like the peephole into a Fabergé egg.

I tried not to be too proud of my work. Pride, Madame Ackermann used to say — not that we ever believed her — is a psychic’s endgame. Still, I had reason to be impressed, at least a little bit. Also, coincidentally or not, my health, for the first time in fourteen months, improved. I suffered no migraines. The eczema on my hands receded. The wolf, when I blinked, was gone.

When Alwyn asked me how I was feeling, I told her, I feel wonderful . My brain tingled as though it were bobbing in carbonated liquid. I viscerally recalled the way I’d felt when I’d been sitting in the Barcelona chair, regressing in order to save Madame Ackermann’s reputation. I’d felt lightweight. I’d felt disembodied. I’d felt fiery and alive. I missed that person — a person eradicated by all the medications I’d been taking in New York, and to what end? My suffering wasn’t minimized, and these cures had killed off the best part of me. The transgressor. The Peeping Tom. The spy.

Two days after I’d unwrapped the rump roast, I skipped lunch and visited, for the first time since I’d discovered Helena’s ring, the baths.

I was alone, everyone else at lunch.

I chose the hottest bath — more of a swimming pool — and eased myself in one step at a time, the water to my shins, now my hips, now my shoulders. I floated on my back. I noticed for the first time that the skylight overhead was nearly identical to the skylight at the Regnor — same beveled corners, same twining snake-or-ivy.

It gave me an exercise idea that I felt, after my petrification success, skilled enough to attempt.

I centered myself beneath the skylight and tried to imagine myself back to the Regnor, a place I’d once been, a place where there’d be a fossilized placeholder for me to slip inside. This was the easiest form of regression because it allowed you to travel along the familiar byways of memory and required you to be no more foreign a person than a past version of yourself. However, risks were involved. We initiates were advised against using our own lives too frequently as practice fodder; revisiting one’s memories could result, over time, in a form of self-erasure.

I gave it a try.

A busier skylight blotted out the Goergen’s plainer one — it was like watching a text written in invisible ink exposed to heat, the hidden letters burning to the foreground. I saw a giant clock, the hour frozen at 2:29 p.m., the second hand poised, spear-like, over the belly of the six. I stared at that second hand. I tried to activate the space, break through the static barrier that froze this moment in time.

No success.

I imagined myself diving into water, but this felt wrong. Water could too easily, and without yielding apparent wreckage, accommodate a foreign object. Once, as Madame Ackermann lay on her futon couch, snoozing through another failed regression, she’d started crying in her sleep.

This is my only legacy , she’d whimpered. I make scars in time .

So I envisioned the barrier as layers of transparent muscle, fat, skin. (I’d been born by cesarean section, my umbilical cord wrapped three times around my neck.) I dove headfirst into the barrier. It stretched, it resisted. I dove a second time and the barrier tore. I heard amplified sounds: the electric buzz of the clock, the crick of a heater vent.

I opened my eyes. This lobby was not the lobby of the Regnor. There was an elevator, but a smaller one. A wall was covered with mirrored tiles that gridded the lobby’s reflection into cocktail-napkin-sized squares of visual information. People in winter coats spoke French.

The elevator disgorged a trio of women, one of whom was crying.

I searched for someone I recognized and found one person. I knew her from somewhere — as Borka might say, she was a big déjà vu for me. I could see her in the gridded reflection, but when I turned, I could not locate her in the lobby. She existed only in the mirror.

I was comically slow to realize that this girl, she was me. Unlike during my previous regressions, I did not register in the mirror as a foggy blank.

I was there. Or rather here —wherever here was. Based on the outfits worn by the lobby loiterers, I guessed here was, temporally speaking, the early eighties.

The elevator opened again. Four women exited, including the actress I’d met at the Regnor’s bar. She was the same age she’d been when I’d encountered her in New York, even though, based on our surroundings, we were now occupying a moment in time preceding that one by twenty or thirty years.

I recalled how the bartender had never acknowledged Irenke, how he’d placed both whiskey sours in front of me as though I were sitting at the bar alone.

From his perspective, maybe I was. Irenke was an astral imprint. Despite the fact that my medications should have blunted such incursions, she’d managed, somehow, to visit me.

Irenke sat on the couch opposite mine. She slung her coat across her lap. She tried to flag a waiter.

“Hey,” I said. “Irenke, right?”