Contact Read online

  “Zener test?” I recall reading something about that online. “I thought that had to do with cards with pictures on them.”

  “Cards. Sure. But kids prefer these.” He pauses, holding a block above the board, and looks at me as if he just realized the absurdity of his words.

  “I am sixteen,” I say, and I can’t help but crack a grin.

  “Right. Sorry.”

  He separates the blocks with a cardboard divider so half are on his side and half on mine.

  “I’ll begin by evaluating your extra sensory perception,” he explains. “I’ll arrange my blocks in a pattern. The objective is for you to arrange yours to match mine.”

  “Except I told you before, I’m not a mind-reader. At least not like this.”

  “Bear with me here.” He seems excited, and he uses his hands to punctuate his words. “We’ll do this the traditional way first to establish a baseline. Then we’ll do it again using your...um…ability. Ready?”

  Even though playing with blocks seems rather childish to me, I wait patiently while Dr. Felton arranges the blocks on his side of the divider.

  “Okay,” he announces when he’s done. He glances at me with a look of expectation and challenge on his face that reminds me of the countless games of Battleship I’d played with Mama over the years. Even though we had a virtual version of it on our game system, Mama always insisted on using the same old plastic set she’d had since she was a kid. It was missing one of the submarines and was short a few pegs, but I loved watching her face while she placed her ships in strategic patterns on her board. She looked most like a kid at those times, full of anticipation and gleeful triumph.

  “Your turn,” says Dr. Felton. “Concentrate and try to recreate my pattern. Take your time.”

  In front of me are six different colored blocks: red, green, yellow, orange, blue and purple—each one a different shape. I study them for a few moments, wondering how anyone could actually take this seriously, but for Dr. Felton’s sake I decide to give it my best shot. Focusing all my attention on whatever invisible brain waves might be floating between him and me, I push the blocks into place with my finger.

  “Done,” I say.

  With only a brief hesitation, Dr. Felton lifts the divider. He rubs the side of his jaw with his thumb, nodding thoughtfully, but I can see the disappointment on his face.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he says, probably more for his benefit than mine. “You got one right.”

  “Yeah, but the odds of getting one right for even normal people are probably pretty high. It’s called a coincidence.”

  “True. True.” He smiles at me and replaces the divider. “So we can assume then that you are normal.”

  Anything but. . .

  “Now let’s try it again, but this time during a reading.” He smiles again, like there’s some private joke between us. Then he looks down at the board, his eyebrows knit together with serious intent. I hear the scraping sound of blocks being pushed around the surface of the board. There are a couple of pauses when he seems to change his mind. Then he sits back and examines the board with a satisfied finality.

  “All right,” he says. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer.

  “How do we, um…?”

  “Just hold out your hand,” I tell him.

  He rolls up his right sleeve, which is completely unnecessary, and then he lays his hand palm up on his desk. I hesitantly place my hand next to his, not ready to touch quite yet. I have to work up the nerve.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks.

  “It hurts like hell,” I answer.

  I take a few deep breaths, then tip my hand just enough to brush against his skin.

  His mind erupts into mine like a nuclear blast, shrapnel memories slicing through my brain in a single instant. A young boy wearing leg braces dealing with the brunt of ridicule by his peers. A disappointed father who longed for a sports hero but got a science geek son instead. And lots of happy memories, too: birthday parties and trips to the zoo, his love for his mother who adored him. But things turned dark later on in medical school. I witness a string of heartbreaks, failed romances, struggles to keep up in his studies, the road to neurology, and a strange unexpected detour that led him here.

  The images spin around in my head so fast that trying to focus on a single one is a little like trying to jump onto a speeding train. I concentrate, searching for his most recent thoughts—the ones with the blocks. When I’ve found what I need, I withdraw my hand and set it in my lap. Dr. Felton leaves his where it lies.

  “Well?” he asks. “What did you see?”

  I study Dr. Felton’s face for a moment, this man who has had his share of disappointments in life, but has somehow managed to stay positive. A man full of insecurities—and hope. How do I tell him that he has nothing to offer me? That I’ve seen all his studies, all his knowledge, and none of it comes even close to what I am. Edgar Cayce was a fascinating man, perhaps, but I am nothing like Edgar Cayce. I’m a singularity. A freak.

  I get up from my chair. Dr. Felton rises, too, looking surprised and disappointed.

  “There’s nothing you can do for me, Dr. Felton. But thanks for your time.”

  I look at the blocks in front of me, and then rearrange them quickly. I lift the divider, revealing a perfect set of matching blocks. Then I head for the door.

  “How do you know there’s nothing I can do?” He comes around his desk to stand in front of me, his eyes fixed expectantly on mine. “Mira, tell me what you saw.”

  I hold his gaze despite the fact that my instinct is to run away and hide. And I’d probably be doing that right now if Dr. Felton wasn’t standing in my way. The muscles in my jaw tighten, and I take a deep breath. Then I give him what he wants.

  “You were teased as a kid, but you got over it. You have a very strained relationship with your football-obsessed dad. You want a family of your own, but the last girl you dated hated kids so you dumped her. You like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, live theater, and flannel bed sheets.”

  Dr. Felton’s mouth drops open, which is pretty comical, actually. I grab the doorknob, twist and pull. Stunned into silence, he steps away from the door to let me through.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” I add for good measure. “You shouldn’t have cheated on that biology final. You didn’t give yourself enough credit. You would have passed on your own.”

  With that said I step out into the hall and close the door behind me.

  I don’t get far down the hall before I hear Dr. Felton’s door open again, followed by hurried footsteps. He reaches me in a few short strides. The reception area is just a few yards away. I can see the front door from here and want more than anything to get through it.

  “Wait, Mira.” Dr. Felton takes me by the arm, my hoodie shielding me, and turns me around. “I know you think I can’t help you,” he says in a hushed voice, presumably so that no one else can hear. “I don’t know what you saw in me that made you believe that, and I admit this is without precedence, but that’s all the more reason why you should work with me. I have resources, contacts, computer programs, testing equipment. I want to know, as much as you do, how this happened to you.”

  “There’s no test on earth capable of answering that question,” I tell him.

  “Then we’ll construct one that is capable. Just work with me, all right? I’ll take a few days to get some preliminary guidelines down, make some inquiries. Then you’ll come back and we’ll take it from there. Give me a chance, Mira.”

  Apparently he wasn’t quiet enough, because David has now appeared at the end of the hall, watching us. I realize what he’s looking at—Dr. Felton’s hand on my arm. His eyes flick to mine. Am I safe, he’s wondering? Do I need help?

  Dr. Felton releases me. “Think about what I’ve said. Just call me when you’re ready.”

  I continue down the hall toward the exit. As I pass through it, I feel a sens
e of relief. David and I walk back to his car in silence. He’s been a good sport so far, not asking any questions. But I can see the curiosity on his face. I wait until we’re back on the freeway heading home before I speak.

  “This trip was for nothing,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, David.”

  “You didn’t,” he replies, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Time with you is always time well spent.”

  I smile at the compliment, but I can’t help but feel the disappointment weighing down on me. I had hoped, truly hoped, for more.

  “There’s nothing for me back there.”

  “Really?” David raises an eyebrow. “That guy seemed pretty sure there was. Are you going to call him back?”

  Am I? I guess I’ll see what Dr. Walsh thinks about everything after our appointment next week. I’m sure she’ll have some thoughts on the subject. But for the moment, I really don’t know.

  I roll my window down and hold my hand out, resisting the air pushing against it. I used to do that as a little girl. I enjoyed the challenge of arm wrestling with an invisible opponent.

  “So,” David says, “where to now?”

  I consider the question and get the feeling that no matter how I answer, David would take me there. But I can’t think of anything.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he cracks an embarrassed smile and laughs a little.

  “What?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. “It can’t be so bad.”

  “It’s not. I just…it doesn’t matter where I’d go.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Tell me.”

  He glances over at me, and those eyes of his catch me off guard. So open. So sincere.

  “I’ll tell you someday,” he says. “I promise.”

  And somehow that’s enough. I believe him.

  We continue on with the radio blaring and our windows rolled down. We sing along to every song whether we know the lyrics or not, and when we stop for gas, David buys a stash of candy bars and energy drinks—enough for a week-long road trip. By the time we get back to Flintridge, we’re totally pumped up on sugar and caffeine.

  “I’m going to be sick tonight,” I giggle. My seat is completely reclined and my feet stick out of my window.

  “I know where to go,” David says.

  I close my eyes and feel the motion of his turns, the stop and go at the traffic signals, and the vibration of the engine. The wind blowing against my feet and legs, the cyclone of air swirling around inside the car…it’s an amazing feeling of being totally free and completely spontaneous.

  A little while later, the car comes to a slow stop. The engine idles for a second and then shuts off.

  “We’re here.”

  I open my eyes and sit up. I’m surprised to see our park in front of me, just a short distance from the mansion. We could have gone anywhere, and yet David brought me here.

  “Hold this for me?” he asks, handing me his cell phone. I slip it into my hoodie pocket, and then suddenly he’s out of the car and doing cartwheels across the grass. He manages to complete three of them before collapsing in a dizzy, laughing heap. Then he rolls onto his stomach and starts kicking his feet and scooping his arms in wide circles like he’s swimming.

  “Come on in,” he shouts. “The water’s fine!”

  I join him on the grass. He rolls onto his back and moves his arms and legs up and down.

  “Snow angels,” he tells me. “Try it.”

  I groan with embarrassment.

  “No, really,” he says. “You asked me where I wanted to go. Well, here could be anywhere. Right now I’m in Big Bear lying on a fresh patch of snow making snow angels.”

  I tentatively lay back and let the smell of freshly mowed grass fill my senses. Helen’s going to kill me when she sees the grass stains, but I try it anyway. I move my arms up and down, my legs in and out. The sun shines down on us through the tree branches above, and I have to admit it feels great.

  “What about you?” asks David. “Where are you right now?”

  “Disneyland,” I answer quickly. “Tom Sawyer’s Island playing hide and seek in the caves.”

  I get up and run over to the play gym. In three seconds flat I’ve scaled the kiddy slide and slipped into the little tunnel beside it. David’s face pops into view.

  “Boo!” he shouts. I scramble out of the tunnel and follow him onto the bridge. He sways the metal slats back and forth. “Pirates of the Caribbean! That crazy rope bridge! Hang on or you’ll fall into the gorge!”

  I scream at the top of my lungs, and then take a flying leap off the side of the bridge. I land on my knees in the sand and pretend to keep falling, falling…falling.

  “I’ll save you!” shouts David, jumping down beside me. He scoops me up in his arms and runs through the sand. “I’m a bird! I’m a plane! I’m…Superman!”

  He trips and we both fall back down in the sand, laughing our heads off. When our laughter quiets, we lie on our backs just gazing up at the blue sky. For a few moments, at least, I forget about my condition and about Mama being in the hospital. For those moments, I’m just me again—happy.

  “David?” I say, still trying to catch my breath.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  I shrug my shoulders even though he’s not looking at me. “For sharing this day with me.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal, but you’re welcome.”

  “I mean it.” I roll on to my side and prop my head on my arm. “You have no idea what life has been like for me, how things have been so dark and hopeless. And yet when I’m with you, somehow I’ve got a reason to smile again. I don’t know how you do it.”

  David rolls onto his side, too. We look into each other’s eyes. I wonder what David sees when he looks at me.

  “Mira, I knew there was something different about you the first moment I saw you. And then when I spotted you at your father’s fundraiser hiding behind that horrible plant, I had to take a chance. I wanted to know you. I can’t begin to put myself in your shoes, with your mother being sick and all, but I’d like to try to understand if only you’ll trust me enough to let me in.”

  Trust him. How do I do that? I haven’t trusted anyone in such a long time—except Mama.

  “All right, you want to understand me?” I stand up, brushing the sand from my clothes. “Then come with me.”

  I start walking toward his car. David’s up in a heartbeat walking beside me.

  “Okay,” he says. “So…where are we going?”

  The hospital room smells faintly of roses thanks to the fresh bouquets I’ve kept beside Mama’s bed, but it does little to mask the pervasive scent of ammonia and urine that follow us in from the hall.

  Mama lies on her back, her arms resting on top of the blue blanket that covers her body. If someone didn’t know any better, they would think she was taking a nap. Except for the gray circles that have formed around her eyes and the respirator attached to her mouth, she looks just the same as she did that morning I tried to wake her.

  David stands beside me at the foot of Mama’s bed. “She’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

  Hearing him say those words makes me happy. She is beautiful. But then he adds, “Like mother, like daughter.”

  His comment takes me off guard. Fortunately, the nurse comes in before David can notice that I’m blushing.

  “Hey, Mira,” she says as she checks Mama’s IV level. Jessie is one of several nurses assigned to Mama’s care. She’s young, in her early twenties, with bright blue eyes and a comfortable smile. “You brought a friend?”

  After I introduce her to David, Jessie removes the wilted purple roses from a glass vase on the nightstand. David drops in the fresh bouquet of yellow ones we picked up on the way, and Jessie gives me a wink and thumbs
up behind his back. I feel my cheeks turning red all over again.

  “All right then,” says Jessie, “I’ll leave the three of you alone. If you need anything, just buzz.” She points to the button on the wall over Mama’s bed, more for David’s benefit, I guess, than mine.

  After Jessie leaves, David pulls up a stool and sits down. “Well, I’ve met the nurse,” he says, making a show of smoothing down his hair and straightening an invisible tie, “now for the real test…the parent.”

  I lean over the bed a little to make sure she can hear me. “Mama?” I say. “Mama, this is David, a friend of mine.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ortiz.” David gives a little wave, but there is nothing apprehensive or condescending in the gesture or his tone. “You know, Mira,” he continues, “I think your Mama would like me.”

  “Would like you? I’m sure she likes you now.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, most definitely.”

  He lets out a soft laugh, like the news pleases him.

  “You don’t believe me?” I ask.

  “Sure, I believe you, Mira.” His tone is more serious now. His gaze fixes on mine. “I really am sorry about your mother. I shouldn’t have made light of it.”

  He looks down at the floor. He’s ashamed, though I’m not sure why. Does he think he’s offended me? Does he believe I’m so sensitive that I can’t enjoy a little humor?

  “David, it’s all right,” I tell him. “I wasn’t kidding when I said Mama likes you.”

  “But she never met me. Not officially anyway.”

  “She’s meeting you now.”

  “Mira, she doesn’t know I’m here.”

  He’s starting to look concerned. I realize that now is the time. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, but it’s all or nothing. I might as well get it over with.

  “This is why I brought you here,” I begin. “You said you wanted to understand me.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay then.”

  I hesitate. No matter how many times I do this, I can’t get used to it, just like you never get used to getting burned. Finally I will myself to reach out my right hand and simply lay it on top of my mother’s hand. The electric shock tears through me, but I ignore the pain.