Who Is Speaking?

My day spiraled away from me—outlining my thesis, teaching a few classes, meeting with endless voices and faces, typical advanced academia—and I forgot about the date I’d set up earlier on my phone app. Stephen something? I barely remembered his name. I made it back to my apartment, micro-waved some left-over coffee and sat on my ratty couch. I held the warm mug close to me, closed my eyes, and a while later, woke with what felt like a tremor.

Something was off, different, and it was more than exhaustion. It was like I had forgotten something, a past event or a person, or maybe only a place I had once visited. It seemed terribly important but I didn’t know why. It unsettled me because it wasn’t rational, didn’t have a formula or a number sequence attached to it. Didn’t speak to me in the only way I understood. Why wasn’t it rational? I didn’t know.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was already seven. How did that happen? I took a one-minute shower, pulled a brush a few times through my tight curly hair, got dressed in my last clean blouse and pair of jeans, wolfed a peanut-butter sandwich, and hurried out the door.

We’d picked a movie, an easy first date, no commitment, maybe drinks later, and we met outside the theater. As we made our introductions—"I’m Bridget.” “Nice to meet you, I’m Stephen”— a small brown dog ran by, brushing against my leg.

“Oh, hey stop.” I yelled. The dog turned, looked, and continued walking.”

I whistled and said, “Doggie. Come here. Come.”

It sauntered back and I crouched and put my hand out so it could sniff my fingers.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” It was female, wearing a collar, and looked well fed and groomed. She wagged her tail and pushed against me. When I was young, we only had cats and I didn’t consider myself a dog person, but something was different about this one. I scratched her back, rubbed her neck, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and she wiggled and wagged harder.

Stephen stood back. “Are we going in?”

“Hold on, let me check her collar.”

A tag on the collar gave the dog’s name, Violet, and a phone number and address. I called the number, let it ring until an answering machine picked up, and left a message with my number. I took off the scarf I was wearing, tied one end to Violet’s collar and the other to a parking meter.

I patted her a few more times, and with a quick blip, everything changed. I looked at Stephen and had a flash of a crying face, a little boy, maybe six or seven. I thought he was yelling for something. I twitched, looked again, and this time only Stephen’s scowl was there.

“I’m gonna take the dog to her home,” I said. “It’s only about a ten-minute walk. You can go into the movie if you want.”

Stephen said, “Well, no. I guess I’m going with you.”

I untied my scarf from the meter and began walking. Violet wagged her tail and trotted along a few feet ahead. She was obviously leash-trained and didn’t tug or move too far off the sidewalk. The sadness came back, this time as more of a visual image, a color I couldn’t identify, that shaded everything. I shook my head again, tried to fling it away, and heard a voice that wasn’t mine. I picked up speed, weaving around the other people on the sidewalk.

An older man saw us coming, stopped, backed onto a grassy lawn and said, Damn dog bit me.

I looked at him. “This dog bit you?”

The man shook his head and hurried off.

Stephen stepped in front of me. “Why did you say that to him?”

“He said the dog bit him.”

“No, he didn’t. He didn’t say anything.”

My whole body shook. He didn’t say anything. What’s happening? But I heard him. I know I did.

I started to jog. I had to find Violet’s owners. She happily floated along, her tail continuing its wagging rhythm.

Stephen grabbed my arm. “Can we slow down, please?”

“Oh, sorry. I think this is the house.” I looked again at the collar tag. “Yes, this is it.”

We stood in front of a simple, one story house with a small porch and yard. I knocked on the door, nobody answered, and we hurried down a driveway and into a back yard. It was fenced, and I opened a gate and Violet rushed in. She found a plastic toy bone, chomped onto it, and flung it toward me. I wanted to leave and told myself that Violet would be safe now. I turned to the driveway and heard a young voice yell, “Violet.”

There he was, the little boy whose face I had seen, whose desperate voice I had heard, or at least felt, deep inside me. He ran first to his dog and then threw his arms around me. A man and a woman followed the boy in, repeatedly thanked me, and offered to pay me. When they hugged me, I instantly knew way more about them than I ever wanted to know about anybody. I refused the money and forced myself to smile, to show that I was a kind and caring person. At the same time, my thoughts morphed into an overriding desperate plea—get me out of here, this can’t be happening.

I wasn’t far from my apartment but wasn’t sure how to get there. Back on the street, I pounded directions into my phone. “Its close. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Stephen said, smiling and bubbly. “Why are you freaking out? That was kind of awesome.”

“Yeah, well I just need to sit down for a minute. Can we go to my apartment?”

“Okay, sure.” Stephen shrugged and followed.

As soon as we came through the door, his phone beeped with a text, and as he read it, his face clouded. He dropped the phone on the couch, asked where the bathroom was, and hurried into it. When he came out, I said, “Sorry about your breakup. That shit is always the worst.”

He pointed at his phone. “You just read my text. You picked up my damn phone and read my text.”

I looked down, put my hands on my face and mumbled, “No, I didn’t actually.”

“You’re really odd, you know. I don’t understand you at all and I don’t think I ever want to try.” He scooped up the phone and hustled out.

Nothing made any sense. I found a bottle of wine in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets, filled up a large juice glass, and slugged it down. Although it made me dizzy, it helped me to start the process of mentally rewriting the events of the evening into a script that denied that much of it had ever happened.

I fell asleep with my clothes on and woke the next morning with a slight headache, but also with a reassuring self-message that this would be a day where I would get things done. I made a long, complex list for the next week and furiously attacked it. The first day roared by, then another and another, and by the end of the week, I had accomplished so much that a giddy high overshadowed any of my earlier confusion.

I formed an idea that I should treat myself, although I was not at all sure what that meant. Try the dating app again? Terrible idea. Go to a concert or a movie? Maybe. But as soon as I allowed myself to slow down, the earlier events resurfaced and tore away my cloak of denial. I tried to tell myself that there was a logical explanation for all of it. There had to be.

The next morning, I started a short walk to the food coop, but decided to wander a bit. As usual, a voice said that I didn’t have time, I had too much to do, but another newer voice, a sort of rebellion against myself, told me to go be curious, have some fun. On a side street, I passed a small storefront with the door propped open and saw a man was moving boxes inside on a hand cart. I followed him in. I scanned the room, looking from one side to another and saw candles, incense, posters, jewelry, and so many books. One woman was organizing packs of decorative cards on a table and another had her hands in a glass case filled with gems and jewelry. New-agey. A stage set for a tacky movie shoot.

As I turned to leave, a bulletin board, filled with small posters, fliers, and cards, caught my attention. I stopped and one flier nearly screamed at me—an illustration of a man standing, with an elongated thought bubble connected to his head and flopping onto a nearby woman. The man faced away from the woman, not interacting with her other than with the bubble. The words in the bubble said, I hope I can keep this a secret, not let anybody know what I just did. Some of the words were drawn so that they actually entered the woman’s head. Another bubble coming from the woman contained the words, What the hell is happening to me? Words underneath the image said, “Wednesday, 8:00 pm. Meet here to discuss.”

I ran down the street to the coop, grabbed a basket at the door, and hurried through the aisles, pulling in items without, as I usually did, analyzing the plusses and minuses of each one. I paid and continued back to my apartment. By the time I got through the door, I had again compartmentalized my fear and confusion, stuffing it back into my usual closed container of I can’t think about this now. I have too much to do.”

At 7:45, two days later, I knew I would be going back to that store. I even ventured into unknown territory, asking myself if an evil power was involved that was forcing me to walk out my door. I pushed the thought away as too foreign, too illogical. I shifted my focus and settled on the idea that my planned outing was only more of my “to-do-list rebellion.”

I arrived at eight and a man motioned me to a closed door. I entered a small room with twenty folding chairs set up in four rows, all filled. A feeling of I don’t belong here assaulted me and I took a seat in the back row in case I needed to leave early. To calm my fidgeting, I looked around the room and spotted a man in a corner chair separate from the rows. He nodded a greeting, walked over, and sat down next to me.

He smiled, extended his hand for a shake, and said, “Hi, my name is Andrew.”

When I shook his hand, I felt long, skinny fingers. But powerful for some reason. Almost like a trap. My mind raced with a few possibilities. Hitting on me? A prop person attempting some sort of cult conversion?

He let go of my hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’m Bridget.”

Then I looked at him, really looked, and backed away. He had deep brown eyes, black curly hair, the palest skin. And so thin. Unusual.

My next thought was, this is all way too weird, I’m challenged sitting here.

“I know,” Andrew whispered. “But we have to keep an open mind.”

He knows? What does he know? I flashed on the flier that was still out front on the bulletin board, the thought bubbles going from one person and blobbing over into another person’s brain. I turned to him, let him see my tight face. “What did you just do?”

Again, a whisper. “Look at what’s going on. Don’t talk and try not to think.”

An older woman walked through the door and to the front of the room. Elegant, well-dressed, and as she passed by the group, all eyes followed her. She turned and put her hands out toward all of us. “Hello everybody.”

Wow. So charismatic and in control. She’s stunning. But, but…

Andrew touched my leg. A reminder? Not to think?

The woman continued. “For anybody new here, my name is Hannah. Welcome to our evening discussions. Now I cannot know the exact reasons why each of you showed up here tonight.” She gave a little snicker. “Of course, then again, perhaps I can. But I do know that my motivation is to be of help, to be a grounding influence to those of us who are experiencing any new and oftentimes disturbing abilities. This is a group of support, of caring, of sharing, I’m going to start tonight by asking some of the people who have been here before to tell us about their own experiences. I see a few of you. Hi Patrick, hi Sylvia, hello Brenda, hi Andrew. Oh, and there’s Mark. Who would like to go first, to share themselves with the newcomers?”

The man named Patrick stood at the front and spoke for ten minutes about a range of abnormal mental states and unusual occurrences. I listened with minimal thought feedback until it hit me that he had no first-hand experience with what he was talking about. Andrew touched my leg again and I caught a slight head shake and then a whole lot more.

When Patrick finished, Hannah looked toward Andrew and I. “Andrew, maybe you’d like to go next.”

I stood and said, “I think I’m in the wrong place here.” I turned toward the door.

Andrew also stood, shrugged, pointed at me and followed.

When we were on the street, he nudged me. “Keep walking, don’t stop for a bit.”

After we turned a few corners, I stopped. “What the hell is going on? Who are you? And who is that creepy woman?”

“Why do you think she’s creepy?”

“The same reason I think you are. Because you were in my damn mind.”

“I don’t think Hannah did that and I’m sorry if I did, I was just trying to be, uh, protective.”

“Of what? What does that even mean? You don’t know me.”

The backdrop noise—pedestrians, vehicles, urban hums—faded, and I only heard Andrew’s soft but steady voice. “I know this is horribly scary for you. Your world is being turned completely on its side. I can only tell you this, that the more I’m around this person, Hannah, I don’t trust her, either. And I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I’m only…” Now his voice faltered. “I’m only trying to help.” His clenched his hands together.

I said, “You’re scared, too, aren’t you? You’re as scared as I am.”

He managed a weak smile. “Well maybe not that much. But, yes, I’m scared, too.”

I stepped back, stared at him, scanned him up and down, settling on his face. In another situation it would have been a rude act but he seemed to understand and stood quietly. In my mind I said, you’re not like her, like Hannah, and he shook his head.

I said, “Let’s get out of here. We can go to my apartment and drink tea or coffee. Or alcohol, if that’s what you want. It’s tiny but I’m there by myself.”

I made a pot of tea and we sat on metal chairs in the small kitchen. “Look, Andrew,” I said. “I don’t know who you are or if inviting you here is the worst mistake of my life. I’m as weirded out by you and this Hannah person and all of this,” I waved my arms around, “as I can ever remember. So, before I completely freak and tell you to leave, please try to say something sensible. Something to help me understand, anything.”

He didn’t speak and looked like he was about to cry. “I’m sorry. This is still so hard for me, too. It’s better than it was but so much has happened.

“Oh, okay, I guess we’ll just sit here then.”

“My mother died a few years ago and I was already going through this stuff. I had some money I had saved and moved here to go to school and…it was too damn hard to do much.”

Now I wanted to hug him, comfort him, but I didn’t dare. “Oh God, Andrew, I’m so sorry. About your mother. And everything.”

He continued, his voice more of a monotone to keep from cracking. “I need to tell you what I’ve learned. That’s how it works, how we get a handle on it.”

I didn’t understand. Well, okay. But who told you about any of that? Hannah?

He nodded.

Does she want something from you in return, from us.

He nodded.

And you don’t.

He shook his head, then added, helping you helps me. But I don’t need anything back from you.

I stopped, began to shake, terrified. I had just conversed with somebody without speaking aloud. What do you think Hannah wants?

A following.

We went back and forth for another hour, aloud and not, and when Andrew left, I laid on the couch and fell into a deep sleep. When I woke the next morning, I made coffee, ate a bowl of cereal, and created another long and complex to-do list.