Evolution
“We have to tell her parents,” Bob whispers.
I blink and turn from the view of soaring evergreen trees and wide-open road, breathtakingly free of crushing crowds and frenetic traffic; just the odd white Tesla whooshing past or a semi-trailer slowing us down on the steep switchbacks. Inside the car, I hear the soporific hiss of the tires and purr of the engine.
“No,” I whisper back, then pause. “Why are we whispering?”
Bob, who is driving, jerks his head over his shoulder toward the back seat. “She might get our thought transmissions, but she can’t hear us right now.”
Poor Bailey. It seemed our granddaughter had developed telepathy, too. Probably caught it from us after being stuck together for three weeks on our trip to Japan. Now we are back in Canada, on the long-drawn-out drive home through the mountains from the Vancouver airport, Bailey dozing in the back seat of the Subaru with earbud cables emerging from under her long chestnut hair.
I continue in a hushed tone. “I don’t think we should. We don’t want it getting around. People can’t help talking, even when they’re sworn to secrecy. Then what? We’d be hounded by media, by witch hunters and paranormal freaks, maybe even scientists and spy agencies.”
Bob focusses on the road, braking, and steering around a 40km/hr bend. There are three mountain passes to navigate on the route, but at least the traffic is light, and the snow has receded to gravelly patches of ice on the shoulders. “But we can’t just dump her back at home and hope for the best. She shouldn’t be forced to keep this secret from her parents. That’s putting a big burden on a 16-year-old.”
He is probably right, but I’m not ready to come out of the closet. It scares the hell out of me. I imagine our pictures splashed all over The National Enquirer and Buzzfeed. Headlines like Mind Readers in our Midst!, Your Secrets Are Not Safe From These Freaks!
After the earthquake incident in Tokyo when we discovered Bailey’s new ability, we rode the train back to Shinjuku and found a restaurant for dinner, where we finally opened up to her about our telepathy. We told her how it had started for us during the pandemic lockdown, how long it took to gain some control over incoming and outgoing thoughts, and how we did it with meditation. Of course, I didn’t mention anything about the sex or Bob’s lewd thoughts. No one wants to know about their grandparents’ sex life. And even though we alluded to hearing disturbing ideas from each other, the neighbours, and relatives, we didn’t get specific and speak of the murder we discovered or manipulating our relative’s minds.
She had looked at us shrewdly from across the glossy wooden table littered with dainty bowls, plates, and chopsticks. “I knew it. You did send thoughts to the Samurai man to make him drop his sword, didn’t you, Grandpa?”
Bob and I looked at each other from under pinched eyebrows.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the first time I learned that I could send not just thoughts in words, but sort of impulses or commands.”
She tilted her head, her eyes widening, as she considered the possibilities of this new mental power. She was already conjuring what she would be able to do with her friends, her family, and Ashton, her current crush.
I locked a stern gaze on her. “You’re in the beginning stages of this. I’m sorry you got it, likely from us, but you’re going to need to learn how to handle it. It will take time and won’t be easy. Are you hearing thoughts from others right now?”
“A sort of buzzing or humming in the background and some Japanese words break through sometimes. But not you and Grandpa.”
“That’s because we can control it now…mostly. Highly emotional thoughts still break through.”
And I could still probe her mind while barring her from mine, so she couldn’t keep secrets from me. Right now, she was thinking we were old and overly cautious and that, because she was young, it would be easy for her to learn to control it, and then she would have a superpower, like her anime characters. Oh dear, she was already imagining herself in a story, controlling people like a jagged-haired character named Zero.
I shook my head. She had no idea what was coming.
Bob and I coached her all the way home, every chance we got—on the bus to Narita airport, while waiting at the gate, on the nine-hour plane ride, and now the eight-hour drive to her family home. Teaching a teenager to meditate is like training a cat, but we found an app that helped. She’d put on her headphones and close her eyes instead of rolling them at me. And she did learn quickly, much more quickly than Bob and I did. Oh, to have such a young, supple mind.
But she still doesn’t have complete control, and she’s about to rejoin her family.
#
Five hours later, we pull up in front of her home and park. Bob and I are so tired we’re numb, but she bursts from the car and sprints up the drive to the door. We trail behind, still weighing how—or even whether—we should tell her parents about the telepathy.
They’ll think we’re crazy, you know, or senile, I transmit to Bob as we approach the door.
They’ll find out eventually, even if we don’t tell them. Bailey won’t be able to hide it for long.
I’m not so sure. She’s pretty canny.
Excited babbling leads us up the stairs to the kitchen, where Bailey is regaling her family with tales of Japan, most of which they have heard before in video messages. As we get closer, I hear “And you should have seen the sword he had. But Grandpa made him drop it and Grandma and I got the police, and they arrested him.”
“But how did he do that? Make him drop it?” It was our son’s voice.
We enter the brightly lit kitchen area, where our son, Alex, his wife, and their two younger children are gathered around Bailey, who pauses for a beat. “Oh, um, he talked to the guy, I guess.”
Alex, towering above us, looks puzzled, his tattooed neck catching the light. “In English? I thought the guy was Japanese, didn’t speak English.”
With a hint of panic on her face, Bailey turns to Bob. Should I tell him the truth?
I look to Bailey and then Bob and quickly send them my thought. Let’s wait.
Bob narrows his eyes at me but says, “He didn’t speak any English words that I heard, but he must have understood what I said.”
Bailey’s face relaxes, and she turns to her sister, pulling her phone from the pocket of her hoodie. “Oh my god, Liv, you should have seen the anime in Ikebukuro. The costumes, the cosplay!” They whoosh down the hallway toward Liv’s bedroom, little brother Ian chasing after them, screaming and pounding on the bedroom door that slams in front of him.
“Glad you guys made it home safely,” Alex says and gives me a bear hug and then a bro hug for Bob. “Should we go get the luggage?”
#
After a quick dinner of macaroni and cheese washed down with melatonin, by six p.m. we head down to the basement spare room and drop into bed. After no real sleep for the past day, little more than dozing on the plane, and then navigating the airport, customs, and the interminable drive, we crash into a deep slumber.
I wake in thick darkness and fumble for my phone—three a.m. Wide awake, I sit back against the pillows, stretch, and put my hands behind my head. Whew. When did I last bathe?
Bob stirs beside me and sniffs. “I smell onions.”
“It’s my armpits. Too early to take a shower, though. It’s only three o’clock. It’ll wake the others.”
He groans and turns over toward the opposite edge of the bed, pulling most of the covers with him. I yank them back and he harrumphs but is lightly snoring again within seconds. I could probe his mind now that he’s asleep, but the only time I tried that, it was a bizarre jumble of scenes like snatches of the action shows that he watches—fist fights, car chases, lithe young women flashing in and out, with the odd bit of bacon and eggs—so weird and fast it made me dizzy. So, instead, I lie beside him, my mind in a tug-of-war, ruminating over the problem of Bailey’s telepathy.
I feel like a traitor to my son and his family, and to Bailey, who is too young to deal with this. But maybe her youth will allow her to learn to control it quickly, and maybe, just maybe, it will fade when she isn’t in such close contact with us. Our plan was to go home today, and I yearn for my own bed, my kitchen, my studio. But should we leave Bailey so soon? My stomach churns as I seesaw back and forth about whether to leave and whether to tell Bailey’s parents. I am quite sure that if others discover our power, we will be hounded. Our lives wouldn’t be our own anymore.
Hours later, when I hear water in the pipes and floorboards creaking above me, I flip off the covers and go to the downstairs washroom to shower.
I dress while Bob is in the shower and then follow the aroma of coffee upstairs, where I find Bailey and her mother, Ashley, at one end of the huge wooden table with plates and mugs in front of them. I close my eyes and lift my nose, drawing in the rich smell of dark roast. “Ah, real coffee. Not the cute stuff with foam art, but strong and rich—like it should be.” I move toward the cupboard for a mug. “You guys are up early. And you’re both dressed already!”
It’s barely six o’clock and the sun hasn’t cleared the eastern mountaintop yet. Birds—sparrows and robins—flit past the window and land in the budding trees, singing their morning refrains. Or is that a robin? It’s got a white head. What the…a mutation?
“I couldn’t sleep.” Bailey turns to me, bright-eyed.
“She’s excited to go back to school,” Ashley says. “I haven’t seen her like this since elementary school.” She looks at me with a broad smile on her lovely face. That upturned nose—luckily Bailey inherited it. “The trip really seems to have done wonders with her attitude. I’m so grateful you and Bob took her along with you.”
She wouldn’t be so grateful if she knew the whole story. And I know why Bailey is excited. She’s looking forward to trying out her new power on her friends and teachers.
I give Bailey a serious look. “Do you really think you should go back today, Bailey? I mean, aren’t you jet-lagged?” Then, telepathically, I ask, Are you ready for this? You don’t have good control of incoming thoughts yet. You’re going to hear all sorts of things.
“No, I’m fine, I’m not tired, and I’ve got so much to tell my friends.” She bounces up from her chair. Don’t worry, Grandma. I can handle it. “I’m going to go do my hair.”
Ah, yes, she is expecting admiration. She is envisioning herself as the center of attention in a huddle of bubbling teenaged girls. Who was I to ruin her day? And wasn’t this the point of the trip—to broaden her perspective and reset her mental outlook?
I pour myself a cup of coffee, considering what to do. “I think we should stay one more day, rest up,” I say to Ashley, “if that’s okay.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind being on your own. Alex and I are working, and the kids will be in school.”
“Perfect. We can do laundry and nap.”
And we’ll be here if there’s trouble.
#
Bob and I started our day with a brisk morning walk up and down the slanted streets of the neighbourhood. Afterward, we laid out in the living room the gifts we’ve brought from Japan—kimonos, yukatas, rice bowls, black lacquer chopsticks.
By noon, we’ve just finished eating a lunch of tea and peanut butter sandwiches, and our laundry is tumbling around in the dryer downstairs.
Bob is loading our cups and plates into the dishwasher. “No news is good news, I guess.”
“Probably.” All morning, we had been on edge, waiting to hear how Bailey was coping at school. “Maybe she has more of a handle on this than we thought.”
“I hope so. I can’t wait to get home.” He shuts the door of the dishwasher and yawns. “Time for a nap. You coming?”
I nod. Jetlag, that dull, heavy weariness, is settling over me like a blanket.
But halfway down the stairs, my phone tings with a text notification. I can feel Bob’s dread as well as my own.
It’s Bailey: “Grandma! Come and get me! Please!”
I text back: “Where are you?”
“At school. Hurry!”
Bob sends his thoughts. Go. I’ll be here if you need me.
I grab my purse and jacket, jump in the Subaru, and steer down and up the steep mountain streets toward the high school, trying not to speed. It’s the same high school I attended, and then my children attended. I know how fraught with hormones and anxiety the place can be, how difficult it is for sensitive students. But none of us were telepathic teenagers, a trait that I fear will amplify the problems.
As I near the tiered building fit into the mountainside, I send a message to Bailey. I’m almost there. Where are you?
In the washroom, hiding.
I am surprised by the speed and strength of her response at this distance. Much more robust than Bob or I can manage, even though we’ve been telepathic for a couple of years now. Should I come in and find you?
There is a two-second pause. Can you park near the exit at the back door?
I think so. But I need to drive around the block. I swing the car in a U-turn and head down, over, and up a street to arrive at a stairway exit that used to be the smoke pit when I was a student here. My god, it must be fifty years ago. Some things don’t change. Okay, I’m here.
Within a minute, Bailey bursts through the metal exit doors, sprints to the car, and jumps in, slamming the door. Her hair is disheveled, her mascara running. The distress emanating from her knocks me back in my seat.
“Oh, Grandma, it was so awful. People are awful.” She squeezes her wet eyes and shakes her head. “I need to get out of here,” she croaks. “Just go, please!”
I reverse, swing the car around, and then take off down the hill. Images from the storm in Bailey’s mind flash into mine as we drive away from the school—a blonde girl pinching her black-lined eyes, a red-headed girl sneering beside her. A tall, dark-haired boy staring greedily with deep brown eyes, a disheveled boy in a dirty grey hoodie slunk in a desk at the back of a classroom, silent among the other chattering students. I shake my head, trying to clear it, while I drive down the street, wondering where I can pull over. Her thoughts and emotions are disorienting me. My heart is racing, and I can’t catch my breath.
Then I remember the park at the bottom of the hill. Bailey is sobbing quietly beside me as I steel my attention on the road. Stop signs, waiting for traffic, corners—a cat streaks in front of the car, and I swerve. Finally, we reach the park, and I pull the car to the curb. To my left, huge maple, walnut, and plane trees, adorned with budding leaves, bask in yellow sunshine, casting lacy shade lines on the bright green grass. “Let’s go for a walk,” I say and burst from the car. I suck in a deep draft of fresh air, and the images and emotions recede.
Bailey is slow to emerge from the Subaru, so I wait, letting my breathing moderate. When she comes around the car, I feel her heartbreak, see it in her face, and draw her into a hug. I rub her back and wait for her to calm down. Then, I nudge her toward the park gate under the tree boughs, and we start to walk. I ask her to tell me what happened.
“At first, it was all good,” she says. “I met up with Emma and Rain in the hallway, and they were all jumping up and down, like they were so happy to see me and asking all about Japan, but when I was telling them about Shibuya and the fashions, I started hearing their thoughts.” She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head like she is trying to get rid of what she heard. Her lips tremble.
We near a bench that looks out over the beach and lake. “Let’s sit down.” When we’ve settled on the wooden planks, I gaze out over the sparkling water and focus on my breath—in and out, in and out. Then I am ready. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk.” I open my mind to hers, and her memory of the morning unfolds within me.
Emma, the blonde girl, and Rain, the redhead, bouncing and squealing, asking about Tokyo, the fashions and hairstyles, then flashes of jealousy and ‘she thinks she’s so special now, well she wouldn’t if she knew what was going on while she was away.’ Snide snickering. The tall, dark boy entering the scene, smiling broadly at Bailey, taking her hand while her heart beats wildly, but then his thoughts crash into her mind. He is gazing at Emma, thinking of fondling her breasts, of what he did with her last weekend in his basement rec room. Bailey rushing blindly through the hallway crowded with high schoolers, random thoughts assailing her—fucking math exam; mmm…pizza with peanut butter; how can I feel that? Am I gay? Entering a clamorous roomful of students, jabbering like monkeys—all but one, Jamie, the skinny guy hunched at a desk at the back with his hood pulled over his head. Then a tsunami of thoughts. ‘Look at that hoodie, doesn’t he ever wash it? Eeew, he’s smelly. What’s the matter with him? He never talks. He needs to go to the special class.’ Snigger, snigger. And emanating from Jamie, thoughts of hunger, agitation, wanting to escape, but where to go? His mum at home still sleeping after night shift cleaning, nothing but coffee in the cupboard. And then from an apple-cheeked girl with black-lined eyes, ‘Oooh, look who finally came back, that stuck-up bitch Bailey.’ Bailey spinning around and rushing for the washroom.
I disengage from her mind and shake my head. All around us, fresh grass, unfolding dewy leaves, bird song, and sun. How do humans at this young age become such cesspools of jealousy, deceit, and spite?
“Oh, Bailey, I’m sorry you experienced that.” This is going to cause her to lose her innocence and become jaded far too early in life.
When she turns to me, her face is sad but softer, as though she has changed, become older and wiser. Is the telepathy changing her, speeding up her maturation?
My mind flashes to The Chrysalids again, that novel that I read aloud and taught for so many years, to a line that went something like “The essence of life is change; change is evolution; and we are part of it.”
That book with its telepaths has come back to haunt me in my mind-reading old age.
“Let’s get you home. Grandpa’s waiting. Together, we’ll figure out what to do.”
#
“Telepathic?” Alex’s face crinkles up in disbelief. Then he chuckles. “Okay. What’s the punchline?”
The two younger siblings are in bed, and we are gathered at the kitchen table, Alex and Ashley on one side, Bob and I on the other, and Bailey at the end. She has decided that we must tell her parents about the telepathy. She needs to homeschool until she has control over incoming thoughts, and they will want a good reason, or they won’t agree.
But what surprises me is her desire to return to school as soon as she can block the thoughts. Bob and I offered to take her home with us so she could isolate for a while, but she is determined to go back to that hothouse of hormones. There is a new steeliness within her and a drive to use her telepathic perception for good. I am anxious about this, worrying that she will be found out, but one thing I do know—her power isn’t waning, it’s surging. What metamorphosis have we prompted?
Bob rubs his hands on his jeans, his nervousness amplifying mine. “No joke,” he says solemnly.
“Oh, come on.” Ashley gives us a deep frown. “You can’t be serious.”
I message Bob and Bailey. I told you they’d think we’re crazy.
Bailey closes her eyes, and says to her parents, “Think of a number or word.” Then she shakes her head. “You’re just thinking this is stupid, what is this shit?” She pauses. “A number, any number.”
Alex huffs and Ashley shakes her head.
Bailey announces, “Mum, 37. Dad, 592.”
Her parents’ eyes widen.
I inhale and clasp my hands tightly. No going back now. “This is how it started,” I say, and Bob and I go through the whole story again while Alex and Ashley sit in stunned silence, struggling, like we once did, to make sense of the impossible.