Resonance by Nelou Keramati
“Oh so what—you just woke up one morning and just happened to be in New York!?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what happened!”
Romer stares, at a complete loss for words. There seems to be just enough conviction in Dylan’s eyes to make him second-guess himself.
“When I opened my eyes,” Dylan continues, “I was hooked up to a bunch of machines in what I thought was a hospital in Vancouver. I didn’t even know I was in New York till I overheard two of the nurses talking.”
“You actually expect me to buy this bullshit?”
“I swear to God, Ro, I racked my brain for months, trying to remember how I got there, flight, packing, anything! But it was like all my memories had been erased since I—” he swallows, and then just stares at Romer with pleading eyes.
And all of a sudden it feels like life itself has been drained of Romer. “You had three years,” he says in a firm, but broken voice. “Three whole years, and this is the best you came up with?”
Dylan stares at him, utterly baffled. “Do you think if I had three whole years to think of a bullshit story, this is the best I could come up with?” a faint frown darkens his expression. “Do you really think I came over today to make excuses?”
“It sure as fuck looks like it, given that’s all you’ve done since you got here.”
Dylan’s shoulders slacken, his chest deflating. He looks like someone who’s playing his final hand. “It was either military school, or a psych ward.”
“Bullshit. BULLSHIT! Your dad has enough pull to do whatever the fuck he wants!”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Alex thought I needed round-the-clock care, but dad wouldn’t have it. Come on you know what he’s like!”
“And you just went along with all of it.”
“I told you, I don’t remember anything before I woke up in the infirmary. The drugs must’ve—”
“I DON’T CARE! YOU LEFT! And you didn’t even bother to look back!”
“Christ—you make it sound like I was at a resort! Romer, when I woke up, my phone and wallet were gone. I had no way of reaching you. I had no way of reaching anyone! My hands were tied—”
“Your hands were tied,” Romer starts laughing.
Dylan shuts his eyes and lowers his face into his hand. He presses down on his eyes with the length of his thumb and index finger. “The second I found out what happened to you—”
“What happened to me?” Romer interjects. “Don’t you mean what I did?”
Dylan looks up, utterly gutted by what Romer just said. “Ro... it was an accident.”
“Right. Well, that makes it okay then.”
Silence.
Romer shakes his head. “You think you wanted to die?” he starts to well up. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with this—with what I have to live with for the rest of my fucking life.”
“I—”
“And do you know what the worst part of it was? Waiting for you to show. For you to tell me I’m not a monster for what I did. That I can survive this,” he tilts his head back to keep his tears from falling.
Dylan holds his stare, not uttering a sound.
“And I needed that. I needed something to hang onto so I wouldn’t drive myself insane.” His breaths become rapid and shallow. “I counted every minute of every day, thinking any second they’ll call out my name. That I was just a short walk in shackles away from hearing your voice through a fucking bullet-proof window.”
“I called—” Dylan’s voice breaks. “Romer, I called the prison a million times, but they wouldn’t patch me through. So I flew back the first chance I got. I flew back four times, Ro, and every time they refused to let me see you. Telling me you’re in solitary and don’t get visitations. Or some other bullshit about you being dangerous… or unstable.”
Romer’s hardened shell cracks. He was in and out of the SHU over the years. But what are the odds of every one of those instances coinciding with Dylan’s visits?
“Dad swore to me he’d get you the best lawyer money can buy. They tried every avenue they could think of. But in the end, the best they could do was getting your sentence reduced.”
“I was there,” Romer says, remembering the cold, condemning stares of the jury piercing through him. Judging every inch of him as if he’s a worthless piece of trash. A rabid dog that ought to be put down.
Twelve years.
Twelve years is what would have been the length of his sentence without Dylan’s dad’s help.
Would that have been fair? A year of confinement for each year Mason Bradley spent on this earth?
No.
Fair would have been getting locked up for all the years that kid had coming to him. Fair would’ve been the length of the future that was robbed of him.
“Ro, I’m sorry if my efforts didn’t reach you, but I swear to God, I really did try.”
Romer says nothing. There’s nothing left to say.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t. But you need to know that even if I’ve changed in your eyes, you haven’t changed in mine.”
Hard truth.
“Because of you,” Romer swallows the painful pill in his throat, “I’ve changed in everyone’s eyes.”
“Ro—”
“Get the hell out of my shop.”
Chapter 15
Prelude
Neve stands before an enormous map of an ancient city. Black and white, beautifully meticulous, and rendered by the skilled hands of someone long gone.
It’s like looking at history itself.
Although she doesn’t recognize the city the map belongs to, there is something strikingly familiar about it. The oddly-angled streets and pathways, the wide, snaky river…
It feels like she’s been there before.
Beneath the map, the amber light of an antique banker’s lamp has set the surface of a large desk ablaze. And basking in its warmth is a leather-bound book.
Neve approaches the desk, cutting through the thick smell of opium. She reaches into the sweltering light, her hand casting a shadow over the book. She gently strokes the velvety texture where the title would be, and then succumbs to her curiosity and opens the book to a random page.
At the bottom of the left page, the number ‘6’ is stamped, which Neve finds odd given how far into the book she is.
She skims over the content, but can’t seem to understand any of it. Though the letters are familiar, it’s almost like she’s trying to make sense of a dead language, like Latin.
She leans in to inspect the text more closely.
The ink bleeding around some of the more complex letters makes her realize the book was typed using a classic type-writer.
She flips to much further in the book and is surprised yet again to find the page number boasting a single digit ‘6’.
But this page is filled with elegant sketches vaguely resembling dry branches. And framing the page are dozens of formulas and cursive annotations which Neve once again can’t seem to decipher.
The book suddenly begins to flip without being prompted, landing abruptly on the very last page.
At the sight of the third ‘6’, a dark shadow crawls onto the desk. Neve’s eyes seek the body it belongs to, and—
Neve jolts awake with a gaping mouth, her wide gaze flung onto her white ceiling.
Him again, her heart pounds. Not him again.
Stiff as petrified wood, she scans her apartment, terrified that she may in fact not be alone. Neither sitting, nor reclined, she waits for her mind to adjust to reality. For her nerves to calm. But the longer she waits, the more anxious she feels.
This is now the third time she has dreamt about him. Their fourth overall encounter in under a week, all of which trailed after Elliot’s suicide.
Neve grabs her covers and yanks them away. She inhales a deep breath, and then sits up and pulls her pillow against the headrest. And then she just stares into space, wondering who this mysterious stranger is, and why he has begun to plague
her dreams.
Has the trauma of Elliot’s suicide made her mind conjure some Grim Reaper as a coping mechanism?
No, that’s ridiculous. She would have to be insane to do something so extreme. She might be confused, lost, and undeniably scared… but she is not insane.
She grabs her sketchbook off the nightstand, pulls her pencil from the coil binding, flips to the next blank page, and starts to draw him.
His features are so deeply engraved in her mind that it’s almost like tracing an invisible portrait. She cascades her pencil downwards, capturing the waves draping onto his broad shoulders. She shades in his blade-like brows resting low above his wild eyes. And with diagonal strokes, she adds depth to the curves and contours of his chiseled face.
Even in Neve’s artistic rendition, his essence feels venomous.
Neve holds up her rough sketch and stares at it, then shuts her sketchbook and drops it by the foot of her bed. She pulls up her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, feeling like her depiction of him has somehow validated his existence. Made him real.
Her recurrent nightmares, the incident at Galen’s office, Elliot’s death…
Something is going on, Neve thinks to herself, her eyes staring blankly ahead. The dots are in place. She just needs to connect them.
Even if it involves taking Galen up on his offer.
σ
Galen’s home is something else. From the moment he welcomed Neve in, she has been utterly captivated by every inch of it. By the exposed brick walls, aged to perfection. By the eighteen-foot windows flooding the living space with diffuse light. By the softly-aged leather furniture, and by virtually every color and texture her senses come to encounter.
His loft is lavish. But unlike his pretentious office, everything in his home is imbued with authenticity.
She’d stay here forever if she could. She’d happily sleep right here, on his incredibly comfortable couch if he’d let her. It would be like sleeping on a giant marshmallow.
Directly across, there’s a colossal library mounted to the wall. Thousands of weathered books shy away from her, exposing their spines. And directly behind her, narrow bookshelves span from floor to ceiling, wedged between the slender windows, silhouetted. The entire wall looks like black and white stripes. A contrast of light and enlightenment.
Rich, and resonant.
A high-pitched hiss draws her focus towards the kitchen in the back, blending with the clattering of spoons. The rich aroma of espresso is filling the loft, making Neve feel right at home.
“And how do you like your coffee, my dear?” his voice travels from the depths of the kitchen.
Heavy cream, two tablespoons of honey, and zero calories. “Black is fine, thank you!”
Smiling in his direction, Neve notices an exquisite spiral staircase leading up to the mezzanine. To what she assumes to be his bedroom.
What a lovely view it must have from up there.
She’s glad she came. It would’ve been a shame to miss this opportunity. To miss becoming acquainted with Galen’s far more appealing private persona. The side of him Neve doubts he shares with just anyone.
“Here we are,” Galen emerges with a wooden tray topped with a pair of semi-circle mugs, a cute little creamer, and a small sugar bowl, all porcelain white. There’s also a matching vase hosting a single pastel-pink peony.
The man knows how to impress.
“Smells wonderful,” Neve says.
“So—” Galen bends slightly at the waist to extend the tray. “How have you been doing?”
Neve takes the mug closer to her.
“It’s been a hectic couple of days,” she admits, and then sinks into deep thought. How is she going to bring up the cemetery? Or her recurring nightmares?
“You might want to give it a minute,” Galen nods at Neve’s mug. “It’s probably scalding hot.”
“Right. Thanks,” Neve smiles and lowers her mug as Galen rests the tray down on the coffee table and takes a seat across from her.
The chair he sinks into is almost identical to the one from his office, except for being maroon, leather, and easily over fifty years old. The wooden armrests have lost their varnish along the edges, and the well-worn hide has minor rips near the stitching.
It must be his favorite chair.
Neve watches as he carefully empties the creamer into his coffee, making the lightening blend rise by about an inch. He then proceeds to put spoonfuls of brown sugar into the brew. Six and a half teaspoons, to be exact.
It’s so endearing, Neve can’t suppress her smirk. It’s like watching a child playing a grownup.
“If I were to be quite honest, my intent for having you over today was rather, self-serving,” Galen takes a sip from his drink and sinks back into his chair.
Neve finds his frankness surprising. Was meeting him at his home the dumbest thing she’s ever done?
“How so?” she asks as casually as she can manage, desperately hoping Galen isn’t about to allude to any ‘favors’.
“I’m not sure if Dylan has already briefed you on my background?”
Background? “That you’re his godfather?”
Galen smiles. “That too, but I was referring more to my academic background.”
“Well, he did mention your interest in philosophy. He said it’s what gives you an unconventional edge.”
Galen nods appreciably and places his mug on the side-table.
“Philosophy is indeed my one true passion. I used to absolutely love teaching it, even if it was only one class per week.”
“You don’t teach anymore?”
“It’s been years, I’m afraid. It’s nearly impossible to make a living out of questioning the validity of… well, everything!” he laughs.
“Yes,” Neve smiles. “I can imagine.”
“And how about yourself? What are you currently pursuing?”
A dark cloud casts its shadow over her. “Cognitive Neuroscience,” she admits with zero enthusiam.
“A rather ambitious subject,” Galen says, suddenly seeming far less relaxed. “Are you enjoying it?”
Oh great. Let’s talk more about it.
“Honestly, it wasn’t what I expected,” she says.
“How so?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fascinating. But it all just became so dry. And quantitative. It just didn’t feel like I was learning about a person anymore.”
He nods.
“I don’t know,” Neve shrugs it off. “I guess it just didn’t resonate with me.”
Galen stares. “Why did you use that word?”
“Um—” Neve retraces her steps, “resonate?”
“That’s right.”
An awkward smile creeps onto her lips. “I don’t really know. It just came to me, I guess?”
All of a sudden it feels like she needs to pore over every single word before it comes out of her mouth.
Guess this is a therapy session, after all.
“What attracted you to Cognitive Neuroscience in the first place?”
“Well, I’ve always been curious about the human mind. I figured it made more sense than Chemistry if my ultimate goal was medical school.”
“And what intrigues you the most when it comes to the workings of the mind?”
“I’m sorry—” Neve interjects before they stray too far off topic. “I really don’t mean to be rude, but I was under the impression that we were going to continue yesterday’s session.”
Galen smiles courteously, but it’s obvious he isn’t too pleased. “Your dreams,” he acknowledges.
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. Let’s dive right back in.”
She should not have interrupted him. If she’d just let things take their course, maybe his ‘self-serving’ intentions would’ve naturally been brought to light.
But now that she has changed the topic, she might as well stay the course.
“I need to understand how it can be possible to dream about so
mething before it happens,” she cuts right to the chase. “Is there any scientific explanation that can account for something like that?”
“My approach to deciphering life’s mysteries has always been from a philosophical perspective. And philosophy—as I’m sure you can imagine—is highly contested.”
“I would love to hear your take,” she says.
Galen sinks into thought, but not quite in the way someone would if they were pondering a question. He seems torn. Like someone who’s faced with a big dilemma.
He clears his throat and leans forward in his seat, locking eyes with her.
His gaze is soul-deep.
His focus is unwavering.
It makes Neve wonderfully nervous, the way she would feel if she was about to open a treasure chest.
“What was it like when you broke the couch in my office?” Galen asks.
Well that wasn’t random.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’d like you to explain as precisely as possible the thoughts, sensations, and emotions you experienced right before it broke under you.”
“What does that have to do with my dreams?”
“It may not,” Galen allows. “But I’d appreciate you explaining it to me anyway.”
“I… honestly don’t even know where to begin.”
“Whatever comes to mind is often the best place to start,” he smiles.
What it was like… Neve clings onto the first thing that pops into her head. “I start to feel numb, like when my leg falls asleep.”
“I remember you saying it happens all the time?”
“Not all the time. Not when things are good. But if I’m under a lot of stress, or scared, or nervous… It usually happens when I’m having a panic attack.”
“And what about on a cognitive level?” he asks.
And Neve realizes she’s never bothered to assess her mental state during one of her episodes. She was always preoccupied with steadying her breathing, or holding back from breaking down in public.
“At first,” she starts, “the thoughts in my head are jumbled.”
“Jumbled how?”
“I get flooded with all these random thoughts that make absolutely no sense. It’s hard to explain, but it’s almost like there are ten of me in my head, and each of them is saying something without letting the others finish. And it’s not a coherent conversation either. They all talk over one another about totally unrelated topics.”
“Yes! That’s exactly what happened!”
Romer stares, at a complete loss for words. There seems to be just enough conviction in Dylan’s eyes to make him second-guess himself.
“When I opened my eyes,” Dylan continues, “I was hooked up to a bunch of machines in what I thought was a hospital in Vancouver. I didn’t even know I was in New York till I overheard two of the nurses talking.”
“You actually expect me to buy this bullshit?”
“I swear to God, Ro, I racked my brain for months, trying to remember how I got there, flight, packing, anything! But it was like all my memories had been erased since I—” he swallows, and then just stares at Romer with pleading eyes.
And all of a sudden it feels like life itself has been drained of Romer. “You had three years,” he says in a firm, but broken voice. “Three whole years, and this is the best you came up with?”
Dylan stares at him, utterly baffled. “Do you think if I had three whole years to think of a bullshit story, this is the best I could come up with?” a faint frown darkens his expression. “Do you really think I came over today to make excuses?”
“It sure as fuck looks like it, given that’s all you’ve done since you got here.”
Dylan’s shoulders slacken, his chest deflating. He looks like someone who’s playing his final hand. “It was either military school, or a psych ward.”
“Bullshit. BULLSHIT! Your dad has enough pull to do whatever the fuck he wants!”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Alex thought I needed round-the-clock care, but dad wouldn’t have it. Come on you know what he’s like!”
“And you just went along with all of it.”
“I told you, I don’t remember anything before I woke up in the infirmary. The drugs must’ve—”
“I DON’T CARE! YOU LEFT! And you didn’t even bother to look back!”
“Christ—you make it sound like I was at a resort! Romer, when I woke up, my phone and wallet were gone. I had no way of reaching you. I had no way of reaching anyone! My hands were tied—”
“Your hands were tied,” Romer starts laughing.
Dylan shuts his eyes and lowers his face into his hand. He presses down on his eyes with the length of his thumb and index finger. “The second I found out what happened to you—”
“What happened to me?” Romer interjects. “Don’t you mean what I did?”
Dylan looks up, utterly gutted by what Romer just said. “Ro... it was an accident.”
“Right. Well, that makes it okay then.”
Silence.
Romer shakes his head. “You think you wanted to die?” he starts to well up. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with this—with what I have to live with for the rest of my fucking life.”
“I—”
“And do you know what the worst part of it was? Waiting for you to show. For you to tell me I’m not a monster for what I did. That I can survive this,” he tilts his head back to keep his tears from falling.
Dylan holds his stare, not uttering a sound.
“And I needed that. I needed something to hang onto so I wouldn’t drive myself insane.” His breaths become rapid and shallow. “I counted every minute of every day, thinking any second they’ll call out my name. That I was just a short walk in shackles away from hearing your voice through a fucking bullet-proof window.”
“I called—” Dylan’s voice breaks. “Romer, I called the prison a million times, but they wouldn’t patch me through. So I flew back the first chance I got. I flew back four times, Ro, and every time they refused to let me see you. Telling me you’re in solitary and don’t get visitations. Or some other bullshit about you being dangerous… or unstable.”
Romer’s hardened shell cracks. He was in and out of the SHU over the years. But what are the odds of every one of those instances coinciding with Dylan’s visits?
“Dad swore to me he’d get you the best lawyer money can buy. They tried every avenue they could think of. But in the end, the best they could do was getting your sentence reduced.”
“I was there,” Romer says, remembering the cold, condemning stares of the jury piercing through him. Judging every inch of him as if he’s a worthless piece of trash. A rabid dog that ought to be put down.
Twelve years.
Twelve years is what would have been the length of his sentence without Dylan’s dad’s help.
Would that have been fair? A year of confinement for each year Mason Bradley spent on this earth?
No.
Fair would have been getting locked up for all the years that kid had coming to him. Fair would’ve been the length of the future that was robbed of him.
“Ro, I’m sorry if my efforts didn’t reach you, but I swear to God, I really did try.”
Romer says nothing. There’s nothing left to say.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t. But you need to know that even if I’ve changed in your eyes, you haven’t changed in mine.”
Hard truth.
“Because of you,” Romer swallows the painful pill in his throat, “I’ve changed in everyone’s eyes.”
“Ro—”
“Get the hell out of my shop.”
Chapter 15
Prelude
Neve stands before an enormous map of an ancient city. Black and white, beautifully meticulous, and rendered by the skilled hands of someone long gone.
It’s like looking at history itself.
Although she doesn’t recognize the city the map belongs to, there is something strikingly familiar about it. The oddly-angled streets and pathways, the wide, snaky river…
It feels like she’s been there before.
Beneath the map, the amber light of an antique banker’s lamp has set the surface of a large desk ablaze. And basking in its warmth is a leather-bound book.
Neve approaches the desk, cutting through the thick smell of opium. She reaches into the sweltering light, her hand casting a shadow over the book. She gently strokes the velvety texture where the title would be, and then succumbs to her curiosity and opens the book to a random page.
At the bottom of the left page, the number ‘6’ is stamped, which Neve finds odd given how far into the book she is.
She skims over the content, but can’t seem to understand any of it. Though the letters are familiar, it’s almost like she’s trying to make sense of a dead language, like Latin.
She leans in to inspect the text more closely.
The ink bleeding around some of the more complex letters makes her realize the book was typed using a classic type-writer.
She flips to much further in the book and is surprised yet again to find the page number boasting a single digit ‘6’.
But this page is filled with elegant sketches vaguely resembling dry branches. And framing the page are dozens of formulas and cursive annotations which Neve once again can’t seem to decipher.
The book suddenly begins to flip without being prompted, landing abruptly on the very last page.
At the sight of the third ‘6’, a dark shadow crawls onto the desk. Neve’s eyes seek the body it belongs to, and—
Neve jolts awake with a gaping mouth, her wide gaze flung onto her white ceiling.
Him again, her heart pounds. Not him again.
Stiff as petrified wood, she scans her apartment, terrified that she may in fact not be alone. Neither sitting, nor reclined, she waits for her mind to adjust to reality. For her nerves to calm. But the longer she waits, the more anxious she feels.
This is now the third time she has dreamt about him. Their fourth overall encounter in under a week, all of which trailed after Elliot’s suicide.
Neve grabs her covers and yanks them away. She inhales a deep breath, and then sits up and pulls her pillow against the headrest. And then she just stares into space, wondering who this mysterious stranger is, and why he has begun to plague
Has the trauma of Elliot’s suicide made her mind conjure some Grim Reaper as a coping mechanism?
No, that’s ridiculous. She would have to be insane to do something so extreme. She might be confused, lost, and undeniably scared… but she is not insane.
She grabs her sketchbook off the nightstand, pulls her pencil from the coil binding, flips to the next blank page, and starts to draw him.
His features are so deeply engraved in her mind that it’s almost like tracing an invisible portrait. She cascades her pencil downwards, capturing the waves draping onto his broad shoulders. She shades in his blade-like brows resting low above his wild eyes. And with diagonal strokes, she adds depth to the curves and contours of his chiseled face.
Even in Neve’s artistic rendition, his essence feels venomous.
Neve holds up her rough sketch and stares at it, then shuts her sketchbook and drops it by the foot of her bed. She pulls up her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, feeling like her depiction of him has somehow validated his existence. Made him real.
Her recurrent nightmares, the incident at Galen’s office, Elliot’s death…
Something is going on, Neve thinks to herself, her eyes staring blankly ahead. The dots are in place. She just needs to connect them.
Even if it involves taking Galen up on his offer.
σ
Galen’s home is something else. From the moment he welcomed Neve in, she has been utterly captivated by every inch of it. By the exposed brick walls, aged to perfection. By the eighteen-foot windows flooding the living space with diffuse light. By the softly-aged leather furniture, and by virtually every color and texture her senses come to encounter.
His loft is lavish. But unlike his pretentious office, everything in his home is imbued with authenticity.
She’d stay here forever if she could. She’d happily sleep right here, on his incredibly comfortable couch if he’d let her. It would be like sleeping on a giant marshmallow.
Directly across, there’s a colossal library mounted to the wall. Thousands of weathered books shy away from her, exposing their spines. And directly behind her, narrow bookshelves span from floor to ceiling, wedged between the slender windows, silhouetted. The entire wall looks like black and white stripes. A contrast of light and enlightenment.
Rich, and resonant.
A high-pitched hiss draws her focus towards the kitchen in the back, blending with the clattering of spoons. The rich aroma of espresso is filling the loft, making Neve feel right at home.
“And how do you like your coffee, my dear?” his voice travels from the depths of the kitchen.
Heavy cream, two tablespoons of honey, and zero calories. “Black is fine, thank you!”
Smiling in his direction, Neve notices an exquisite spiral staircase leading up to the mezzanine. To what she assumes to be his bedroom.
What a lovely view it must have from up there.
She’s glad she came. It would’ve been a shame to miss this opportunity. To miss becoming acquainted with Galen’s far more appealing private persona. The side of him Neve doubts he shares with just anyone.
“Here we are,” Galen emerges with a wooden tray topped with a pair of semi-circle mugs, a cute little creamer, and a small sugar bowl, all porcelain white. There’s also a matching vase hosting a single pastel-pink peony.
The man knows how to impress.
“Smells wonderful,” Neve says.
“So—” Galen bends slightly at the waist to extend the tray. “How have you been doing?”
Neve takes the mug closer to her.
“It’s been a hectic couple of days,” she admits, and then sinks into deep thought. How is she going to bring up the cemetery? Or her recurring nightmares?
“You might want to give it a minute,” Galen nods at Neve’s mug. “It’s probably scalding hot.”
“Right. Thanks,” Neve smiles and lowers her mug as Galen rests the tray down on the coffee table and takes a seat across from her.
The chair he sinks into is almost identical to the one from his office, except for being maroon, leather, and easily over fifty years old. The wooden armrests have lost their varnish along the edges, and the well-worn hide has minor rips near the stitching.
It must be his favorite chair.
Neve watches as he carefully empties the creamer into his coffee, making the lightening blend rise by about an inch. He then proceeds to put spoonfuls of brown sugar into the brew. Six and a half teaspoons, to be exact.
It’s so endearing, Neve can’t suppress her smirk. It’s like watching a child playing a grownup.
“If I were to be quite honest, my intent for having you over today was rather, self-serving,” Galen takes a sip from his drink and sinks back into his chair.
Neve finds his frankness surprising. Was meeting him at his home the dumbest thing she’s ever done?
“How so?” she asks as casually as she can manage, desperately hoping Galen isn’t about to allude to any ‘favors’.
“I’m not sure if Dylan has already briefed you on my background?”
Background? “That you’re his godfather?”
Galen smiles. “That too, but I was referring more to my academic background.”
“Well, he did mention your interest in philosophy. He said it’s what gives you an unconventional edge.”
Galen nods appreciably and places his mug on the side-table.
“Philosophy is indeed my one true passion. I used to absolutely love teaching it, even if it was only one class per week.”
“You don’t teach anymore?”
“It’s been years, I’m afraid. It’s nearly impossible to make a living out of questioning the validity of… well, everything!” he laughs.
“Yes,” Neve smiles. “I can imagine.”
“And how about yourself? What are you currently pursuing?”
A dark cloud casts its shadow over her. “Cognitive Neuroscience,” she admits with zero enthusiam.
“A rather ambitious subject,” Galen says, suddenly seeming far less relaxed. “Are you enjoying it?”
Oh great. Let’s talk more about it.
“Honestly, it wasn’t what I expected,” she says.
“How so?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fascinating. But it all just became so dry. And quantitative. It just didn’t feel like I was learning about a person anymore.”
He nods.
“I don’t know,” Neve shrugs it off. “I guess it just didn’t resonate with me.”
Galen stares. “Why did you use that word?”
“Um—” Neve retraces her steps, “resonate?”
“That’s right.”
An awkward smile creeps onto her lips. “I don’t really know. It just came to me, I guess?”
All of a sudden it feels like she needs to pore over every single word before it comes out of her mouth.
Guess this is a therapy session, after all.
“What attracted you to Cognitive Neuroscience in the first place?”
“Well, I’ve always been curious about the human mind. I figured it made more sense than Chemistry if my ultimate goal was medical school.”
“And what intrigues you the most when it comes to the workings of the mind?”
“I’m sorry—” Neve interjects before they stray too far off topic. “I really don’t mean to be rude, but I was under the impression that we were going to continue yesterday’s session.”
Galen smiles courteously, but it’s obvious he isn’t too pleased. “Your dreams,” he acknowledges.
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. Let’s dive right back in.”
She should not have interrupted him. If she’d just let things take their course, maybe his ‘self-serving’ intentions would’ve naturally been brought to light.
But now that she has changed the topic, she might as well stay the course.
“I need to understand how it can be possible to dream about so
“My approach to deciphering life’s mysteries has always been from a philosophical perspective. And philosophy—as I’m sure you can imagine—is highly contested.”
“I would love to hear your take,” she says.
Galen sinks into thought, but not quite in the way someone would if they were pondering a question. He seems torn. Like someone who’s faced with a big dilemma.
He clears his throat and leans forward in his seat, locking eyes with her.
His gaze is soul-deep.
His focus is unwavering.
It makes Neve wonderfully nervous, the way she would feel if she was about to open a treasure chest.
“What was it like when you broke the couch in my office?” Galen asks.
Well that wasn’t random.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’d like you to explain as precisely as possible the thoughts, sensations, and emotions you experienced right before it broke under you.”
“What does that have to do with my dreams?”
“It may not,” Galen allows. “But I’d appreciate you explaining it to me anyway.”
“I… honestly don’t even know where to begin.”
“Whatever comes to mind is often the best place to start,” he smiles.
What it was like… Neve clings onto the first thing that pops into her head. “I start to feel numb, like when my leg falls asleep.”
“I remember you saying it happens all the time?”
“Not all the time. Not when things are good. But if I’m under a lot of stress, or scared, or nervous… It usually happens when I’m having a panic attack.”
“And what about on a cognitive level?” he asks.
And Neve realizes she’s never bothered to assess her mental state during one of her episodes. She was always preoccupied with steadying her breathing, or holding back from breaking down in public.
“At first,” she starts, “the thoughts in my head are jumbled.”
“Jumbled how?”
“I get flooded with all these random thoughts that make absolutely no sense. It’s hard to explain, but it’s almost like there are ten of me in my head, and each of them is saying something without letting the others finish. And it’s not a coherent conversation either. They all talk over one another about totally unrelated topics.”