“You’re empathetic,” Wendy said in this really flirty way, trying to distract me from what I was attempting to communicate—taking on the less relevant because the less relevant is always easier to take on. She said, “That’s good. I like that about you. Women like empathy. Maybe this is a good place for us to begin working on your other life goal—having a drink at a bar with a woman.”
She didn’t understand what I meant when I said I could feel her pain, although you did, Richard Gere. You whispered in my ear, I understand. You are seeing with your mind. You are putting together the facts. You can see him. His face. What he does to her when he gets angry. You see her trying to defend herself from his blows. Covering her face with her thin childlike arms, but he is big and strong and handsome and convincing and educated and cloaked in esteem and respectability. And you see her crying alone in a room for a long time before he comes back and she covers her head in defense, but this time he doesn’t hit her. He says he is sorry. He says he doesn’t know what came over him. And he cries even. He cries. He apologizes. He says he loves her. He says that he’s trying hard not to lose his temper. He says he was beaten when he was a child, that he learned it from his father and is trying to break the cycle. He uses the words that she uses in her work. She thinks she can save him, which you admire. She thinks she is a failed therapist before she even begins, because she cannot solve the problems of her own life—so how can she help others? You see her alone at night, staring out her bedroom window, through her ghostlike reflection, trying not to see herself—trying desperately to see herself. Trying, failing, suffering. Bartholomew, you can see with your mind, and it is a great gift. You don’t have to hide it from me. Although I understand why you hide it from the rest of the world. Why you waited this long to tell me about your gift and the problems it has caused you thus far in life. How you pretend that you don’t see with your mind. How you try to be like everyone else, but can’t. How you saw your mother’s death coming a long time ago, and that is why you don’t have to mourn now, because you mourned it while she was still alive. How you can read people when you allow your mind to work the way only your mind can work. How you know this is your time. Right now. That you were given a present long, long ago and have been waiting all these years to rip off the wrapping paper and take it from within the box.
You read her mind. Or maybe you just sense it. Either way—you know her boyfriend’s name is Adam, you whispered in my ear while Wendy was talking about how to impress a woman, saying something about listening, waving her hands around in front of her face, hiding behind her big sunglasses. You think you’re going crazy, Bartholomew. That is your worst fear. Well, test your mind. Say “Adam,” and see how she reacts. Try it. Trust me. Just say the word “Adam” to Wendy, and then she will know that you have a gift. She has never mentioned his name to you. She will know that you can clearly see what is hurting her, and then she will not have to pretend for you anymore. Just like I have done for you, by bringing up your gift, you can do for her.
I was afraid to test my mind, fearing that I was insane, fearing too that I wasn’t insane, but had this strange power.
Which would be worse?
What would I do with such a power?
What would I do if I made a fool of myself in front of Wendy?
Idiot! the man in my stomach said, and then kicked and punched. Anyone who talks to an imaginary Richard Gere is most definitely a retard! And if you blurt out “Adam,” Wendy will surely think you are a retard too! You have no special gift. You have no powers. You are just a stupid moron who lived with his mother all his life until he became fat and ugly and backward and delusional as of late and . . .
Wendy was waving her hands around more violently, talking about how every woman wants a gentle man—how gentle giants are sexy. Hiding behind her egg-shaped glasses. Pretending not to be broken and beaten and wounded and terrified. Pretending for me. Pretending for herself. And I knew that she was calling me a gentle giant.
Gentle giant is just another term for retard! the little angry man yelled.
It’s time to trust your instincts, Bartholomew. I’m going to keep saying “Adam” in your mind until you say it, you, Richard Gere, whispered.
And then that’s exactly what you did.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam.
Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam. Adam.
Adam. Adam.
Adam.
Adam. ADAM. ADAM. ADAM. ADAM. ADAM! ADAM! ADAM! ADAM!
“Adam,” I said when I couldn’t take it anymore.
Immediately, Wendy stopped speaking and her hands dropped to her sides.
It was as if giant invisible scissors had cut all of her lively dancing marionette strings.
Quick! Study her face! you said. What do you see?