And still she hadn’t gone public. All it would take to establish priority would be a preemptive posting to the Alien Signal newsgroup. Peer-reviewed journals would follow later, but she could, this minute, announce her discovery if she wanted to.
Plato had said that an unexamined life is not worth living.
But he was referring to self-examination.
Who could live with the knowledge that anyone and everyone might be scrutinizing their own thoughts? What would happen to privacy? To trade secrets? To criminal justice? To interpersonal relationships?
It would change everything—and Heather was not at all sure that it would be for the better.
But no—that wasn’t why she was keeping it a secret. Not some lofty concern about other people’s privacy, although she liked to think she was giving that at least some consideration; except for Kyle, she’d refrained from giving in to temptation, staying out of the minds of others she knew personally.
No, the real reason she hadn’t gone public was much simpler; she liked, at least for a time, being the only one with this power. She had something no one else had—and she didn’t quite yet want to share it.
She wasn’t proud of that fact, but there it was. Did Superman ever spend even one second trying to figure out how to give the rest of humanity superpowers? Of course not; he’d just lucked into them. Then why should her first priority be to share this?
She’d yet to find anything in psychospace that directly corresponded to Jungian archetypes. She couldn’t point to some part of the maelstrom and say that it represented the wellspring of human symbols, couldn’t point to a bank of hexagons and say that it housed the archetype of the warrior-hero. And yet simply reflecting upon what to do about her discovery was indeed giving her insights into her own mind.
First and foremost, which was she? Mother? Wife? Scientist? There were archetypes of parents, and there were archetypes of spouses—but the Western concept of the scientist didn’t have a Jungian definition.
She’d made the same decision once before. Her career could wait; science could wait. Family was more important.
And with this discovery, she could prove to Becky that her father had not molested her—just as Heather had proven it to herself. That was what mattered right now.
One way to prove it would be to show Becky the archives of Becky’s own mind. But there was still that vexing problem of how to distinguish false memories from real ones. After all, the false memories clearly seemed genuine, or Becky would have never believed them in the first place; they might feel as real as any other memories, even when viewed from within, but—
But you couldn’t Necker from them to someone else!
Of course!
Surely the Necker swapping—the moving into the mind of someone who also remembered the same scene—simply wouldn’t work if the memories were false. There would be no corresponding memories in another, no touchstone between the two minds.
Heather, if she had any lingering doubt at all about Kyle’s guilt, could violate Becky’s privacy, find the false memories, and demonstrate for herself the inability to transfer from Becky’s point of view to Kyle’s.
But—
But no. She had no doubts left.
And besides—
Besides, it had been one thing to search for memories she hoped to God weren’t there. It would be another to actually see, even if it was false, the molestation. Let Becky herself, who already had those repugnant mental images burned into her, experience the inability to do the Necker swap. For Heather, even a false representation of her husband harming their child was something she didn’t want to witness.
Still, Becky might want further proof. And she could get that, of course, by retracing Heather’s steps, by looking directly into Kyle’s mind.
Kyle would be utterly exonerated—but would things really improve between father and daughter if, although that demon were dispelled, Becky discovered that her father really had liked her older sister better, that she really was an accident that had strained their finances while both of them were still grad students, that her father had base thoughts, ignoble thoughts?
Was this really the path toward healing?
No—no, that wasn’t the answer.
And, anyway, there was a better way.
Let Becky see into the mind of her therapist, see the manipulation, the lies.
On its own, that might not absolutely eliminate Becky’s doubts. As Heather herself had mused, even if the therapist’s methods were leading and inappropriate, that didn’t necessarily prove that no abuse had occurred. But in conjunction with a demonstration that Becky’s own memories were false, shared by no one else, she should be completely convinced.
It was time—time to start healing.
Heather picked up her phone and called Becky.
The Fashion District, where Becky lived and worked, was only a few blocks west of the university, so Heather asked Becky to meet her at The Water Hole for lunch. During the days she’d spent probing Kyle’s mind, she’d learned many hitherto unknown things about her husband, not the least of which was that he had developed a fondness for this place that Heather herself had walked by a million times without ever entering.
Heather knew that Kyle was teaching right now; there was no possibility of an accidental reunion.
She’d seen the interior of The Water Hole already through Kyle’s mind—in searching for Kyle’s memories of Becky, she’d found the time Kyle had unburdened himself here to Stone Bailey.
It was startling to see the real Water Hole, though. First, of course, the colors looked different to Heather than what she’d seen in Kyle’s mind.
But there was more than that. Kyle had stored only some of the details. Much of what made up his memory had been interpretation or extrapolation. Oh yes, he’d remembered the Molson’s holoposter with the stunning blonde ski-bunny—but he’d had no recollection of the other framed posters on the walls. And he’d remembered the tablecloths as a uniform red, when in fact they were covered with tiny red-and-white checks.
It was Monday, August 14; Becky worked at the clothing store all day Saturday and Sunday this week, but got Monday and Tuesday off. Still, she was late, and when she finally did enter, she did not look happy.
“Thank you for coming,” said Heather as Becky took a seat opposite her, a small round table between them.
Becky’s face was grim. “I only agreed because you said he wouldn’t be present.” There was no doubt as to whom the pronoun referred.
Heather had hoped for some pleasantries, for some news of her daughter’s life. But apparently there was to be none of that. She nodded grimly and said, “We need to resolve this issue with your father.”
“If you’re proposing an out-of-court settlement, I want to have a lawyer present.”
Heather felt as if she’d been hit in the face. She gulped air, then at last managed to get out the words, “There will be no lawsuit.”
“I don’t want that any more than you do,” said Becky, softening a bit. She’d never been good at putting on a tough face. “But he ruined my life.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“I didn’t come here to hear you defend him. Making excuses is just as bad as—
“Shut up!” Heather shocked herself with how sharp her voice was. Becky’s eyes went wide.
“Just shut up,” said Heather again. “You’re making a fool of yourself. Shut up before you say anything else you’ll regret.”
“I don’t have to take this,” said Becky. She began to rise.
“Sit down,” snapped Heather. The few other patrons were now looking at them. Heather locked eyes with the one nearest them, staring him down. He went back to his soup.