“And you think it’s from your proposed overmind?”
Heather spread her arms. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? And it’s not just language that seems to be hardwired. Symbols are shared, too, across individuals and across cultures. It’s what Jung called ‘the collective unconscious.’ ”
“Surely Jung meant that as a metaphor.”
Heather nodded. “At the outset, yes. But it does seem that we do share a rich background of symbols and ideas. You know Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces? I use it in one of my courses. Mythologies are the same even across cultures that have been isolated from one another. How do you explain that? Coincidence? If not coincidence, then what?”
“The overmind again, you think. But, geez, that’s such a big leap.”
“Is it? Is it really? Occam’s razor says you should prefer the solution that has the fewest elements. Positing one thing—the overmind—solves all sorts of problems in linguistics, comparative mythology, psychology, and even parapsychology. It is a simple solution, and—”
The clock on the mantle made its quarter-hour chime.
“Oh!” said Heather. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on so long, and—Damn, look there’s no time to explain it all now. We’ve got a visitor coming.”
“Who?”
“Becky.”
Kyle visibly stiffened. “I’m not sure I want to see her.” He paused. “Damn it, why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”
Heather spread her arms. “Because I wanted to be sure you would come over. Look, it’s going to be okay and—”
The sound of the door bolt disengaging; Becky was operating the lock herself, instead of ringing the bell.
The front door swung open. Becky stood in the entryway, stark against the darkness.
Kyle, now standing by the living-room window, held his breath.
Becky came up into the living room. She was quiet for a moment. Through the open window, Kyle could hear a skimmer whizzing by and the sound of a group of boys yakking away as they walked down the sidewalk.
“Dad,” Becky said.
It was the first time in over a year that Kyle had heard that word from her. He didn’t know what to do. He stood frozen.
“Dad,” she said again. “I am so sorry.”
Kyle’s heart was pounding. “I would never hurt you,” he said.
“I know that,” said Becky. She closed some of the distance between them. “I’m so very sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Kyle didn’t trust his voice. There was still so much anger and resentment in him.
“What changed your mind?” he asked.
Becky looked at her mother, then down at the ground. “I—I realized you couldn’t possibly do anything like that.”
“You were sure enough before.” The words, harsh, were out before Kyle could stop himself.
Becky nodded slightly “I know. I know. But… but I’ve looked into what my therapist did, at the techniques she used. Never knew memories could be manufactured.” She briefly met her father’s gaze, then looked back at the carpet.
“That bitch,” said Kyle. “The trouble she’s caused.”
Becky looked at her mother again; something was passing between the two of them, but Kyle couldn’t tell what.
“Let’s not worry about her now,” said Becky. “Please. The important thing is that this is over… or at least it is if you’ll forgive me.”
She looked up at her father again, with her large brown eyes. Kyle knew that his face was impassive; he didn’t know how to react. He’d been torn apart, reviled, shunned—and now it was all supposed to be over, just like that?
Surely there should be more than just an apology. Surely the wounds would take years—decades—to heal.
And yet—
And yet, more than anything, he’d wanted this. He hadn’t prayed, of course, but if there had been one thing that he would have prayed for, it would have been for his daughter to realize her mistake.
“You’re sure now?” said Kyle. “You won’t change your mind again. I couldn’t take it if—”
“I won’t, Daddy I promise.”
Was it really over? Had the nightmare really come to an end? How many nights he’d wished the clock could be turned back—and now she was apparently offering, in essence, just that.
He thought about poor Stone, standing outside his office, meeting with female students in hallways.
Becky stood still for a while longer, then took a small step closer. Kyle hesitated a moment more, then opened his arms, and Becky stepped into them. Suddenly she collapsed against his shoulder, crying.
“I am so very sorry,” she said between sobs.
Kyle couldn’t find any words; the anger couldn’t be turned off like a switch.
He held her for a long time. He hadn’t hugged her—God, maybe not since her sixteenth birthday. His shoulder was wet; Becky’s tears had soaked through his shirt. He hesitated for a moment—damn it all, but he would probably hesitate for the rest of his life—then brought his hand up to stroke her shoulder-length black hair.
They were quiet for a long time. Finally, Becky pulled away a little bit and looked up at her father. “I love you,” she said, wiping her eyes.
Kyle didn’t know how he felt, but he said the words anyway: “I love you too, Becky.”
She shook her head a little.
Kyle hesitated for another moment, then gently lifted her chin with his finger. “What?”
“Not ‘Becky,’ ” said his daughter. She managed a red-eyed smile. “Pumpkin.”
Tears escaped from Kyle’s eyes now. He swept his daughter back up in his arms, and this time he meant every syllable: “I love you, too—Pumpkin.”
33
Becky stayed for a joyous two hours, but at last she had to leave. She lived downtown and had to be up early to open the store Wednesday morning.
When she was gone, Kyle sat back down on the couch.
Heather looked at him for a long time.
He was such a complicated man—more complicated than she’d ever known. And he was, when all was said and done, a basically good man.
But not a perfect one, of course. Indeed, Heather had been shocked and disappointed by some of what she’d discovered while plumbing his memories. He had his dark side, his shoddy parts; he could be petty and selfish and unpleasant.
No, there was no such thing as the perfect man—but then, she’d known that even before she’d left Vegreville to come to Toronto. Kyle was both deeply great and deeply flawed—peaks and valleys, more and less than she’d ever thought he was.
But, she realized, whatever he was now, she could accept it; the fit between them wasn’t ideal, and probably never would be. But she knew in her heart that it was better than it could be with anyone else. And perhaps acknowledging that was as good a definition of love as any.