Heather crossed the room and stood over him. He looked up at her with brown puppy-dog eye’s, like Becky’s.
She reached out a hand. He took it. And she led him across the room, to the stairs, and up to the bedroom.
It had been a year since they’d last made love.
But it was worth waiting for.
She didn’t tense at all.
When they were done, when they lay holding each other, Heather spoke the only words to pass between them that night after Becky’s departure. “Welcome home.”
They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The next morning: Wednesday, August 16.
As she reached the bottom of the staircase, Heather looked over at Kyle. He seemed to be staring into space, his gaze resting on a blank spot on the wall between a Robert Bateman painting of bighorn sheep and an Ansel Adams photoprint of the Arizona desert.
Heather moved into the room. On an adjacent wall was their wedding photo, now almost a quarter-century old. She could see the toll all of this had taken on her husband. Until recently his hair had been much the same dark brown it had been on the day they’d married, with only tiny incursions of gray and his high forehead had been relatively line-free. But now—now there were permanent creases in his brow, and his rusty beard and dark hair were streaked through with silver.
He seemed physically diminished, too. Oh, doubtless he was still a hundred and seventy-seven centimeters, but he sat on the couch hunched over, collapsed in on himself. And there was the paunch—he’d fought so hard to lose it after his heart attack. True, it wasn’t back to its former proportions, but Heather could clearly see that he’d let himself go. She’d hoped that now that Kyle had made his peace with Becky, that he’d snap out of his malaise, but despite the joys of last night, it seemed that he hadn’t.
Heather continued into the room. Kyle looked briefly up at her; his face was angry.
“We’ve got to stop her,” he said.
“Who?”
“The therapist.”
“Gurdjieff,” said Heather.
“Yes. We’ve got to stop her.” Kyle looked at Heather. “She could do the same thing to somebody else—ruin another family.”
Heather sat down next to him on the couch. “What do you suggest?”
“Get her disbarred—or whatever the psychiatric equivalent is.”
“Get her license revoked, you mean. But she’s not a psychiatrist, or a psychologist. She didn’t even call herself a therapist anywhere that I could see when I visited her; that was Becky’s word. She called herself a ‘counselor,’ and, well, you don’t have to be licensed to be a counselor in Ontario.”
“Then we should sue her. Sue her for malpractice. We’ve got to make sure she never attempts to treat anyone again.”
Heather didn’t know what to say. She’d been trying to come to grips with the ramifications of her discovery; surely once she went public, once the whole human race had access to psychospace, surely there would be no way a fraud like Gurdjieff could continue to have any influence—surely the problem would take care of itself.
“I understand what you’re saying,” said Heather, “but really, can’t we let it be over?”
“It’s not over,” said Kyle.
Heather made her tone soft. “But Becky has for—”
She stopped herself. She’d almost said “has forgiven you,” as if there were anything to forgive. Maybe Kyle was right—maybe the stigma never does go away. Of all people, Heather should be convinced beyond any doubt of Kyle’s innocence, and yet, without thinking, for the briefest moment, her unconscious had started a sentence that suggested something had happened.
Kyle let air out.
“I mean, she understands now that nothing happened,” said Heather, trying to extract the verbal knife. “She knows you never hurt her.”
Kyle was silent for a long time. Heather watched his rounded shoulders rise and fall with each breath he took.
“It’s not Becky,” said Kyle at last.
Heather felt her heart sink. She’d done more than he could possibly know to help him—but perhaps in the end it had not been enough. She knew that many marriages crumbled after a crisis was over.
She opened her mouth to say, “I’m sorry” but Kyle spoke before her words were free. “It’s not Becky,” he said again. “It’s Mary.”
Heather felt her eyes go wide. “Mary?” she repeated. She so rarely spoke the name aloud, it sounded almost foreign to her. “What about her?”
“She thinks I hurt her.” Present tense; the inability to accept what had happened.
Heather fell back on what she’d originally intended to say. “I’m sorry.”
“She’ll never know the truth,” said Kyle.
To her surprise, Heather found herself waxing religious. “She knows,” she said.
Kyle grunted and dropped his gaze to the hardwood floor. They were both silent for half a minute. “I know I didn’t do anything,” said Kyle, “but…” He trailed off. Heather looked at him expectantly. “But,” he continued, “she thinks I did. She went to her grave”—he paused, either choking on the word, or just reflecting for a moment on its relation to his own last name—“thinking her father was a monster.” He lifted his head, looked at Heather. His eyes were moist.
Heather leaned back into the couch, her mind racing. It was supposed to be over, dammit. It was all supposed to be over now.
She looked up at the ceiling. The walls were beige, but the ceiling was pure white plaster with a roughened texture. Little points, projecting through.
“There may be a way,” she said at last, closing her eyes.
Kyle was quiet for a moment. “What?” he said, as if he hadn’t heard clearly.
Heather breathed out. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “There may be a way,” she said. “A way for you to—well, not talk to Mary of course. But still, perhaps a way for you to make your peace with her.” She paused. “And a way for you to understand why we don’t have to do anything about Gurdjieff.”
Kyle narrowed his eyes, baffled. “What?” he said again.
Heather looked away trying to think of how to explain it all.
“I was going to tell you soon,” she said, needing to build her defense from the outset. “Really, I was.”
But that wasn’t true—or at least, it wasn’t certain. She’d been wrestling with it for days now, unsure of how—or if—to proceed. Yes, she’d told Becky, but she’d also sworn Becky to secrecy. She wasn’t proud of the way she’d been acting; yes, there was great science at stake; yes, there were fundamental truths to be shared. But, well, it was so much—how was one supposed to react? How did one deal with a discovery of this magnitude?
Heather turned back to face Kyle. He was still looking at her quizzically.
“I figured out what the alien messages are all about,” she said softly.
His eyes widened.
Heather raised a hand. “Not everything, you understand—but enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To build the machine.”
“What machine?”
She opened her mouth slightly, then exhaled, feeling her cheeks puff out as she did so. “A machine to access… the overmind.”
Kyle tilted his head, stunned.
“The aliens—that was what they were trying to tell us. Individuality is an illusion; we’re all part of a greater whole.”
“Theoretically,” said Kyle tentatively.
“No. No. In reality. It’s true—all the theories we talked about yesterday are true. I know—know it for a fact. The messages, they were a kind of blueprint for a four-dimensional device that…”