“Do you think it’s hyperthymia?” The better without the bitter.
Her silence oozes dislike for the term. “I think a professional researcher should look at her.”
“She likes you,” he says.
“I like her. Anyone would.”
This woman is not Grace. Grace always thought he was attacking when he was making nice. Constance Weld thinks he’s making nice when he’s attacking.
“Why are you asking my permission?”
“Well, I’m not, really. But I am asking your feeling.”
Testing is an excuse. The psychologist just wants to spend more time around the Berber woman, like everyone else.
“You asked her already? About Northwestern?”
“I mentioned the possibility.”
“And she said that sounded like more fun than a roadside explosive.”
“You don’t have to be like this,” the counselor says.
He watches himself regress. “No? What do I have to be like?”
“All right. Let’s not talk about this right now.”
He’s pathetic. Worse than a prepubescent. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m out of line.”
“No,” the psychologist replies. “I understand entirely.”
Cold, wet leeches attach to his brain, the way they did when his first writing successes turned into nightmare. “Look,” he tries. “I don’t mean to Maybe you and I could talk about this sometime. Coffee or lunch, or something.”
He means fake lunch. Purely symbolic hostage swap. Nothing she might take him up on.
Luckily, her acceptance is as hypothetical as his offer. “Sure,” she says, her voice weird. “I think I’m Are you free Saturday?”
For want of anything more appropriate, he says, “Saturday’s good.”
“Good,” she says, meaning nothing. They make plans, plans the Kabyle might just as well have written for them. Candace Weld names a place dangerously close to Water Tower, a nice Moroccan restaurant. “That’s next to Algeria, right?”
“Streeterville, I think.”
She waits just a beat, her silence wicked. “Am I supposed to laugh at that?”
Candace ran her own experiment once, three years earlier. The packet sat for at least a day, in plain sight, in her mail slot at the counseling center. The creamy envelope with the coneflower painted on the bottom right corner must have been handled by at least two of the center’s clerical staff. The nub was small and folded into thick paper, but still it amazed Candace that the bulge had alarmed no one.
The letter was unsigned and handwritten, its fat, loopy script with balloon i-dots the graphological equivalent of that coneflower stationery. It read:
Don’t judge the ride till you tried!!!
And nestling happily in the top crease of the unfolded page was a flat, bright-yellow pill stamped, absurdly, with the universal smiley-face icon.
Weld knew at once who had mailed the pill. It came from a free-spirit painting major Weld called Frankenthaler, who had all sorts of complications, including ritual praying to the spirit of anorexia: O goddess Ana, in your depravity She had told Weld all about an amazing series of expeditions on threshold doses of so-called X: Everything just perks up, and you wonder who killed the big bad wolf.
Weld had given Frankenthaler the usual literature, with its well-researched warnings. And Frankenthaler, feeling judged, had sent her this tiny yellow sun. The pill could not be cheap, on a student budget, and for any twenty-year-old to care about the empathic education of any adult was almost touching. Weld should have turned it in immediately to the center for analysis. Instead, she slipped it into her purse until she had a chance to think.
Carrying around a Schedule I drug as she walked through the university building to the street altered her awareness all by itself. She’d read about the substance over the years, and three of her friends had described it in detail. She knew of at least one psychologist who’d used MDMA in his practice, before it was banned. Her husband, Martin, had tried it before their marriage, and he called it one of the most meaningful experiences of his life.
Now, just having the stuff in her purse gave Candace sympathetic symptoms. She felt the unbearable dearness of the faces coming downstream in the rush-hour foot torrent along Adams. She could talk to them without talking. She could see with ridiculous clarity all of the needs lining their faces. She felt the full, desperate desires of a populace 58 percent of whom needed some kind of chemical intervention just to manage. All this from a little pill sitting in the bottom of her purse.
This was in her last few months together with Marty. She thought: Just go home, put it on your tongue, talk with the man like a little child for the next four hours, rediscover the world with him as if it were freshly invented. Save your relationship. Bend a little. Put your family back together. Just try it, in the interest of science.
She stood in line at the car park, clutching her magnetic-strip card as if it were her lottery ticket out of Purgatory. Even the man in the cashier cage seemed Shakespearean. On Lake Shore Drive North, she remembered Frankenthaler’s awed description of how she’d sat in her kitchen, looking at a box of Mister Salty pretzels, feeling gratitude and wonder for everything in the solar system: I was afraid to look out of the window on the park across the way. Scared it would be more than I could take. But I looked, and I was astounded. Peace just overpowered me. I’d spent my whole life coming here, and now I was home. Everyone alive deserves to feel that way once.
For a day after her mistake Weld felt depressed, a depression as strong as the residual effect of any phenethylamine. Hers was an intense sadness at the thought that some brain-chemical look-alike could simulate for an hour any human emotional state in the spectrum. Not just simulate: duplicate. Produce for real.
In their next session together, Frankenthaler asked if Weld had gotten any recent presents in the mail. Candace said she had. An excited Frankenthaler asked, “And?”
Weld just smiled wistfully. “I flushed it down the sink, I’m afraid.”
So there’s a scene where adjunct and counselor meet for another consultation, this time over bisteeya. Weld shows up looking like another person: flannel slacks and a funky hand-knit sweater. She catches him eyeing it. “Knitting is supposed to be the best relaxation. You can see the rows where it worked and the rows where not so much.”
“You made this?” He tries to gauge how much surprise is flattering.
She nods, beaming. “I started taking knitting lessons right around the time that I began studying how to read Mayan glyphs. Now I can kind of do both!”
He’s braced for an ordeal, so he’s off balance all lunch long when talk is nothing but pleasant. She’s not without her own anxieties about handing Thassa over to the positive-psychology labs. She’s exploratory and knowledgeable and open to negotiation. She genuinely wants to know what Stone thinks.
He thinks science can turn up nothing that he didn’t already intuit, the first night of class.
She nods at his objections. She has no idea she’s attractive, and probably doesn’t care. The anti-Grace. It strikes him that she may not even like the way she looks. A wave of lust courses through him, which he rides out.
They talk about work histories, life at Mesquakie, near north neighborhoods, the industrial fear state. Over date pudding, she tells him about negativity bias. I’m not really sure if she tells him this over date pudding, of course, or even if she tells him at this lunch at all. But she tells him, at some point, early on. That much is nonfiction: no creation necessary.
She tells him to imagine he’s in a deserted parking lot and a twenty-dollar bill blows right in front of him. There’s no one in sight he can return it to.