beating their six-year-old brutally, and she had stopped them.
For once, she had accomplished something good with her ability. Foolish pride had made
her tell Kenneth. Kenneth had decided that her interference had been wrong.
She could not tolerate large groups of people, and she could not tolerate child abuse.
Kenneth called the first immature and the second none of her business. Everything she
did either angered or humiliated him. Everything. Yet she stayed with him. Without him
she would be totally alone.
She was an active. She had power. And all her power did, most of the time, was cut
her off from other people, make it impossible for her ever to be one of them. Her power
was more like a disease than a gift. Like a mental illness.
She had gone to a doctor once, secretly. A psychiatrist a few miles away, in Seattle.
She had given him a false name and told him only a little. She had stopped when she
realized that he was about to suggest a period of hospitalization . . .
Now she wondered bitterly whether the doctor had been right. It was her "illness,"
after all, that had caused her to descend to this screaming. She said things to Kenneth that
she had not thought herself capable of saying to anyone. He did not realize the
degradation and despair this signified in her. Only one thought saved her from complete
loss of control. The man was her husband.
She had married him out of desperation, not love. But he was her husband
nonetheless, and he had served a purpose. If she had not married him, she might be
saying these things to her parents—her stepparents—the only people besides Doro whom
she could ever remember loving. It had been very important once—that she protect her
parents from what she had become. She wondered if it was still important. If she still
cared what she said, even to them.
Abruptly she was tired of the argument. Tired of the man's fury pounding at her mind
and her ears. Tired of her own pointless anger. She turned and walked away.
Kenneth caught her shoulder and spun her around so quickly that she had no time to
think. He slapped her hard, throwing all the weight of his big body against her. She fell
back against the wall, then slipped silently to the floor to lie stunned, while, above her, he
demanded that she learn to listen when he spoke. At that moment, violence, chaos
convulsed her treacherous mind.
Ada was quick. She did not need time to wonder what was happening or to realize
that there would finally be an end to her aloneness. She reacted immediately. She
screamed.
Kenneth had hurt her, but suddenly the physical pain lost all meaning in the face of
this new thing. This thing that brought her the pain of a hope roughly torn away.
Since her change, that terrible night three years before, when all the world had come
flooding into her mind, she had treated her condition as a temporary thing. Something
that would someday end and let her be as she had been. This was a belief that Doro had
tried to talk her out of. But she had been able to convince herself that he was lying. He
had refused to introduce her to others who were like her, though he claimed there were
others. He had said that it would be painful to her to meet them, that her kind tolerated
each other badly. But she had looked for herself, had sifted through thousands of minds
without finding even one like her own. Thus she had decided that Doro was lying. She
had believed what she wanted to believe. She was good at that; it kept her alive. She had
decided that Doro had told only part of the truth. That there had been others like her. It
was unthinkable that she had been the only person to undergo this change. And that the
others had recovered, changed back.
This hope had sustained her, given her a reason to go on living. Now she had to see it
for the fallacy it was.
She lay on the floor crying, as she rarely did, in noisy, gasping sobs.
For once, she had accomplished something good with her ability. Foolish pride had made
her tell Kenneth. Kenneth had decided that her interference had been wrong.
She could not tolerate large groups of people, and she could not tolerate child abuse.
Kenneth called the first immature and the second none of her business. Everything she
did either angered or humiliated him. Everything. Yet she stayed with him. Without him
she would be totally alone.
She was an active. She had power. And all her power did, most of the time, was cut
her off from other people, make it impossible for her ever to be one of them. Her power
was more like a disease than a gift. Like a mental illness.
She had gone to a doctor once, secretly. A psychiatrist a few miles away, in Seattle.
She had given him a false name and told him only a little. She had stopped when she
realized that he was about to suggest a period of hospitalization . . .
Now she wondered bitterly whether the doctor had been right. It was her "illness,"
after all, that had caused her to descend to this screaming. She said things to Kenneth that
she had not thought herself capable of saying to anyone. He did not realize the
degradation and despair this signified in her. Only one thought saved her from complete
loss of control. The man was her husband.
She had married him out of desperation, not love. But he was her husband
nonetheless, and he had served a purpose. If she had not married him, she might be
saying these things to her parents—her stepparents—the only people besides Doro whom
she could ever remember loving. It had been very important once—that she protect her
parents from what she had become. She wondered if it was still important. If she still
cared what she said, even to them.
Abruptly she was tired of the argument. Tired of the man's fury pounding at her mind
and her ears. Tired of her own pointless anger. She turned and walked away.
Kenneth caught her shoulder and spun her around so quickly that she had no time to
think. He slapped her hard, throwing all the weight of his big body against her. She fell
back against the wall, then slipped silently to the floor to lie stunned, while, above her, he
demanded that she learn to listen when he spoke. At that moment, violence, chaos
convulsed her treacherous mind.
Ada was quick. She did not need time to wonder what was happening or to realize
that there would finally be an end to her aloneness. She reacted immediately. She
screamed.
Kenneth had hurt her, but suddenly the physical pain lost all meaning in the face of
this new thing. This thing that brought her the pain of a hope roughly torn away.
Since her change, that terrible night three years before, when all the world had come
flooding into her mind, she had treated her condition as a temporary thing. Something
that would someday end and let her be as she had been. This was a belief that Doro had
tried to talk her out of. But she had been able to convince herself that he was lying. He
had refused to introduce her to others who were like her, though he claimed there were
others. He had said that it would be painful to her to meet them, that her kind tolerated
each other badly. But she had looked for herself, had sifted through thousands of minds
without finding even one like her own. Thus she had decided that Doro was lying. She
had believed what she wanted to believe. She was good at that; it kept her alive. She had
decided that Doro had told only part of the truth. That there had been others like her. It
was unthinkable that she had been the only person to undergo this change. And that the
others had recovered, changed back.
This hope had sustained her, given her a reason to go on living. Now she had to see it
for the fallacy it was.
She lay on the floor crying, as she rarely did, in noisy, gasping sobs.
Similar Books
