too.
“It’s all about dissociation,” he said. “One person focuses intently on the words or eyes of another, until his behavioral control is split off from his ordinary awareness. If the person is highly suggestible, he will behave as the other prescribes.”
I wondered how far I could have taken the boy in the greenhouse. “Is it true that you can’t make someone do something they don’t want to?”
“That’s a matter of considerable debate,” he said. “The most recent research suggests that under the right circumstances, a suggestible person can be made to do almost anything.” He looked across at me, his eyes amused, as if he knew what I’d been up to.
And so I changed my focus. “Did you ever hypnotize me?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.” I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of anyone controlling my behavior.
“Sometimes, when you were very young, you had a tendency to cry.” His voice was low and quiet, and it paused after the word cry . “For no apparent reason, you would make the most unearthly sounds, and of course I tried to placate you with formula, with rocking, with lullabies, and everything else I could think of.”
“You sang to me?” I’d never heard my father sing, or so I thought.
“You truly don’t remember?” His face was wistful. “I wonder why you don’t. In any case, yes, I did sing, and sometimes even that had no effect. And so, one night out of sheer desperation, I looked steadily into your eyes, and with my eyes I told you to be at peace. I told you that you were safe, and cared for, and that you should be content.
“And you stopped crying then. Your eyes closed. I held you. You were so small, wrapped in a white blanket.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I held you close to my chest, and I listened to your breathing, until morning.”
I had an impulse to get up from my chair and embrace him. But I sat still. I felt too shy.
He opened his eyes. “Before I became your father, I didn’t know what worry was,” he said. He picked up his book again.
I stood up and said goodnight. Then I thought of another question. “Father, what lullaby did you sing to me?”
He kept his eyes on the page. “It’s called Murucututu ,” he said. “It’s a Brazilian lullaby, one that my mother sang to me. It’s the name of a small owl. In Brazilian myth, the owl is the mother of sleep.”
He looked up then, and our eyes met. “Yes, I will sing it to you,” he said. “Sometime. But not tonight.”
Do you see letters and words in color? Since I can remember, the letter P has always been a deep emerald shade, and S has always been royal blue. Even the days of the week have special colors: Tuesday is lavender, and Friday is green. The condition is called synesthesia, and it’s been estimated that one in two thousand people is a synesthete.
According to the Internet, virtually all vampires are synesthetes.
And this is how I spent my mornings: surfing the Internet on my laptop computer, looking for clues, which I copied into my journal. (I’ve torn them out since, for reasons that will soon become clear.) Page after page of Internet lore I copied, and I realized I wasn’t any less inane than Kathleen and her role-playing friends with their black notebooks filled with chants and spells.
But even though at times I doubted my research and questioned what I learned, I kept at it. I didn’t know where it was going, but I felt compelled to proceed. Think of a jigsaw puzzle. Even when the puzzle isn’t assembled, the pieces scattered in the box contain the picture.
Mrs. McG made a big point of insisting that I spend the weekend with Kathleen. She reminded me of it every day that week, and on Friday, when she drove home, I was with her. (For me, Friday is always vivid green. For you, too?)
Kathleen didn’t seem different to me. By now I was accustomed to her dark clothing and excessive makeup. She looked a little more on edge,
“It’s all about dissociation,” he said. “One person focuses intently on the words or eyes of another, until his behavioral control is split off from his ordinary awareness. If the person is highly suggestible, he will behave as the other prescribes.”
I wondered how far I could have taken the boy in the greenhouse. “Is it true that you can’t make someone do something they don’t want to?”
“That’s a matter of considerable debate,” he said. “The most recent research suggests that under the right circumstances, a suggestible person can be made to do almost anything.” He looked across at me, his eyes amused, as if he knew what I’d been up to.
And so I changed my focus. “Did you ever hypnotize me?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.” I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of anyone controlling my behavior.
“Sometimes, when you were very young, you had a tendency to cry.” His voice was low and quiet, and it paused after the word cry . “For no apparent reason, you would make the most unearthly sounds, and of course I tried to placate you with formula, with rocking, with lullabies, and everything else I could think of.”
“You sang to me?” I’d never heard my father sing, or so I thought.
“You truly don’t remember?” His face was wistful. “I wonder why you don’t. In any case, yes, I did sing, and sometimes even that had no effect. And so, one night out of sheer desperation, I looked steadily into your eyes, and with my eyes I told you to be at peace. I told you that you were safe, and cared for, and that you should be content.
“And you stopped crying then. Your eyes closed. I held you. You were so small, wrapped in a white blanket.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I held you close to my chest, and I listened to your breathing, until morning.”
I had an impulse to get up from my chair and embrace him. But I sat still. I felt too shy.
He opened his eyes. “Before I became your father, I didn’t know what worry was,” he said. He picked up his book again.
I stood up and said goodnight. Then I thought of another question. “Father, what lullaby did you sing to me?”
He kept his eyes on the page. “It’s called Murucututu ,” he said. “It’s a Brazilian lullaby, one that my mother sang to me. It’s the name of a small owl. In Brazilian myth, the owl is the mother of sleep.”
He looked up then, and our eyes met. “Yes, I will sing it to you,” he said. “Sometime. But not tonight.”
Do you see letters and words in color? Since I can remember, the letter P has always been a deep emerald shade, and S has always been royal blue. Even the days of the week have special colors: Tuesday is lavender, and Friday is green. The condition is called synesthesia, and it’s been estimated that one in two thousand people is a synesthete.
According to the Internet, virtually all vampires are synesthetes.
And this is how I spent my mornings: surfing the Internet on my laptop computer, looking for clues, which I copied into my journal. (I’ve torn them out since, for reasons that will soon become clear.) Page after page of Internet lore I copied, and I realized I wasn’t any less inane than Kathleen and her role-playing friends with their black notebooks filled with chants and spells.
But even though at times I doubted my research and questioned what I learned, I kept at it. I didn’t know where it was going, but I felt compelled to proceed. Think of a jigsaw puzzle. Even when the puzzle isn’t assembled, the pieces scattered in the box contain the picture.
Mrs. McG made a big point of insisting that I spend the weekend with Kathleen. She reminded me of it every day that week, and on Friday, when she drove home, I was with her. (For me, Friday is always vivid green. For you, too?)
Kathleen didn’t seem different to me. By now I was accustomed to her dark clothing and excessive makeup. She looked a little more on edge,
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