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tiptoe39Oh, what the hell.
Title: A Simple Twist of Fate
Chapter: 1 of ??
Author: tiptoe39
Rating: NC-17 as a whole; this chapter PG-13 for language and some discussion of sex
Summary: What if Matt, not Janice, had picked up the phone when Mohinder called in Season 1?
Six months' suspension. Six months. No job. Jan pregnant. No income. Mortgage. Bills. Baby. Time to panic.
No. Time not to panic. Time to get on the phone. Security jobs. Easy. Qualified. Everything's OK.
I've got to stop thinking like a crazy person. There are people out there way worse off. I've seen 'em. C'mon, Matt. You can always talk another guy down off a ledge. Talk yourself down now. Talk yourself down.
Right. Let's assess the situation. I'm going to be a father. That's a good thing. I just have to start acting like one. Like a real one. No reason to look backward. I know I'm gonna be a better dad than he was. First thing I need is the paper. Job listings. Right. Time to pick up the phone.
The phone's ringing.
"Hello."
He picks up after the first ring. His voice sounds gruff. Jolted. Like he's been sitting right by the phone, waiting for my call.
"Mr. Parkman? Am I speaking to Matt Parkman?"
"Yes, who is this?" Perhaps he's clairvoyant. Perhaps he knew that I was going to call. Wouldn't that be fascinating. I like the sound of his voice somehow. There's weariness in it. It makes me want to know him.
"Hello? Who is this?" Oh, dear.
"I'm sorry. My name is Dr. Mohinder Suresh. I was hoping... Do you have a moment to talk?"
"About what?" The voice is just fascinating. I can't put my finger on why.
"I'm currently working on a project involving certain abnormal genetic markers, and I believe you may be one of the people bearing such a marker." He hasn't hung up yet. "This may sound odd, but could you tell me whether you have experienced anything..." Still he hasn't hung up. This is the moment of truth. "..unusual lately?"
A pause on the line. Have I lost him? Damn. I'd wanted to hear him speak again. Or perhaps it's just that I've never gotten this far along in a conversation with anyone since I began this odd little telemarketing endeavor.
"What do you want?" Oh, thank goodness. He's still there. He's speaking close to the phone, his voice guarded. "How did you find me? Are you with them?"
Oh, please don't be a crazy person. Please. "I'm working entirely on my own, I assure you. I found you through the Human Genome Project. Am... am I correct, then, in assuming that you've discovered some ability, or trait, that seems out of the ordinary to you?"
I'm imagining his voice saying yes. All honey and gravel.
"Yes." Not quite as I envisioned. But still worth hearing. Dear Lord, what am I going on about? I must need some more caffeine.
"May I... ask..."
"No. Not yet." He's afraid. Of the them he mentioned? "First, you have to tell me what you want from me."
"I... I'd like to go out there to meet with you." Trying not to sound threatening. I don't want him to say no. But even if he does, I'm still pulling up flights on my laptop as I talk. "Perhaps we could talk in person. I could..." I stop short of asking him for a DNA sample. He's too afraid of whatever it is that's worrying him.
"I have to talk to my wife." There is absolutely no reason that should feel like a kick in the gut. "Can I, um... can I call you back?"
"Yes. Of course." I give him my number, but I have already determined to be on the next plane out. I'd like to take advantage of the opportunity to visit several places on that coast. I can rent a car from there and go on a bit of a road trip.
I hang up the phone only with regret. He's my first shot at meeting one of them (Peter Petrelli notwithstanding-- I'm still not entirely convinced he isn't insane), so I hate to let the conversation end. There's no guarantee the dream won't end along with it.
Her face has rounded out a little. It's sort of-- God, no. She's beautiful. Beautiful. You think that, honestly. You do. You are the worst person imaginable to think otherwise for even a moment. Worst husband imaginable.
"Honey, I, uh, got a call today." See? Beautiful. You can think that. You do think that. "From this doctor. He, ah, he might be able to tell me what's happening to me."
"What?" Round face, round eyes. Soon to be round belly. Stop, Matt, stop. "Wait, I thought you told me the people who--" Why does she whisper the word? "-who abducted you did this to you."
Hate it when she's right. Hate how often it is that she's right. "Well, maybe they didn't. Maybe it's like, some weird disease. He was talking about a genetic marker or something."
"Right." The single angled eyebrow looks silly in the midst of all that roundness. "The I-can-hear-thoughts disease. What makes you think you can believe a word this guy says?"
And she's right again. "I don't know. I can't. But, I--" I just got the feeling. His voice was so measured, like he was afraid of getting too excited. Like he was trying to protect me from something. I can't remember the last time anyone ever tried to protect me from anything.
"Well? What did he want you to do, this doctor?"
She's so pragmatic. God knows what this household would come to if not for her. "T-- to meet. Talk to him."
"And? Did you say yes?"
Finally. A chance to say the Right Thing. I know this answer. "I told him I'd have to talk to you. I thought that you'd want to know."
Good. She lights up. That means she's happy to have been asked. But now her face is dark again. Damn it. The better I know her, the less I know how to make her happy. "But you want to meet him, don't you?" She sounds more tired than anything else.
"Y--yeah. I do. But you're more important to me, Jan. You tell me yes or no." That should be the Right Thing again. But I know her too well to be able to tell anymore. It's like looking through a fog. Her eyes are filling with tears.
"And what if I say no?" she says, very quietly.
That's it, I have no more patience for this game. "If? Is that what you're saying, or isn't it?" I can't put up with some test where I have to answer her hypothetical the right way or she won't say yes. I know it well. It's how hostage takers negotiate. They wait for cops to say the thing they want to hear. They like to think they've maneuvered us into just the right position. Always think they're smarter, even though we've done this a thousand times before. But I'm not Jan's hostage. And if I am, there's something seriously wrong with this situation. "Are you saying no, Janice?"
The tears escape her eyes two at a time. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah. I'm saying no."
I turn away from her. I can't face the finality of those tears. Of those words. "Think about it, Matt," she shouts. It's her shouty-explaining tone. The one that sounds angrier than it means to be, because she's angrier than she means to be. "We're having a baby. I'm pregnant. I get that you want to know what's going on with you. So do I. But I also want to know how we're going to afford to raise this child. So think about me. For once. Think about us."
"I think about you all the time! How dare you say I don't?" I'm roaring. I put a lid on it immediately.
But I've already set her off. "I'd just hope that if you've got the time to meet someone, it'd be for a goddamned job interview!"
As though I'm impossibly lazy when I'm not at a job interview. "All right, honey," I say, turning back to her. "All right. Anything you say."
But now I'm just saying the Right Thing again. It's clear to me from the moment I see her break down, whisper thank yous into my shoulder, that I've lied to her. Again. God, once it starts, it's so hard to stop.
My heart, I think, is humming. I'm fairly sure that's the noise it's making as I move through the gates. What is it about this airport, as plastic and pre-packaged as it is, that nonetheless fills my mind with this odd anticipation? Perhaps it's simply the return of the sun. October is dreadful on the East Coast. (I suppose I should not be so quick to enjoy. One of my stops will be Montana, after all. It will be far worse than New York there.)
I can't even wait until I've got the rental car. I've got to call again.
The phone rings. What if his wife has said no? She ought to be as concerned about this as anyone. Somehow I'm predisposed to dislike her, just the same. Poor woman. She's done nothing to deserve my animosity.
Still, I'm rather pleased when her husband is the one to answer the phone. "Hello?"
Again, that earthy, full tone. It makes me a little bit giddy. Or perhaps it's just the proximity to my dream. "Mr. Parkman."
"Yeah. Hi. Is this Dr. Suresh?" His voice drops. "Hi. I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I've been uh..."
"I just landed. When can we meet?" I can't believe I've just said that. I interrupted him. I sound overeager. He's going to run in the other direction.
"Well. About that." He pauses. See? That's what happens when you're overeager and unprofessional. I can hear my father now. Mohinder, you damned fool.
"I'll only take an hour or so of your time." Thought is simply not preceding speech today. "I'm really anxious to talk to you. There are some things that... you really ought to know."
My brain reboots and I remember why I just said that. It's sobering. I'd nearly forgotten, but Matt's... Mr. Parkman's life may very well be in danger.
He seems to be wavering. Finally, he mumbles, "Yeah. We should meet."
I ask, but I don't want to know the answer. "So your wife was fine with the idea? Will she be joining us?"
"No. It'll just be me." He sounds decidedly uncomfortable.
"But she was fine with our meeting. Right?"
(Please lie to me.)
He's generous enough to do just that. "Yeah. It's fine."
I can't believe I live in L.A., sometimes, because I hate palm trees. Really, I hate them. They're spiky and unfriendly and not at all huggable. I'm not even a tree-hugger, but trees ought to at least be somewhat huggable. 'Cause if Al Gore is right, we're gonna have them to thank for our continued existence one of these days. Or something like that.
Even more than real palm trees, I hate plastic palm trees. What, the real tree didn't look phony enough for ya? Plastic palm trees are the anorexic starlets of the plant kingdom. Having a lot of them might convince some tourists you're hot, but to the lifers, you just look shallow.
Long story short, the decor bugs me here. But it's a crowded enough place that I figure we have a good chance of getting lost in the shuffle. I told Jan I had a job interview a few blocks from her office. It was my only excuse for having her bring me into the city. Otherwise I'd be stuck in suburbia.
It's unbelievable how I've learned to sort out sounds so quickly. There's a million trains of thought going on in here. Yet somehow I can let them wash over me one at a time. I still get headaches. But it's like I can now open one eye at a time, and not be totally blinded. As I adjust my tie (had to dress like I was going to a job interview, too), I get accustomed to the mental volume.
...sure this script is the one...
...fucking whore and her stupid chihuahua...
...boring me to tears...
...es posible que...
...hope he notices me...
...uso maji kirei na hito...
...sue the pants off this asshole first thing tomorrow...
...oh dear Lord is that him? I think it must be him...
That last person was thinking with a British accent. My eyes wander and then connect with a pair of wide brown ones.
Oh, God, that's Dr. Suresh? He's a boy. He can't be thirty. How can he even be a doctor? He's staring at me like he's a seven-year-old in a movie theater. He's dangling his spoon dangerously over the soup. If it falls now, it's gonna spill all over you, Doc.
"Dr. Suresh?" I approach him. He shakes himself, as if waking from a dream.
"Yes. Mr. Parkman, I take it?" He smiles genially and extends a hand. We shake. His hand is warm. His skin is a gorgeous shade, the sort of coloring it costs five figures to have done artificially around here. Come to think of it, he's just all-over pretty. Back in my college days, I consigned folks like that to a horrific fate by virtue of their looks. Most specifically, I tended to want their heads slammed in a car door. Just as a handicap. Make life a little fairer for the rest of us poor saps.
"How did you identify me?" he asks. "Was I looking as lost as I feel, I wonder?"
Well, yes, but that's not how. "Just a hunch. Not a lot of people here looking like they have the name Suresh."
His glances around at the bleached-blond homogeneity. "I suppose. I'm very pleased you could make it," he goes on as I sit. "I suppose you have a lot of questions."
Understatement of the year. "Can you tell me what's happening to me? Why did I get saddled with this? Is there a way to stop it?"
I don't realize how far I'm leaning over the table at him until he shrinks back. I retreat, embarrassed. "Sorry."
"No. That's fine." Can barely breathe, he thinks. Crap. I didn't mean to scare him. "I have yet to ask you anything, so I can't give you specifics, but I can tell you this much: What's happening to you is the result of a specific genetic anomaly in your DNA. A statistical handful of people worldwide seem to have it, but that handful translates to hundreds, maybe thousands. I'm working on an inhibitor, something that might be able to dull the effect of the abnormality, but as of now, there is no cure, I'm afraid."
Only one part of this sticks with me. "So it's not something they did to me."
His mysterious they again, he thinks. I wonder if it has anything to do with the man who broke into my apartment. Again. He may just be a serial study robber, but somehow I doubt it.
I'm knocking over the salt shaker, reaching across the table, grabbing him. "What man? Did he-- did he wear glasses?"
And now he's really frightened. I have to learn how to pause and figure out if what I've heard is said or thought before I respond.
I sit back down. "I'm sorry. I got excited."
But now his eyes are wide. "Did you just--" Read my mind?
"Not your mind. Not your memories or anything. I just-- heard your thoughts. I sort of do that a lot these days."
He stares another moment, and then he breaks out into a huge grin. A huge, childish, absolutely contagious grin. I laugh, because something about it tickles me. He shouldn't be a scientist. He should have some job that requires him to smile like that all. the. Time. I swear, the temperature in here just rose five degrees. They could use that smile to heat homes in the winter. What the hell am I going on about, anyway?
"You heard my thoughts?" He's not asking me so much as telling himself. "You heard my thoughts. That is extraordinary. I don't think I'd even pondered such a possibility. Might I--"
"Just think of a number." I pause a moment. "43,582. Oh, no fair adding decimal places to it afterward. That's cheating."
He gapes. For the first time, I feel kind of proud. I'm an object of scientific curiosity. Whoda thunkit.
He tries to throw an image at me, tries the same old things Janice did when I first told her. I have to set him straight, laughing each time and shaking my head. His enthusiasm is really kind of, well, I guess adorable's not a great word for a grown man, but he seriously looks like such a kid. I get the overwhelming feeling that this is the best time he's had in months. There's some sort of sadness in his eyes, like he's just been through too much, seen too much. I'd know, after all. Still, as he asks questions and tries to test the limits of what I can do, none of that matters. For a few minutes, we're our own little island of brightness in the shitpile that is our lives. Complete with plastic palm trees, no less.
"I'd... I'd really like to test this further," he finally says, the dumb grin still on his face. "I don't suppose I-- no, I have to drive east, and then up to Montana to meet with someone else, and then--" His hands come down onto the table, like he's bracing himself. "Is there any chance at all that I could convince you to come out to New York in the near future?"
And his eyes are so steely that I very nearly consider it. But the island's gone, and I'm back on the mainland, fish out of water that I am. "I'm sorry. My wife--"
"Yes, yes, of course." His face falls. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Damn it. I want that goofy smile back, not the forced one he's giving me now. "I'd like at the very least to get a sample of your DNA, if you don't mind."
He gets the sample-- luckily enough, before I dive into my burger, or he'd have genes with melted cheese on the Q-tip. I'd rather not have him think I'm half charbroiled cow. At the end of our conversation, he gives me his card. Says he expects to be on the road all week, his cell phone will be good until then.
I can't imagine having a solid reason to call, but I don't tell him that. Why should I? If his mind is any indication, it's the very last thing he wants to hear.
I wait until he's gone. I wait until he's waved for the last time and gone through the doors and walked down the street and out of view. I wait a few more seconds just to be sure.
Then I collapse into my seat, hand on my pounding heart, and wipe the sweat from my forehead.
He can hear thoughts! He can hear! Thoughts!
He knew it was me because he heard me thinking. And he heard me thinking about the man who broke into my study. And he is a policeman-- God, how incredibly useful must that be?-- and he's married, though I don't want to dwell on that-- and he's a real person, he's really one of them, and oh dear Lord I completely neglected to warn him about Sylar, but he can hear thoughts!
Control. Control. What I need is control. I should write down my impressions. Or something.
He seems to be a fairly well-adjusted sort. I guess. It's nice to know they're not all psychotic deranged killers. Unassuming type. A little shy, but not bookish and shy like I am. Very all-American in general. Fairly good-looking. No, Mohinder, do. not. go. there. It is purely an objective observation. Of course. Part of my overall impressions.
His voice. Even better in person. I'm just worked up now. Too excited to think straight. If Eden had ever told me that she was one of them, I probably would have had the same reaction. (Poor girl. I hope she finds some peace, wherever she might be.)
Now I feel slightly sobered. Good thing, too. I think my excitement might have run away with me. I fear just how far it might have gone.
But there's still the issue of Sylar. I'll have to follow up.
Up until now everything was going so well.
Jan and I were talking about names and nursery colors on the way home. She was laughing every time I said the word "puce." (She said it reminded her of morning sickness.) I felt pleased, like a little boy who was being praised by his parents' friends.
Then we got home and the message light was blinking. And a moment ago she pressed the button. And now everything's going straight to hell.
"Hello, Mr. Parkman, this is Dr. Suresh." I go for the button, but I'm not fast enough. "It was a pleasure meeting you today. I'm terribly sorry, but there was something I forgot to mention during our conversation, and it's rather important--"
Janice turns off the tape. Puts her hands on her hips. Looks at me. Doesn't need to say a word.
"It's not what you th--"
"Don't lie to me, Matt!" From zero to volcanic eruption in 0.2 seconds. "You know that's not fair, since I can't lie to you!"
Wait, hold the fuck on, what kind of priorities are those? "But if you could, it'd be OK?" For real? She's pissed because she can't lie to me?
"I thought we'd agreed!"
"We didn't agree! You dictated!"
"Because you asked!" And from volcanic eruption, we proceed apace to flash flooding. "I thought you were going to put this baby first!"
"This is important to me, Jan!" Fine. She wants honest, she's gonna get honest. "This thing that's happened to me has totally screwed up my life. Why do you think I've been suspended, huh? Because of this!" I smack my own head a little. "This ridiculous thing I can do! I need answers!"
"And I need help!" she cries. "I can't handle this on my own, Matt! I thought you wanted to be a father!"
"I do!"
"Then why aren't you acting like one? God!" What really puzzles me about her is, she's not acting disappointed, just frustrated. Like I'm some sort of irritation she has to put up with to get what she wants. I'm not a husband, I'm one of her damned legal briefs. She'll revise me until I'm good enough for her and then ship me off to some judge and never think about me again.
The sarcasm leaps off my tongue. "Gee, I'm sorry, honey, I guess I must have misplaced the manual. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm hearing thoughts and lost three days of my life and have been..." I bite my tongue. I haven't told her anything about the FBI or tracking down Sylar. Or, God forbid, Ted. She doesn't need to know about the others. She's weirded out enough by me.
"What, Matt? What have you been? Confused? Frustrated? Feeling betrayed?" She throws up her hands like she's tossing me aside, like she's swatting at me as though I'm a mosquito. "I really thought you were going to do better than this," she said. Her thoughts go further. If I'd known he was going to be this unreliable, I never would have told him in the first place.
"What do you mean you never would have told me?" I say, grabbing her wrist. She looks down at it, shocked. "What the hell does that mean? What wouldn't you have told me? About the baby?"
That it's yours.
And it all comes tumbling down.
I let go. I stumble backward. She starts to shake her head. "Don't read my mind, Matt. That's not fair."
"Not fair!?" I can't read her eyes, not at all. I can barely stand up straight. "Do you know what you just thought?! Janice..."
She shakes her head again mutely.
I don't know how I find the strength to ask the question. "Janice, is that my baby or isn't it?"
She turns icy. I can practically see the prickles of frost crawling up her face. "Do the math yourself and figure it out," she says in a low and dispassionate voice. "You know when my last period was. You know when we started having sex again. If you want to know the answer to that question, you're going to have to figure it out yourself."
I'm staggering backward like I'm drunk. I grab a wall. It proves too slippery. I grab a chair instead. She's going for the phone. Why is she going for the phone? Who is she going to call?
I can't hear anything. Like water's rushing in my ears. Not her voice, not her thoughts, nothing. Just see her talking, glancing at the window, hanging up. She comes across the room and says, "The taxi will be here in 20 minutes. You have until then to pack. We'll work out the rest in a few days."
And that's it. I'm headed off to a hotel, having seen eleven years of my life shattered because I dared have lunch with a scientist. All the trust I thought I'd won back, gone. There's no going back now. I'm pretty sure of that much. It's one too many lies, one too many changing priorities.
I don't even know what I'm doing when I call the number. I just hear him answer, and when I tell him who it is, he starts chomping at the bit. He wants to tell me something. But I can't hear, still, so I just interrupt him. "You still want me to come to New York with you?"
Next: Parallel lines intersect
Title: A Simple Twist of Fate
Chapter: 1 of ??
Author: tiptoe39
Rating: NC-17 as a whole; this chapter PG-13 for language and some discussion of sex
Summary: What if Matt, not Janice, had picked up the phone when Mohinder called in Season 1?
Six months' suspension. Six months. No job. Jan pregnant. No income. Mortgage. Bills. Baby. Time to panic.
No. Time not to panic. Time to get on the phone. Security jobs. Easy. Qualified. Everything's OK.
I've got to stop thinking like a crazy person. There are people out there way worse off. I've seen 'em. C'mon, Matt. You can always talk another guy down off a ledge. Talk yourself down now. Talk yourself down.
Right. Let's assess the situation. I'm going to be a father. That's a good thing. I just have to start acting like one. Like a real one. No reason to look backward. I know I'm gonna be a better dad than he was. First thing I need is the paper. Job listings. Right. Time to pick up the phone.
The phone's ringing.
"Hello."
He picks up after the first ring. His voice sounds gruff. Jolted. Like he's been sitting right by the phone, waiting for my call.
"Mr. Parkman? Am I speaking to Matt Parkman?"
"Yes, who is this?" Perhaps he's clairvoyant. Perhaps he knew that I was going to call. Wouldn't that be fascinating. I like the sound of his voice somehow. There's weariness in it. It makes me want to know him.
"Hello? Who is this?" Oh, dear.
"I'm sorry. My name is Dr. Mohinder Suresh. I was hoping... Do you have a moment to talk?"
"About what?" The voice is just fascinating. I can't put my finger on why.
"I'm currently working on a project involving certain abnormal genetic markers, and I believe you may be one of the people bearing such a marker." He hasn't hung up yet. "This may sound odd, but could you tell me whether you have experienced anything..." Still he hasn't hung up. This is the moment of truth. "..unusual lately?"
A pause on the line. Have I lost him? Damn. I'd wanted to hear him speak again. Or perhaps it's just that I've never gotten this far along in a conversation with anyone since I began this odd little telemarketing endeavor.
"What do you want?" Oh, thank goodness. He's still there. He's speaking close to the phone, his voice guarded. "How did you find me? Are you with them?"
Oh, please don't be a crazy person. Please. "I'm working entirely on my own, I assure you. I found you through the Human Genome Project. Am... am I correct, then, in assuming that you've discovered some ability, or trait, that seems out of the ordinary to you?"
I'm imagining his voice saying yes. All honey and gravel.
"Yes." Not quite as I envisioned. But still worth hearing. Dear Lord, what am I going on about? I must need some more caffeine.
"May I... ask..."
"No. Not yet." He's afraid. Of the them he mentioned? "First, you have to tell me what you want from me."
"I... I'd like to go out there to meet with you." Trying not to sound threatening. I don't want him to say no. But even if he does, I'm still pulling up flights on my laptop as I talk. "Perhaps we could talk in person. I could..." I stop short of asking him for a DNA sample. He's too afraid of whatever it is that's worrying him.
"I have to talk to my wife." There is absolutely no reason that should feel like a kick in the gut. "Can I, um... can I call you back?"
"Yes. Of course." I give him my number, but I have already determined to be on the next plane out. I'd like to take advantage of the opportunity to visit several places on that coast. I can rent a car from there and go on a bit of a road trip.
I hang up the phone only with regret. He's my first shot at meeting one of them (Peter Petrelli notwithstanding-- I'm still not entirely convinced he isn't insane), so I hate to let the conversation end. There's no guarantee the dream won't end along with it.
Her face has rounded out a little. It's sort of-- God, no. She's beautiful. Beautiful. You think that, honestly. You do. You are the worst person imaginable to think otherwise for even a moment. Worst husband imaginable.
"Honey, I, uh, got a call today." See? Beautiful. You can think that. You do think that. "From this doctor. He, ah, he might be able to tell me what's happening to me."
"What?" Round face, round eyes. Soon to be round belly. Stop, Matt, stop. "Wait, I thought you told me the people who--" Why does she whisper the word? "-who abducted you did this to you."
Hate it when she's right. Hate how often it is that she's right. "Well, maybe they didn't. Maybe it's like, some weird disease. He was talking about a genetic marker or something."
"Right." The single angled eyebrow looks silly in the midst of all that roundness. "The I-can-hear-thoughts disease. What makes you think you can believe a word this guy says?"
And she's right again. "I don't know. I can't. But, I--" I just got the feeling. His voice was so measured, like he was afraid of getting too excited. Like he was trying to protect me from something. I can't remember the last time anyone ever tried to protect me from anything.
"Well? What did he want you to do, this doctor?"
She's so pragmatic. God knows what this household would come to if not for her. "T-- to meet. Talk to him."
"And? Did you say yes?"
Finally. A chance to say the Right Thing. I know this answer. "I told him I'd have to talk to you. I thought that you'd want to know."
Good. She lights up. That means she's happy to have been asked. But now her face is dark again. Damn it. The better I know her, the less I know how to make her happy. "But you want to meet him, don't you?" She sounds more tired than anything else.
"Y--yeah. I do. But you're more important to me, Jan. You tell me yes or no." That should be the Right Thing again. But I know her too well to be able to tell anymore. It's like looking through a fog. Her eyes are filling with tears.
"And what if I say no?" she says, very quietly.
That's it, I have no more patience for this game. "If? Is that what you're saying, or isn't it?" I can't put up with some test where I have to answer her hypothetical the right way or she won't say yes. I know it well. It's how hostage takers negotiate. They wait for cops to say the thing they want to hear. They like to think they've maneuvered us into just the right position. Always think they're smarter, even though we've done this a thousand times before. But I'm not Jan's hostage. And if I am, there's something seriously wrong with this situation. "Are you saying no, Janice?"
The tears escape her eyes two at a time. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah. I'm saying no."
I turn away from her. I can't face the finality of those tears. Of those words. "Think about it, Matt," she shouts. It's her shouty-explaining tone. The one that sounds angrier than it means to be, because she's angrier than she means to be. "We're having a baby. I'm pregnant. I get that you want to know what's going on with you. So do I. But I also want to know how we're going to afford to raise this child. So think about me. For once. Think about us."
"I think about you all the time! How dare you say I don't?" I'm roaring. I put a lid on it immediately.
But I've already set her off. "I'd just hope that if you've got the time to meet someone, it'd be for a goddamned job interview!"
As though I'm impossibly lazy when I'm not at a job interview. "All right, honey," I say, turning back to her. "All right. Anything you say."
But now I'm just saying the Right Thing again. It's clear to me from the moment I see her break down, whisper thank yous into my shoulder, that I've lied to her. Again. God, once it starts, it's so hard to stop.
My heart, I think, is humming. I'm fairly sure that's the noise it's making as I move through the gates. What is it about this airport, as plastic and pre-packaged as it is, that nonetheless fills my mind with this odd anticipation? Perhaps it's simply the return of the sun. October is dreadful on the East Coast. (I suppose I should not be so quick to enjoy. One of my stops will be Montana, after all. It will be far worse than New York there.)
I can't even wait until I've got the rental car. I've got to call again.
The phone rings. What if his wife has said no? She ought to be as concerned about this as anyone. Somehow I'm predisposed to dislike her, just the same. Poor woman. She's done nothing to deserve my animosity.
Still, I'm rather pleased when her husband is the one to answer the phone. "Hello?"
Again, that earthy, full tone. It makes me a little bit giddy. Or perhaps it's just the proximity to my dream. "Mr. Parkman."
"Yeah. Hi. Is this Dr. Suresh?" His voice drops. "Hi. I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I've been uh..."
"I just landed. When can we meet?" I can't believe I've just said that. I interrupted him. I sound overeager. He's going to run in the other direction.
"Well. About that." He pauses. See? That's what happens when you're overeager and unprofessional. I can hear my father now. Mohinder, you damned fool.
"I'll only take an hour or so of your time." Thought is simply not preceding speech today. "I'm really anxious to talk to you. There are some things that... you really ought to know."
My brain reboots and I remember why I just said that. It's sobering. I'd nearly forgotten, but Matt's... Mr. Parkman's life may very well be in danger.
He seems to be wavering. Finally, he mumbles, "Yeah. We should meet."
I ask, but I don't want to know the answer. "So your wife was fine with the idea? Will she be joining us?"
"No. It'll just be me." He sounds decidedly uncomfortable.
"But she was fine with our meeting. Right?"
(Please lie to me.)
He's generous enough to do just that. "Yeah. It's fine."
I can't believe I live in L.A., sometimes, because I hate palm trees. Really, I hate them. They're spiky and unfriendly and not at all huggable. I'm not even a tree-hugger, but trees ought to at least be somewhat huggable. 'Cause if Al Gore is right, we're gonna have them to thank for our continued existence one of these days. Or something like that.
Even more than real palm trees, I hate plastic palm trees. What, the real tree didn't look phony enough for ya? Plastic palm trees are the anorexic starlets of the plant kingdom. Having a lot of them might convince some tourists you're hot, but to the lifers, you just look shallow.
Long story short, the decor bugs me here. But it's a crowded enough place that I figure we have a good chance of getting lost in the shuffle. I told Jan I had a job interview a few blocks from her office. It was my only excuse for having her bring me into the city. Otherwise I'd be stuck in suburbia.
It's unbelievable how I've learned to sort out sounds so quickly. There's a million trains of thought going on in here. Yet somehow I can let them wash over me one at a time. I still get headaches. But it's like I can now open one eye at a time, and not be totally blinded. As I adjust my tie (had to dress like I was going to a job interview, too), I get accustomed to the mental volume.
...sure this script is the one...
...fucking whore and her stupid chihuahua...
...boring me to tears...
...es posible que...
...hope he notices me...
...uso maji kirei na hito...
...sue the pants off this asshole first thing tomorrow...
...oh dear Lord is that him? I think it must be him...
That last person was thinking with a British accent. My eyes wander and then connect with a pair of wide brown ones.
Oh, God, that's Dr. Suresh? He's a boy. He can't be thirty. How can he even be a doctor? He's staring at me like he's a seven-year-old in a movie theater. He's dangling his spoon dangerously over the soup. If it falls now, it's gonna spill all over you, Doc.
"Dr. Suresh?" I approach him. He shakes himself, as if waking from a dream.
"Yes. Mr. Parkman, I take it?" He smiles genially and extends a hand. We shake. His hand is warm. His skin is a gorgeous shade, the sort of coloring it costs five figures to have done artificially around here. Come to think of it, he's just all-over pretty. Back in my college days, I consigned folks like that to a horrific fate by virtue of their looks. Most specifically, I tended to want their heads slammed in a car door. Just as a handicap. Make life a little fairer for the rest of us poor saps.
"How did you identify me?" he asks. "Was I looking as lost as I feel, I wonder?"
Well, yes, but that's not how. "Just a hunch. Not a lot of people here looking like they have the name Suresh."
His glances around at the bleached-blond homogeneity. "I suppose. I'm very pleased you could make it," he goes on as I sit. "I suppose you have a lot of questions."
Understatement of the year. "Can you tell me what's happening to me? Why did I get saddled with this? Is there a way to stop it?"
I don't realize how far I'm leaning over the table at him until he shrinks back. I retreat, embarrassed. "Sorry."
"No. That's fine." Can barely breathe, he thinks. Crap. I didn't mean to scare him. "I have yet to ask you anything, so I can't give you specifics, but I can tell you this much: What's happening to you is the result of a specific genetic anomaly in your DNA. A statistical handful of people worldwide seem to have it, but that handful translates to hundreds, maybe thousands. I'm working on an inhibitor, something that might be able to dull the effect of the abnormality, but as of now, there is no cure, I'm afraid."
Only one part of this sticks with me. "So it's not something they did to me."
His mysterious they again, he thinks. I wonder if it has anything to do with the man who broke into my apartment. Again. He may just be a serial study robber, but somehow I doubt it.
I'm knocking over the salt shaker, reaching across the table, grabbing him. "What man? Did he-- did he wear glasses?"
And now he's really frightened. I have to learn how to pause and figure out if what I've heard is said or thought before I respond.
I sit back down. "I'm sorry. I got excited."
But now his eyes are wide. "Did you just--" Read my mind?
"Not your mind. Not your memories or anything. I just-- heard your thoughts. I sort of do that a lot these days."
He stares another moment, and then he breaks out into a huge grin. A huge, childish, absolutely contagious grin. I laugh, because something about it tickles me. He shouldn't be a scientist. He should have some job that requires him to smile like that all. the. Time. I swear, the temperature in here just rose five degrees. They could use that smile to heat homes in the winter. What the hell am I going on about, anyway?
"You heard my thoughts?" He's not asking me so much as telling himself. "You heard my thoughts. That is extraordinary. I don't think I'd even pondered such a possibility. Might I--"
"Just think of a number." I pause a moment. "43,582. Oh, no fair adding decimal places to it afterward. That's cheating."
He gapes. For the first time, I feel kind of proud. I'm an object of scientific curiosity. Whoda thunkit.
He tries to throw an image at me, tries the same old things Janice did when I first told her. I have to set him straight, laughing each time and shaking my head. His enthusiasm is really kind of, well, I guess adorable's not a great word for a grown man, but he seriously looks like such a kid. I get the overwhelming feeling that this is the best time he's had in months. There's some sort of sadness in his eyes, like he's just been through too much, seen too much. I'd know, after all. Still, as he asks questions and tries to test the limits of what I can do, none of that matters. For a few minutes, we're our own little island of brightness in the shitpile that is our lives. Complete with plastic palm trees, no less.
"I'd... I'd really like to test this further," he finally says, the dumb grin still on his face. "I don't suppose I-- no, I have to drive east, and then up to Montana to meet with someone else, and then--" His hands come down onto the table, like he's bracing himself. "Is there any chance at all that I could convince you to come out to New York in the near future?"
And his eyes are so steely that I very nearly consider it. But the island's gone, and I'm back on the mainland, fish out of water that I am. "I'm sorry. My wife--"
"Yes, yes, of course." His face falls. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Damn it. I want that goofy smile back, not the forced one he's giving me now. "I'd like at the very least to get a sample of your DNA, if you don't mind."
He gets the sample-- luckily enough, before I dive into my burger, or he'd have genes with melted cheese on the Q-tip. I'd rather not have him think I'm half charbroiled cow. At the end of our conversation, he gives me his card. Says he expects to be on the road all week, his cell phone will be good until then.
I can't imagine having a solid reason to call, but I don't tell him that. Why should I? If his mind is any indication, it's the very last thing he wants to hear.
I wait until he's gone. I wait until he's waved for the last time and gone through the doors and walked down the street and out of view. I wait a few more seconds just to be sure.
Then I collapse into my seat, hand on my pounding heart, and wipe the sweat from my forehead.
He can hear thoughts! He can hear! Thoughts!
He knew it was me because he heard me thinking. And he heard me thinking about the man who broke into my study. And he is a policeman-- God, how incredibly useful must that be?-- and he's married, though I don't want to dwell on that-- and he's a real person, he's really one of them, and oh dear Lord I completely neglected to warn him about Sylar, but he can hear thoughts!
Control. Control. What I need is control. I should write down my impressions. Or something.
He seems to be a fairly well-adjusted sort. I guess. It's nice to know they're not all psychotic deranged killers. Unassuming type. A little shy, but not bookish and shy like I am. Very all-American in general. Fairly good-looking. No, Mohinder, do. not. go. there. It is purely an objective observation. Of course. Part of my overall impressions.
His voice. Even better in person. I'm just worked up now. Too excited to think straight. If Eden had ever told me that she was one of them, I probably would have had the same reaction. (Poor girl. I hope she finds some peace, wherever she might be.)
Now I feel slightly sobered. Good thing, too. I think my excitement might have run away with me. I fear just how far it might have gone.
But there's still the issue of Sylar. I'll have to follow up.
Up until now everything was going so well.
Jan and I were talking about names and nursery colors on the way home. She was laughing every time I said the word "puce." (She said it reminded her of morning sickness.) I felt pleased, like a little boy who was being praised by his parents' friends.
Then we got home and the message light was blinking. And a moment ago she pressed the button. And now everything's going straight to hell.
"Hello, Mr. Parkman, this is Dr. Suresh." I go for the button, but I'm not fast enough. "It was a pleasure meeting you today. I'm terribly sorry, but there was something I forgot to mention during our conversation, and it's rather important--"
Janice turns off the tape. Puts her hands on her hips. Looks at me. Doesn't need to say a word.
"It's not what you th--"
"Don't lie to me, Matt!" From zero to volcanic eruption in 0.2 seconds. "You know that's not fair, since I can't lie to you!"
Wait, hold the fuck on, what kind of priorities are those? "But if you could, it'd be OK?" For real? She's pissed because she can't lie to me?
"I thought we'd agreed!"
"We didn't agree! You dictated!"
"Because you asked!" And from volcanic eruption, we proceed apace to flash flooding. "I thought you were going to put this baby first!"
"This is important to me, Jan!" Fine. She wants honest, she's gonna get honest. "This thing that's happened to me has totally screwed up my life. Why do you think I've been suspended, huh? Because of this!" I smack my own head a little. "This ridiculous thing I can do! I need answers!"
"And I need help!" she cries. "I can't handle this on my own, Matt! I thought you wanted to be a father!"
"I do!"
"Then why aren't you acting like one? God!" What really puzzles me about her is, she's not acting disappointed, just frustrated. Like I'm some sort of irritation she has to put up with to get what she wants. I'm not a husband, I'm one of her damned legal briefs. She'll revise me until I'm good enough for her and then ship me off to some judge and never think about me again.
The sarcasm leaps off my tongue. "Gee, I'm sorry, honey, I guess I must have misplaced the manual. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm hearing thoughts and lost three days of my life and have been..." I bite my tongue. I haven't told her anything about the FBI or tracking down Sylar. Or, God forbid, Ted. She doesn't need to know about the others. She's weirded out enough by me.
"What, Matt? What have you been? Confused? Frustrated? Feeling betrayed?" She throws up her hands like she's tossing me aside, like she's swatting at me as though I'm a mosquito. "I really thought you were going to do better than this," she said. Her thoughts go further. If I'd known he was going to be this unreliable, I never would have told him in the first place.
"What do you mean you never would have told me?" I say, grabbing her wrist. She looks down at it, shocked. "What the hell does that mean? What wouldn't you have told me? About the baby?"
That it's yours.
And it all comes tumbling down.
I let go. I stumble backward. She starts to shake her head. "Don't read my mind, Matt. That's not fair."
"Not fair!?" I can't read her eyes, not at all. I can barely stand up straight. "Do you know what you just thought?! Janice..."
She shakes her head again mutely.
I don't know how I find the strength to ask the question. "Janice, is that my baby or isn't it?"
She turns icy. I can practically see the prickles of frost crawling up her face. "Do the math yourself and figure it out," she says in a low and dispassionate voice. "You know when my last period was. You know when we started having sex again. If you want to know the answer to that question, you're going to have to figure it out yourself."
I'm staggering backward like I'm drunk. I grab a wall. It proves too slippery. I grab a chair instead. She's going for the phone. Why is she going for the phone? Who is she going to call?
I can't hear anything. Like water's rushing in my ears. Not her voice, not her thoughts, nothing. Just see her talking, glancing at the window, hanging up. She comes across the room and says, "The taxi will be here in 20 minutes. You have until then to pack. We'll work out the rest in a few days."
And that's it. I'm headed off to a hotel, having seen eleven years of my life shattered because I dared have lunch with a scientist. All the trust I thought I'd won back, gone. There's no going back now. I'm pretty sure of that much. It's one too many lies, one too many changing priorities.
I don't even know what I'm doing when I call the number. I just hear him answer, and when I tell him who it is, he starts chomping at the bit. He wants to tell me something. But I can't hear, still, so I just interrupt him. "You still want me to come to New York with you?"
Next: Parallel lines intersect