Probably the voice wasn’t anything supernatural, you credulous primitive, I thought. I sat there in the hot water and finally leaned out to set the empty goblet on the floor, heard the slight scratch of its circular base on the tile.
Probably it was sound waves, radio waves, technology: that was the best idea I’d had. I’d been so childish to think of magic when it was likely the product of science—some manipulative brainchild of one of these peripatetic characters.
Maybe it had been one of them all along.
I ALMOST FORGOT Ned that evening, preoccupied by what Burke had said. I debated whether to go to dinner and face that crowd. We could always make food in our kitchenette or even drive to town.
But Lena wanted to go because another child was coming, the boy with the robot. She knew this and planned to sit with him. I was worried about the emotional effects of Ned’s sudden appearance, although she seemed to have taken it in stride. I wanted to watch her closely and give her the small assurances she asked for, so I said yes.
And when we entered the café it felt homey. We sat down with the little boy’s family, at their invitation, and as I exchanged small talk with his parents I studied my fellow guests, wondering who among them was in Burke’s club and who was not. The Lindas? The chic couple? Kay? The angry young mogul?
The mogul, yes. I’d heard him on the telephone that night, yelling; and now I thought, That’s what it was about. He’d told someone what he’d heard, the person on the other end. I watched him and Kay at their table alongside the wall, leaning close as they confided in each other. Maybe they were discussing it right now, I thought.
The mogul’s name was Navid, Kay had told me. It meant good news.
And Kay: Kay with the babies at the NICU. Had she heard it from one of them?
I’d accepted the voice, then gratefully dismissed it when it ceased. Once it had loosed me from my moorings so that I had to tread water in a fluid world; finally, when it fell silent, I’d stepped onto solid ground again. But now there was a new unknown, of how and why I’d got to the motel and how the others had, and the earth was shifting beneath my feet again. How much I hated that jarring movement, the rush of fear! I’d tucked it all behind me and moved on; I’d adapted to it as best I could and concentrated on bringing up my girl.
Surely there was nothing else I could have done.
IT HAPPENED THAT I didn’t have to buttonhole Don. With his customary placidness he stopped by our table. The family from town had left and Lena was picking at a berry cobbler. He had a tray of cobbler dishes in his hands, which he set down on the table next to us before he placed his hand on the back of my chair; I studied the waves of whipped cream on top of the pie.
Don’s friendly, familiar slump suggested nothing too significant was happening; and yet he knew.
“The others found us through a website,” he said. “Call it a support group.”
“But I didn’t,” I said.
Lena wasn’t listening but waving her spoon and making faces at Faneesha, who sat across the room making them back at her. I thought of the Hearing Voices Movement; I thought of support groups in general, and how I’d never been drawn to them.
“Well, you needed something else,” said Don. “You recovered and they’re still struggling. You needed a different kind of assistance.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Thank you so much for today. Your timing was perfect.”
“No trouble,” said Don. “But we’re still worried about you.”
“What you just said, though, it doesn’t explain how I knew where to come.”
“You could think of it like salmon,” he said, cocking his head. “Or migrating birds. They know where to go, but no one really knows how they know.”
“Ducks fly south in winter,” said Lena, who’d put down her fork. She had no idea what we were discussing, but lack of context has never stopped her.
“That’s right, Lena,” said Don solemnly. “That they do.”
“Except Lucky Duck,” said Lena. She patted him on the chair next to her. “This guy’s lazy.”
“But ducks and geese and salmon migrate in groups,” I said to Don. “They have other ducks and salmon.”
“Mostly. But not always,” said Don lightly. “Individuals of many species engage in solitary migrations. Humpback whales, for instance. Young songbirds often make their first trips alone. Scientists say direction and distance are written into their genes.”
“They travel for food or breeding, don’t they?” I said. “But I didn’t travel for those reasons.” Because Lena was there, I couldn’t be more specific and I wanted to keep it casual.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Don, and took a bowl off his tray before he picked it up to move on. “Have some cobbler. It’s on the house.”
BACK IN the room I went online briefly.