Failure to follow any life plan
We have no control over his actions, Will reminds me, no one does, possibly not even him. Much of a sociopath’s game is aimed at controlling people and outcomes, Will says. All you can do about a sociopath is steer clear of him. Ned’s a time bomb, Will has insisted since the abduction, and we don’t know that it’s finished exploding.
Still, neither of us was able to come up with another course of action for me—not one that wouldn’t risk Lena being taken again or hinge on police cooperation.
So here I am.
Now almost every piece of information I give Will about Ned seems to escalate his anxiety, so I find myself trying to avoid mentions—from thousands of miles away there’s no use alarming him. He’s done too much to help already: I’m confused about why he has time for all this for us, for me. I wonder what I’ve ever done for him other than need his help.
There’s an imbalance of generosity.
Panpsychism is one of the oldest philosophical theories, the view that mind or soul (Greek: ψυχ?) is a universal feature of all things, and the primordial feature from which all others are derived. —Wikipedia 2016
ON THE WAY to our potluck dinner with the church group Lena sat bolt upright in the back of Ned’s Town Car holding Lucky Duck. She doesn’t relax around her father since the kidnapping—her rigid stance stops just short of afraid, bespeaks reserve and attentiveness.
In what I felt was an egregious lapse in taste on the part of the consultants, we were made to wear matching dresses. Sitting there in the Town Car in my dress that was the same as a six-year-old’s, I felt beyond foolish but hadn’t bothered to protest. Also it was too cold for dresses by far; there was slushy snow on the ground; dresses don’t look too good with puffer coats atop them.
But of course Ned couldn’t have cared less about my discomfort or opinion. And Lena was pleased, saying the twin dresses reminded her of dolls you can order from a catalog in “look-alike” form, with features custom-selected to mimic your own hair and eyes and skin. It was one of those dolls that Ned had offered her during the kidnapped period.
“You didn’t bring the lamb I gave you?” he asked from the passenger seat, texting rapidly, not bothering to turn.
“Lamb got sick,” said Lena gravely, a doctor delivering the bad news. “She had to go in koranteen.”
“Quarantine,” I said.
“Quarantine,” said Lena. “She got a cancer in her tail.”
“Sounds serious,” said Ned.
“Uh-huh. She’s almost dead,” said Lena.
Ned did turn and look at her. I was surprised too.
“I see,” he said.
It piqued his interest for a second, but then he went back to pushing buttons. He was holding the phone at a different angle now, and I could see he wasn’t texting about business or the campaign; no, he was playing Angry Birds.
Once we pulled up at the church, though—it was a potluck in the basement—he snapped into his public mode, his face suddenly animated. The light of Ned’s personality has an ON/OFF button, which when he’s alone with us now is typically set on OFF. It’s fine with me, in fact I prefer it since he’s nearly a robot when the switch is off, far easier to tolerate shut down. The ON switch makes me anxious with its vibrant, fizzing current.
When he’s switched off I can almost ignore him.
“Hey Mom. Lamb’s not dying,” she whispered to me, as Ned was getting out of the front seat. “Lamb’s fine.”
My instructions for this more fluid assignment were to avoid all topics of conversation except the shortlist Ned had specifically allowed: food, weather, his qualities as a good husband, and, if additional content was absolutely needed, I could reminisce about the times when Lena “did cute things. IE u can take out phone, show Haloween bunny fotos” [sic].
Only Lena made any waves, as it turned out, and even those were small ones.
“Do you like my dress?” she asked, as she and I stood awkwardly near a food line, trying to be nice to some middle-aged ladies in the congregation after Ned pronounced a blessing that was also a stump speech.
“Why yes! I do!” said the woman.
“My daddy made me wear it.”
“I see!”
“My mommy doesn’t like matching dresses,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I do. They have them in a catalog. You can order your own doll to look like you and even order the same dress. Like not in doll size but for a real person. My mom said matching outfits might be OK for dolls but not for real people.”
The women eyeballed each other, smiles faltering.
“Oh, now, I like the dress fine,” I hurried. “I just think it looks better on you, honey.”
I set a hand on her shoulder as I turned to the ladies. The penalty for poor performance will be, Ned had written in an email, and left the sentence unfinished.