Scene Twelve

am summoned for yet another experiment. Familiar faces sit across from my lone chair in the Dining Hall: Dr. Benson, Emily, Donna, and Doug.

Doug: "I mentioned your doorknob incident to the doc."

Benson pulls his little recorder out of a satchel on the floor. "Most peculiar, I must admit, Sean."

A silk napkin, a silver spoon, and an old letter rest on the polished oaken surface.

Benson: "This experiment will see if you possess psychometry talents and to what extent they exist."

My eyes scan the objects again. "Who's to say that I want to do this for you?"

Donna scoffs. "The money setting in your account speaks for itself, Sean."

She's got me there. It wasn't too hard to say no to the money for just watching me do what I do, maybe even help me to understand it better.

Doug leans in over the table. "Money aside. You and I both know that you're gifted. You know you wanna at least try."

I blow the frustration out of my chest. "Fine. What do you want from me?"

Benson pokes his pen in the general direction of the three objects. "Pick one. Study it. Tell us if you pick up on anything – anything at all."

My unsteady hand hovers over each item. The spoon. Light sensations of warmth and home, but little else. The old letter. Faded and stained like the inside of my dad's favorite coffee mug. Deep lines. The silk napkin. Younger and more vibrant. Something strong clenches around my wrist and holds it in place. All three watch with puzzled curiosity.

Benson mutters into his device. "Subject has stopped cold over the napkin."

It's soft and smooth to the touch. It doesn't feel that old to me. An ethereal fog clouds my vision. Images and sensations barrage my body.

"This belonged to an older man. Late forties."

The smell of fresh dry cleaning fills my nose. The warmth of a light coat settles over my shoulders.

"It belonged to an expensive suit that he wore. He didn't really like wearing it, though. Thought it was too stuffy."

Donna's chair creaks back across the floor from the table. Her breathing speeds up.

Still images of leger books and business checks. "He ran his own business."

Crowds cheering. Sneakers squeak across polished wooden flooring. Somewhere, a ball bounces and flies through a net.

"He loved basketball, didn't he?"

Donna attempts to conceal her sniffles in the cuff of her shirt.

Oranges. "He was from Syracuse."

Donna: "That's enough. Please stop."

Too late, sugar. The car's over the hill and someone else is driving.

"A name. Give me a--"

Letters drift into view one by one.

"Paul."

Donna whimpers. "I said that's far enough."

"Toothman?"

The imprint of the gentle giant in his work clothes with Donna by his side comes into focus. I shake off the trance. My attention turns up to the sobbing girl on the opposite side.

"Your dad?"

Donna: "This can't be. You're lying. You're fucking lying! This is sick. How could you?"

Doug's awestruck gaze turns to Benson for answers. "What just happened?"

Benson shakes his head and goes to speak, but I've already got it.

"You duped me. Why?"

Benson: "It was the only way that we could know for sure if your gift was legitimate. Please, (he points to the remaining objects) try another one."

I lean back and cross my arms.

Benson: "A real reading this time. I promise."

"Fine."

I pick up the old letter. Old and frail. Very delicate. I close my eyes and drift back into the trance. Weightlessness. I'm floating over the French countryside. Rows and rows of grapes as far as I can see. The scenery shifts. London streets. Constables on their rounds. Light footsteps echo off the narrow strips of cobblestone. It shifts again. Now, a steamship. Its loud foghorn rattles my gut. Pain. Sorrow. Surprise. The stench of death and decaying flesh turns my stomach.

I drop the letter and slide back from the table's edge. McAllister's darkest corners now exposed for only my eyes to see.

Emily: "Sean? What's the matter?"

Benson: "What is it? What did you uncover?"