The Scattering. Kimberly McCreight
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Shepard’s mouth turned down. She was never a fan of sarcasm. “People do go through intensely anxious periods and come out the other side. Others have good and bad periods cyclically throughout their lives. With anxiety, there are no one-size-fits-all explanations or predictions, Wylie. No absolutes. The unknown can be frustrating, but also encouraging. You’re here now. Perhaps we should start there.”
“Do you believe my ‘Heightened Emotional Perception,’ this ‘Outlier’ thing”—I hooked quotes around the word and rolled my eyes in a totally transparent attempt to show I wasn’t taking it very seriously—“could be the whole explanation for what’s wrong with me?”
My dad had called ahead to explain to Dr. Shepard what had happened at the camp and its link to his research, including his newly coined “Heightened Emotional Perception,” or “HEP,” which I think he felt had the benefit of heading off any eventual comparison to ESP. He had also told her I was an Outlier and what that meant. It was a relief not to have to go into the details, especially about me being an Outlier, which I found one part thrilling, one part confusing, and two thousand parts terrifying. It was like learning that for years you’d been carrying around some kind of enormous benign tumor in your belly. Sure there was good news: you weren’t sick and you’d lose eight pounds when the watermelon-sized thing was removed. But you still had to contend with the daunting sense that you’d been invaded, occupied. Worse yet, you’d had absolutely no idea.
“Wrong with you?” Dr. Shepard asked. “Right and wrong is not an effective way to frame a discussion about anxiety.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, though how could she? I wasn’t even sure what I meant. I wanted certain answers (how anxious was I really?), but wanted to avoid others (what did being an Outlier really mean?). I wanted to off-load my anxiety without taking on being an Outlier, to cherry-pick my truth. “Do you think it’s possible that I’m not actually anxious at all?”
Dr. Shepard stared at me and I felt with troubling clarity the moment she decided to play it straight, instead of opting for the good old therapy bob and weave. It wasn’t necessarily comforting, this being able to see through people so easily. It made everyone so much weaker, their gifts so much more ordinary.
“I believe awareness is a powerful thing, Wylie. Do you understand?”
I nodded. But then reconsidered. “No, actually, I don’t understand at all.”
“This Heightened Emotional Perception could have exacerbated your anxiety, certainly. It’s possible that in some instances you have mistaken the emotions of others for your own. However, I’d say that it is highly unlikely that being an Outlier is the explanation for all your anxiety. Let me ask you this. Do you feel anxious now?”
I tried to pull in some air. It wasn’t easy. And there was that cold heaviness in my stomach for sure. “Yes, definitely.”
Though my anxiety did feel a little more separate now that I could pick out its peculiar chill. More like a backpack I was wearing than one of my internal organs.
“I can at least assure you that the anxiety you are feeling right now is yours, not mine, Wylie. Bottom line: I think the answer is yes, you are anxious, and, yes, you have this Heightened Emotional Perception. Where the line is will be something for you to figure out.”
But that was the problem. In those first hours after Jasper and I escaped, still reeling from what had happened to Cassie, being an Outlier felt like it might be the answer to everything that had ever been wrong with me. The secret to my freedom. But so quickly “being an Outlier” turned into a bottomless box filled with questions and more questions. So far I had decided to close the lid and lock it up tight. Knowing that I alone reserved the right to use the key.
Not yet, though. I had politely declined to engage in any of my dad’s “follow-up testing” and had taken a pass on him teaching me to “do more” with my Heightened Emotional Perception or “reading” ability. I’d even intentionally avoided learning where my dad’s research was headed. I knew only his two main questions: the “scope” of the Outlier ability (what could we do if we practiced) and the “source” of the Outlier ability (where did it come from).
After he had accidentally discovered the three original Outliers—me and the other two girls—my dad had done additional “exploratory” studies using a handful of volunteers, but nothing that could have been published. It was during these exploratory studies that he had noticed the Outliers were all girls, and only teenagers. All of that was before what had happened up at the camp. Now, my dad had been spending most of his time on applications and proposals to get the money he needed for a proper, peer-reviewed study that would prove the existence of the Outliers. Then, and only then, would he be able to move on to the more complex issues of source and scope. For now, as far as the scientific community was concerned, it was like nothing had even happened.
“And what if I don’t want to be an Outlier,” I said to Dr. Shepard, my throat pinching unexpectedly tight.
“You may not be able to choose whether or not you are an Outlier, Wylie. Or, for that matter, whether or not you are anxious.” Dr. Shepard leaned forward and looked at me intently. “But you can decide what you do with who you are.”
I BREATHE IN to the count of four, trying not to exhale into the phone still pressed hard to my ear. “Jasper, what do you mean, that your mom ‘has a point?’ A point about what?”
“About the not living with her,” he says. “Maybe I’ll just hit the road or something. You know, freedom and all that. Figure it out as I go along.”
“Figure what out?” I snap, my fear rising.
“Figure out everything,” he says. “I’m sorry I woke you, Wylie. It was good you were asleep. We can talk about my mom and everything later, or tomorrow. Or whatever. That wasn’t even why I called. I was awake and wanted to say hi. That’s all.”
This is a lie. Even through the phone I can feel it.
“I’m up now. You don’t have to go.”
We are silent then in a way that I hate.
“You were right, you know,” Jasper finally goes on. “When you said it was my fault that Cassie got so out of control.”
I wince. I did say that—before we even got to Maine—maybe more than once. And, my God, did I mean it at the time. It’s hard now to even remember how much I had blamed Jasper for everything.
“I never should have said that, Jasper. I was afraid it was my fault for being a bad friend. Cassie getting messed up wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Even if I liked that Cassie was so messed up?” Jasper says. And I can see now how deep his guilt is. He doesn’t even need to blame himself for what happened in those last moments in the cabin to make himself responsible for Cassie being gone. He sees himself as the one who set the train loose down the tracks. “That way I could keep on saving her over and over again.”
My stomach twists, deep and cold. My feelings, not Jasper’s.
“Who doesn’t like being the hero?” I offer, scrambling for the right thing.
“Yeah,” Jasper says. “But people don’t usually end up dead because of it.”
The awful flatness to his voice is back.
“Why don’t I come over?” I say. “You don’t sound like you should be alone.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“It’s no big deal. I don’t mind.” Already, I’m getting out of bed. My dad will take me to Jasper’s even if he’s not going to be thrilled.
“No, Wylie,” Jasper says, louder this time. “I’m serious. Don’t come. I don’t want you to.” He takes a breath. “I—it’s my mom.