The Enlightened (Mind Dimensions #3)(42)

My brain is still struggling with what my eyes are seeing.

It looks as if Lucy cut her wrist... which would make the strange note I found in the office a suicide note. Only that doesn’t compute—Lucy would never kill herself.

The key question is whether she’s still alive. Judging by the color of the water, she’s lost a significant amount of blood.

I approach her, and without hesitation, place my palm on Mom’s forehead. Getting into the state of Coherence is the longest, most difficult mental effort of my life. As I slow my breathing in an effort to relax, I have to constantly remind myself that while I’m in the Quiet, no time is passing for Lucy. The situation, though dire, isn’t getting any worse as I’m doing this.

After what feels like an eternity, the familiar state overcomes me, and I’m in Lucy’s mind.





*





I’m sorry, we write.

I, Darren, instantly disassociate. She wrote the note herself, which I knew was likely from the handwriting, but since writing can be faked, it’s still a revelation.

Feeling sick, I fast-forward the memory.

We’re standing next to the bathtub, checking the water. It’s nice and warm. We get in, pick up the razor, and wait until our body adjusts to the temperature.

I, Darren, can’t watch the rest. I know she’s going to cut her wrist. I know, without doubt, this isn’t a staged suicide.

I jump forward to the moment I entered this room.

We’re floating in a river of relaxation. The earlier nausea is gone. Bright white lights dance in our vision. Our eyes feel like they do after we get our picture taken by Sara’s damned overzealous camera with the super-bright flash. It also reminds us of the days when we used to stare up at the sun as a little girl. Memories of being that little girl in a village in China appear in vivid details in our mind. But then these memories dissipate, taking with them all the cares of the world. Only a sense of contentment remains.

I, Darren, disassociate with a slight sense of relief. She’s alive, though I have no idea for how long. When I first saw her in the tub, surrounded by her own blood, my initial instincts told me that mobsters had staged this ‘suicide’ as payback. But I was wrong. My mom committed this act herself. She wrote the letter herself. She cut her own wrist. And she’s letting herself bleed to death. But this doesn’t make sense. Could she have been Pushed? That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Perhaps, as a small mercy, the Pusher had blocked her from feeling any of the horror of what she did. But this ‘mercy’ is also causing her to let go of life that much quicker.

That’s not going to f*cking happen. Not on my watch.

Laser focus overcomes my mind, and I begin Guiding my mom.

You will fight for your life.

No matter what it takes, you will hold on.

If pain helps you stay conscious, allow yourself to feel pain. If pain will make you go into shock and lose your grip on life, then it will flow out of you as though it were never there.

Live. Survive. You have people who love you. You have people who need you. You can’t f*cking give up...

After what feels like hours of pouring jumbled instructions into Lucy’s struggling mind, I get out.





*





I walk up to my frozen body and don’t even recognize my face. My expression isn’t mere horror; it’s something that makes my face look aged and deformed. I didn’t think grief could do that. And I didn’t even fully understand the enormity of what was happening then, not like I do now.

I reach out, and ignoring the insanity of the gesture, I give my frozen self a hug. As soon as my hand touches his neck, I phase out.

As soon as the sound of running water is back, I spring into action.

I run up to the tub, the razor crunching underfoot, and reach for Mom.

A moment later, she’s in my arms, her bathrobe a wet, bloody mess. Her body is tiny, and for the first time in my life, she seems fragile.

As I lift her, she takes in a ragged breath, looks at me incomprehensibly, and tries to speak.

I walk as fast as I can. I can’t drop my precious cargo, so I make sure my steps are even. With all this adrenaline running through my veins, she feels weightless.

I enter the bedroom, leaving streaks of blood on the carpet. When I place her on the bed, the white sheets instantly turn pink. I take one of the sheets and rip it into strips. I then tie off the makeshift bandage around her wrist, creating a sort of tourniquet to staunch the blood flow as best as I can.

She opens her eyes and focuses on me for a moment. Then she whimpers, saying something unintelligible, and her eyes lose focus.

“Hang in there, Mom.” When I speak, I realize I’m crying. “Just hang on.”

She feels cold, so I wrap her in blankets. Carefully but swiftly, I carry her down the stairs.

I have to lay her on the ground to open the car door. Thank God for those blankets.

The car is locked, so I have to waste valuable seconds running back into the house to get the keys. I’m now grateful for Lucy’s obsessive neatness. As always, the keys are on the little hook by the front door.

I lay her in the back of the car and enter her mind. I don’t let myself experience her trauma, not because I’m gutlessly avoiding feeling her pain, but because I don’t trust myself to not take it away. Taking away her pain might cause her to give up, and I need her to fight.