Page 113 of Gifted & Talented

“Oh. Uh. Saint James, I think.” Arthur realized the examiner was making a political point about colonization and what reason an English woman might have for still being in a country even after it had fought a bloody war for independence. Which seemed fair, albeit unproductive.

Arthur said, “Is it cool if—” If I loved a person and not an idea. If I carry guilt and desire in the same very misfortunate heart. If I honestly thought it was an improvement on her palate, and didn’t really ask a lot of questions about why. If I felt the charity work was kind because it seemed conflicting to view it as patronizing. If she was honestly very funny and strange, and I’m acting very calm at the moment, but actually I’m in shock, because I don’t like the things I’ve had to acknowledge today, but also, importantly, I didn’t really want her to die. Ireallydidn’t want her to die, I lost a person and a future today, or maybe I already lost them, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all the same. So is it okay—?

“If I leave?” he finally managed.

“Sign this,” said the examiner, and Arthur signed it and left.

62

There is another ending. There’s one where Philippa only gets terribly injured, where perhaps she is visited in the hospital by Gillian Yadav Wren, who points out that Philippa’s apparent financial destitution is not the worst thing that has ever happened, given that it occurs with great frequency in media of all kinds. In this version of the story, Philippa might rewrite her selfish behaviors and her narrow concern for the mere aesthetics of life in favor of seeking real redemption and accountability, having been suitably visited by the ghosts of Christmas past and/or a mental health professional. Which isn’t to say that Gillianhasto be cast in this role, necessarily, but of all the Wrens, Gillian does know a fixable problem when she sees one. In this case, she could use an assistant, and what Philippa needs is a job.

But if I allow you to believe in this ending, you might forget that life is short and meaningless, a narrative left incomplete. So you’ll just have to hold it in your head as something equally true and nonexistent, like Schrödinger’s cat, or Riot Wren, or unrequited love.

63

Also, I might be taking liberties with what the medical examiner actually said to Arthur. There may have been less of a political agenda than what I interpreted, having heard the story secondhand; some of this is paraphrased. Anyway, I promised to tell you about Yves. I said he could read minds, which was slightly hyperbolic on my part. It was just kind of a shorthand at the time, because we had other things to worry about then.

The longer story is: Yves Reza began experiencing seizures when he was very small. Except Yves’s seizures weren’t normal seizures, because whenever they happened, his consciousness would bounce around in time and space and he would see the insides of a person, their thoughts and hopes, and the outsides of them as well, where they were and what they were doing. Initially his mother thought it was demon possession. But then they discovered it wasn’t a demon, or at least not a demon they could cast out (they tried), and Yves had a very strange knack for predicting things, which was very helpful for the rest of the village, and indeed the entire family. Both Yves’s mother and his father’s wife both agreed he just needed a hobby, something more appropriate to focus his attention on.

Yves ended up doing a lot of what most cultures call “women’s work,” or fine motor skills performed for long periods of time like weaving and embroidery, because methodical consistency kept him relatively centered. They kept him in the present most of the time, instead of jumping into other people’s futures arbitrarily to see what they would be eating for dinner or what they’d become in ten years. Later, Yves realized that things that required him to focusor dieachieved even greater success in this regard, given the stakes. Driving a car at top speeds with tangible risk of peril, for example, was a hugely more effective way to remain mindful in the moment. Also, Yves discovered drugs, which is important to the story. If you haven’t already, you’ll soon see why.

Fundamentally though, Yves’s Yves-ness was unharmed by the circumstances of his… let’s call it profound neurodivergence. He was an exuberant person, one who didn’t typically give into the darkness of other people’s doom. He had a frighteningly short attention span, so that was probably part of it, but also, he had a way of capitulating to the whims of the universe that made him a less damageable type of person.

Which was a pure, indefatigable authenticity that irritated Lady Philippa Villiers-DeMagnon very much over time, grating on her increasingly as she realized it was not an act, and that Yves was not, in fact, a dark and complex person masking his pain with joyful cravings for waffles. Which isn’t to say that Yves is not complex, because loving a world for the existence of waffles is a very impressive thing to do when the oceans are frankly just lying in wait for the chance to swallow us up. But Yves is not, himself, dark, and Philippa craved darkness because she wanted to feel needed; she wanted to be necessary to someone’s happiness, but Yves would be happy with or without her, because Yves was a happy person. Yves was what Meredith Wren had promised everyone they could have, which in that context is absurd. Presumably you don’t need me to expound on that.

But Yves did have his low moments, like when he knew that Arthur was going to believe Philippa’s cry for attention, or when he knew that Philippa was going to die. He saw it the day before, when he and Philippa were alone and she was delivering her own ultimatum—not the one Gillian had suggested, about telling Arthur the truth, but a more predictable one about marrying heror else—which would necessitate the ending that Yves had known in a less psychic way was soon to come.

Still, Yves had thought there would be more time, given the literal darkness in his vision. He felt Philippa’s impatience, her certainty that Arthur would come for her soon, that she could successfully pry Arthur away from his life, and instead of warning her about what he’d witnessed—he never warned people; there was no point in it really; did it really make it better to know what was coming? almost never, no—Yves had simply said darling, please don’t do it. Just leave poor Arthur alone.

“What about me? I’ve beenabandoned,” Philippa shouted at him. “Don’t you care about our family?”

“Arthur is our family,” said Yves, who believed this.

“Yes, but ourbaby—”

“We don’t have a baby.”

Philippa ignored him. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course we do—”

“Pippela. My darling Mouse.” Yves rose to his feet and took both her hands. “Would an orgasm make you feel more inclined to honesty? The throes of passion do have a way of lightening your mood.”

“Don’tpatronizeme,” Philippa said in a tone of devastating frustration, though she gave in almost instantly with a sigh, flouncing onto the bed. “Why did you want to come here, anyway?” she muttered to herself, propped up by her elbows as Yves divested her of her cashmere sweatpants. “I hate this house. It’s dreadful. I can’t stand Gillian.”

“Gillian is a lovely woman,” said Yves, kissing his way up Philippa’s thigh.

Philippa threw herself backward, ragdolling onto the duvet. “Don’t tell me you lovehernow instead of me,” she said with utter misery.

“Oh, I do love her,” Yves said guilelessly. “I would woo her myself if she wasn’t madly in love with her husband.”

“Is she?” asked Philippa, frowning.

“Oh, yes,” Yves said. He kept meaning to have a talk with Arthur about it. “I worry Arthur is unaware of the extent of it.”

“Why should you worry about that?”

“Because they love each other very much but don’t know how to say it in a way the other can understand. I think it’s fixable,” said Yves, “though perhaps once it’s fixed Arthur will have no further use for me.” He deflated slightly, then brightened. “But it will be okay, because then they’ll be together, and Arthur will be happy.” Joy returned to him like a flame of righteousness. “He won’t need us anymore, but that will be fine.”

“Maybe for you, but what about me?” demanded Philippa, propping herself up again to frown at him. “If we leave them to each other, then what does that mean for you and me?”

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