Clear-Sighted

Short fiction: speculative drama. Clare struggles to balance her emerging psychic powers with new motherhood. ~3000 w

Welcome to The Story Scrapbook, a fiction newsletter by E.B. Howard. If you’re new in town, check out my Fiction Directory for navigation.

This story (written as a collection of vignettes) is part of my superverse, and takes place several years before Radiance does. As a heads-up, it’s an emotionally heavy story dealing with postpartum mental health and relationship growing pains. But, there’s a happy ending. Promise.

November 2008

The screaming in her mind wouldn’t stop.

Clare held her breath while she watched the seconds on her watch tick away, willing herself not to grab for her phone. It wouldn’t do any good to call Keith. Her husband liked data and statistics almost as much as she distrusted them; even the most irrelevant assortment of numbers made him feel more secure, and he seemed to think the same should be true for her. If she called Keith, he wouldn’t take her side of things seriously enough to stop and empathize. Instead, he would pull out that stupid piece of paper with the respective probabilities of postpartum anxiety and spontaneous telepathic onset written on it. He would point out how much stress she was under, with no steady childcare and both of them working two jobs, him still in school, her own brand-new degree sitting unused. At worst, he might illustrate the point by actually quoting one of the outrageous comments she’d had to deal with. At best, he might try to reassure her that she wasn’t a terrible mother—statistically speaking.

No. She shouldn’t call Keith.

Clare’s hands were shaking as she spat her breath out and sucked in another just as quickly, exerting all her strength to keep it in her lungs by force. The exercises were supposed to help. They had to help, if only to prove that these episodes were all in her head. The crying that only she could hear was imaginary, like the nightmares where she suddenly died alone with the baby, and nobody found her for hours or days. Like the people she saw moving past her at the edge of her vision, disappearing when she turned her head, and the intrusive images of horrific consequences to come from perfectly normal courses of action. It was mom guilt and an overactive imagination. That was all.

Her phone rang in her pocket, and Clare fumbled for it, forgetting she was curled against the back wall of the staff restroom. Her mother-in-law had Eleanor today, and it was her name on the caller ID. The breathless, unremitting shrieking came clearly over the tinny speaker before she even got it to her ear, slicing straight into Clare’s soul. It was all she could do not to burst into tears. “What’s going on? I-is everything okay?”

“It’s fine!” Keith’s mother said breezily. “We’re having a wonderful time, aren’t we, sweet pea? Yes we are. —listen, you packed two different bottles and I just wasn’t sure which she was using. Did you want me to make up six ounces, or four?”

“Oh—” She had to think about it, somehow, while a wordless distress systematically shredded the lining of her stomach. “I—uh, it doesn’t matter. Anything. Six.”

The combination of Ellie’s shrill howling on the phone and the matching wails in her head easily drowned out whatever cheery conversation Clare was supposed to be listening to. Finally they fell silent together, replaced by a sense of soft contentment wrapping itself around her chest as Mrs. Harper pattered on.

Clare herself didn’t feel content at all. She excused herself, snapped the phone shut, and threw up violently into the sink.

✨🔮✨

December

“Clare,” Keith said, his voice reluctant and tense. “What is this?”

Clare kept scrubbing at the burnt sugar welded to the surface of her sheet pan. She was desperate to actually finish some task while Eleanor was settled, and she didn’t have to turn around to know what he was holding. “Nothing. They were all negative.”

“What do you mean, ‘all’?”

“All three in the box. It’s a value pack. They were on sale.”

Her husband’s tone had softened on that second question, but she knew he was fed up. It was radiating off him and spattering across her back like bubbles popping in caramel, no matter how calm he tried to sound. If it was such a trial for him to find patience for her irrational, impossible perspectives, she wasn’t sure how long he’d continue making the effort.

They’d been wonderful together up until now. Living separately during their engagement, both immersed in college life, meant that there’d never been much urgency to their inevitable personality conflicts. Now, there were no outs—they were stuck with each other. Clare was starting to feel she was looking up, trapped and helpless, watching some great weight prepare to fall.

“If you keep taking pregnancy tests, you’re going to make your anxiety worse,” Keith said finally.

“I’ve been nauseous and having dizzy spells for a couple of weeks now,” she said. “I wanted to make sure.”

“Those are both very common anxiety symptoms.”

“Two things can be true at once. Anxiety doesn’t rule out anything else.”

“Why won’t she just listen?” he grumbled behind her.

“She is listening,” Clare snapped. “I’m just not agreeing with you. There’s a difference.”

An uncomfortable silence settled, and then Keith’s face appeared at the edge of her vision, frowning sheepishly. “Love, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—it must have slipped out by accident.”

“Sure,” she said, lip curling. “That was awfully loud to have been accidental, but sure.”

“I will admit that I was thinking it, but I wouldn’t say something like that to you.”

Clare kept staring at her work. “All right. So maybe I’m reading your mind now, is that what you’re suggesting?”

He didn’t respond. A grumbling discomfort suddenly rippled through her body, and she threw down the steel wool and peeled off her gloves. “Forget it. The baby’s about to want me.”

“How could you know that?” Keith asked.

She shook her head and walked around him. As the kitchen turned into the hallway, she could hear Ellie cough and begin to wail.

✨🔮✨

January

Her sense of self had evaporated so subtly that Clare could no longer say when it had happened. She was swimming in a sea of other people’s surface thoughts, never exactly sure whether the words coming to her lips were her own or something assembled by a particularly emphatic stranger. She had begun bringing Ellie everywhere she could; her daughter’s fuzzy baby psyche, all intense attachment and unmet needs, was an unexpected anchor. If there was no such thing as Clare left, at least she could be Mama. Nobody was ever confused about that.

They were at the neighborhood clinic today. Pediatrics, the three-month visit. These were always hard for her, but at least this one was almost over. Clare was rocking the baby and steeling herself for the torture of heel-pricks and vaccinations when the doctor unexpectedly turned back to her. “Oh, and how are you doing?”

“Me?” Clare asked. Suddenly it was herself she heard reflected back for a moment, hunched and hoarse and spent, before the other woman’s thoughts darted away to other patients and other problems. “I’m…”

She was what? Alive? Getting by? Even if she said she was fine, it wouldn’t be believable.

“I’m really struggling,” she said carefully. “I know I’m supposed to be happy, but…everything’s changed. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Yeah, that happens with a lot of new moms.” She pulled a small sheet of glossy cardstock from the display of advertisements and waited while Clare apologetically struggled to free up a hand to accept it. “I know it’s hard, but if there’s any way you can hand the baby off for a while, you should try to make some time for yourself. Even just five minutes a day can help.”

But she already spent so much time away from her precious girl, relying on other people for a job that she surely should have been able to do by herself—somehow. Clare tried to imagine shirking a late-night feeding to stand on the balcony alone, staring into the clouds turned day-bright by city lights, too tired to do anything that might distract her from the turmoil forcing its way into her mind. All that came were images of other lonely people, in far more terrible places, and she had to physically narrow her shoulders to get away from them. “I don’t think five minutes can help this,” she said weakly.

The doctor gestured to the flyer she’d handed her: Common Signs of Postpartum Depression, sponsored by a pharmaceutical company. “I can write you a script,” she said.

“Oh, I thought…could I maybe try counseling first?” Thoughts flashed of waitlists, denied claims, and flaky referrals before the doctor said that the medication was safe and would be far more effective. Clare forced a smile and declined. It wasn’t that she was opposed to medication, but she didn’t think it would do much for the actual problems underneath.

Because a psychiatric evaluation still seemed like the last chance to rule out for certain that this was all in her head, she sacrificed a week of precious evenings to see if it was even possible. It took three calls to get the insurance company to admit clearly that their legal fiction of a policy didn’t cover mental healthcare, and that in any case, being diagnosed with what the rep called a restricted condition meant it would be fair game to kick them up to the most expensive tier. And what was a restricted condition—well, if that tone of voice was anything to go on, just about everything in the book. It took another five calls to find a receptionist who would discuss her employer’s private billing structure without scheduling an in-person consult. The fifth one quoted prices by the quarter-hour, with a minimum fee larger than either of Clare’s weekly paychecks; the forced smile was getting more and more strained, but she kept it up long enough for another gracious refusal before she hung up and cried.

Keith came in while she was still trying to wipe the tears without waking up the baby. “You didn’t get an appointment, did you?”

She shook her head. “There’s no way. The logistics are never going to work out, and even if they did, we can’t afford it. So—” She looked away from him, evading those searching eyes. “I guess I’m just going to have to get over myself.”

“I really think you should see somebody,” he said.

Clare said nothing, her thoughts trained tightly on counting divots in the texture of the wall, afraid to accidentally pick up something she didn’t want to hear. She’d gotten half-decent at shutting him out, at least, after all the arguments this month. What they really couldn’t afford was her being unwell—true, though nothing she didn’t know already. If only she could get better by reminding herself of what a burden she was being, everything would have been fixed weeks ago.

But what Keith added was, “You’re worth it.”

She looked back at him blankly.

Her husband reached over and took one of her tensed hands between his. “I love you, Clare. I want you to get better. And we’re supposed to be in this together, so let’s act like it.”

She gasped slightly for breath, trying not to laugh. “I—I love you too. Thank you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. I’m sorry.” She leaned into him, slackening her mental defenses just a little; when nothing jumped out from his thoughts to hurt her, she let them go. Staying near Ellie had been helping, but the sense of security that wrapped around her with Keith’s arms went deeper than that. She felt whole again, herself again. All this time that the world was pushing her out of her own head, he’d held onto the part of her that belonged to him.

There was such a thing as Clare, and someone loved her.

Keith kissed her hair, and she kissed his cheek, and they sat together in blessed, tired silence for as long as it lasted.

✨🔮✨

February

It only took two sessions for the psychiatrist—just as efficient as he was expensive—to get Clare’s case history, size her up, and advise her that she didn’t seem to have lost touch with reality. If she really wanted to get rid of the visions, though, he’d found that prescription antipsychotics sometimes did the trick.

The thought had given her pause. Again without quite realizing how it had happened, she’d begun adjusting to her new life as though it were normal. It was normal, now. She’d grown used to being able to reach out and check on her loved ones, and the thought had occurred that if she could hear their hidden troubles, maybe she could also help them. So many people just wanted to be seen. Disabling her powers would no longer feel like healing; it would be a sincerely felt loss.

“No,” she’d said, “I just want to be able to control them better, really.”

That was how she’d ended up at DiFusion. He’d recommended a psychic support group that met in the back of a record store in Hyattsville, and one of the other regulars was a girl named Jaclyn. Jaclyn was just barely into college and in the middle of having her first nervous breakdown, and she would only speak telepathically—which didn’t, of course, help matters. Having realized early on that she was the only person in the group with any other form of support, Clare found herself offering to take her to doctors’ appointments and translate. One of these was with a Dr. Marcos, who was working with Jaclyn on controlling her other psionic abilities and who promptly took an interest in Clare’s as well.

She wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about the prospect of being a research subject, but Keith liked the idea of certainty, and she felt she owed it to him to try. Besides, there was a stipend. Now that he’d finished his last semester and started working full-time, she could cut back her own hours with just a little bit more coming in.

Her intake interview was done by a surprisingly cheerful doctoral student whose ambient thoughts apparently, never, ever stopped to breathe—and were very loud. Clare imagined Marissa’s mind for a moment as a shark doomed to swim in circles forever in order to remain oxygenated, then forcibly thought of the color beige instead so that she could be more charitable about it. Though she was still working on a fully effective mute system, beige at least dealt with the surface broadcasts.

“So—I love this one, this is the best part. I learn so much about people. So, this one is really for your benefit more than ours. It’s just to get you thinking before we get into the really detailed stuff. I’m not even going to write it down, see?” Marissa set her clipboard down on the table between them. “Totally confidential.”

“Okay,” Clare said uncertainly.

“Okay. Is there anything you use your abilities for right now, on purpose?”

She nodded. “I’m getting better at directing my visions, so I can check in on the baby.”

“Aww, that’s great. Like from across the house, instead of using a monitor?” Marissa asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But mostly I use it when I’m at work.”

The other woman looked surprised. “Is that over or under a mile away?”

Clare scrunched up her face, thinking it over. “…about fifteen, fifteen-plus miles usually.”

“Wow. And they’re clear visions?” Marissa was picking the clipboard back up to scribble something, confidentiality apparently forgotten. “I’m going to have to check the literature. We’ve never had anybody who could visualize over more than five hundred feet or so. That’s so much more powerful than most cases…oh, sorry. You’re here, so I know you’re probably not thrilled about that.”

“It’s okay. But it’s that rare?”

“Uh, yeah.” She looked at Clare thoughtfully, flipping her pen around her fingers. “Like—don’t take this the wrong way, but you could totally be a superhero if you wanted to.”

Clare smiled, not offended but also not quite sure what to say to that. She had only been able to come up with small, quiet uses for her psyche’s hypersensitivity. Did clairvoyance really have anything to do with heroics?

Despite the strangeness of the thought, it didn’t leave her, but kept making patient circles around her head. Perhaps there was something she could do, if she only paid attention.

✨🔮✨

March

The writing on the side of the building said, Psychic Wanted.

Clare rolled Ellie’s stroller back and forth to keep her entertained as she frowned at the writing, then looked ahead, down the sidewalk, to her husband. “Keith, do you see this?”

Keith stopped and set down the potted plant she was making him carry back from the farmers’ market before he turned to look too. “Well, it’s a wall,” he said. “But that’s not what you’re pointing to, is it?”

“No…hmm.” When she squinted at the letters, they shivered and glowed under her gaze, as if they wanted her to lean even further in.

Pseudonymous purveyors of justice and hope seeking independent talent. Open audition, open call. If you play well with others, if you want to help make your city a better place, and if you can find us, we want you for THE LIGHTHOUSE COLLECTIVE.

Clare had heard of the Lighthouse. For being vigilantes, they had a good reputation; they really seemed to be in it for the citizens, not their own glory, and they kept collateral damage to a minimum as a rule. Actually, Jaclyn spoke highly of their leader, Sundancer. Not that Clare seriously thought of herself of superhero material, of course—but if she were to join up with somebody…

“Clare? What is it?” Keith asked.

She smiled at him sweetly. “So, do you remember when we were first dating, and you said you liked how I was into volunteer work?”

Thanks for reading! For more stories set in this universe, see my superverse directory.

Or try the house recommendation, Radiance #5, in which Sundancer and the Lighthouse first appeared:

5: Master of Puppets