I sometimes think that shame, mere awkward, senseless shame, does as much towards preventing good acts and straightforward happiness as any of our vices do.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Charles Xavier closed the file folder and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Turning back to the letter that had accompanied the file, he read it once more:
Dear Dr. Xavier,
Despite our professional differences, you know that I have the utmost respect for you and your work. I am, therefore, writing to refer a patient of mine, a resident at St. Rita's. I have the greatest confidence that, with your expertise, you will be able to make considerable progress with him.
Joel McCree, 17, was referred to me by his family physician shortly after his mutation manifested two years ago. He was seen at the clinic as an outpatient for 8 months before a suicide attempt necessitated inpatient care with the residential program. His powers are invisibility (poor control) and a better-controlled phasing power, similar to that of the anonymous student you described in your last article for the American Journal of Mutant Psychology. Those of my students with telepathic powers report that he is insensible to them while in his invisible state.
McCree suffers from severe depression, avoidant personality disorder, and generalised anxiety. He is resistant to therapy and medications have had limited effect. Since his arrival at St. Rita's, his suicidal ideations have worsened. Due to his powers, guaranteeing his physical safety here is impossible. Further details can be found in his file, which I am forwarding to you.
The patient's family have reluctantly agreed that sending him to Westchester may be the only option left at this point. It is my sincerest wish that you will be able to accept him there.
Sincerely,
Gilles Visineau, S.J., M.D., Ph. D.
St. Rita's Residence, Ottawa
Gilles Visineau had professional differences with Xavier, all right -- at the last conference they had both attended, a debate on methods of care-giving had devolved into a shouting match. Visineau believed that non-mutants could provide the same quality of care as mutants, and had called Xavier's Institute "elitist" and a barrier to understanding between mutants and ordinary humans, and Charles had responded with...
Well, better not to dwell on that incident. Visineau had as good as apologised, with this letter. Charles was intrigued by the details of the case study he had read; was the invisibility a telepathic effect, or a physical manipulation of photons? Naturally a young man with such a power, poorly controlled, would find socialisation difficult and sink into depression. Charles was confident that with better command of his powers, young McCree would eventually overcome his emotional problems.
But obviously he would have to meet with the boy first. One could hardly make judgements based solely on Visineau's opinion.
That wasn't an insult, of course. Charles had been to St. Rita's before; it was small, a Jesuit-run clinic and group home with caring staff and fat endowments. Even Visineau had often been hailed as a miracle worker by his peers and by the community. Charles had the natural, niggling doubt of a blue-state American when it came to seeing social and psychological problems solved by religion, but even he had to admit that St. Rita's was an achievement.
Certainly it was impossible to forget the spectacle of seeing rows of mutant children in shirts and ties, sitting at Mass with as much respect as you could ask from pre-teens and adolescents, while the rest of the church was full of ordinary humans, the old women in chapel veils at the front and the young families ready to duck out from the back. No glares or frightened glances, and the students seemed more concerned with passing gum around on the sly than with watching for their own safety.
"It's a liberal parish, of course," Visineau had said with resignation after the Mass, when Charles spoke to him about it. "The ones who don't like it have fled, but before the exodus, well -- the bishop fielded a lot of complaints. Couldn't we keep the children with physical mutations at home, because they were a distraction? Couldn't we keep the telepaths at home, because they might intrude on people's spiritual moments with God? Couldn't we just have our own chapel, for that matter?"
"That was what we did at the Institute," Xavier said, but Visineau shook his head.
"I don't believe the garrison mentality has anything to offer. Connection with the community--"
Charles had interrupted, "I would hardly call a desire to keep my children safe from hate crimes a 'garrison mentality', Dr. Visineau. The situation in America is tense, to say the least."
With a most irritating Gallic sneer, the Jesuit responded with a thinly veiled attack on a nation that had elevated armed mobs to heroic status in history. Charles then asked why, if connection with the community was so important, certain students were kept cloistered in St. Rita's.
"Certain students?"
"I counted twenty-seven students in the pews. That leaves thirteen who didn't go, doesn't it, Doctor?"
Visineau was white with rage, but he spoke calmly. "Three are catatonic. Four are too ill to leave the home. One has the flu. Four got permission to attend last night so they could sleep in today, and one is unable to control his power enough to make Mass...profitable."
"And you don't think those numbers are high, for a school of forty students? Three in catatonic states? What are you doing for them? Praying?"
The argument went downhill from there. Charles had never known a colleague who could get a rise out of him so easily.
But Visineau, that stubborn, stubborn man, had given up on Joel McCree. And now he was asking for help from Charles's faithless survivalist enclave of paranoiacs in Westchester County.
Utmost respect! Charles took a moment to savour that before putting the letter away.
Jean went with the professor to Ottawa -- there was some discussion of whether Scott should go as well, but Charles decided that it was overkill. The McCrees had already decided to send the boy to the school, and by all reports Joel was not the rebellious type.
And Charles had chosen Jean for good reason; her upper-class background would make it easy for them to blend in. Joel's father was a politician, notable for his liberal voting record and philanthropy. The family lived in Manotick, the wealthy suburb on the Rideau River outside Ottawa, and driving past the handsome houses in their vast manicured yards, Charles wondered if it was some latent snobbishness in him that made him...appreciate this sort of mission a bit more. Or was it merely aesthetic? The lull of the familiar? Strange how miles away -- a nation away, even -- a rich man could feel at home with the rich. It upset him.
The oldest and finest house on the street was the McCree residence, a tall ivy-covered Victorian with additions that harmonised perfectly with the older architecture. The gardens surrounding the house were inviting, all low stone walls and lilac bushes heavy with bloom, white and violet and mauve. Everything spoke of a family that took care to get things right, people who had the luxury of satisfying perfect taste.
A young woman, a college student in a tailored suit, answered the door. She stared at them for a moment with an expression of mingled excitement and fear, which was quickly replaced by a synthetic, polite smile. "Dr. Grey and Dr. Xavier? Right this way."
She led the way down a hallway calculated to impress. The paintings were originals, and good ones, although Charles did not recognise the artists. Hyperrealistic still lives with wet-shining fruit and tin foil, brooding forest landscapes, scratchy old farmhouses in the snow, and something watery pale and abstract that intrigued him. The furniture was off-handedly old, rather than self-consciously "antique", but every stick of it was finely turned and sleek.
The senator and his wife were waiting in the well-appointed living room. Mrs. McCree, surprisingly enough, resembled an elder hippie, with long grey-streaked dark hair and a string of heavy amber beads around her neck. The senator had a bony face and a crooked grin, and an incongruous charm that could very well have been superhuman. Nothing manipulative, just a quiet charisma as natural as the north pole. They were both in their early sixties; Joel was their only child, born late, their Isaac.
They had obviously been waiting in the living room for some time. Mrs. McCree was fingering a balled-up Kleenex, and the senator's shoulders sank in relief when he saw Charles and Jean enter. "Professor, Dr. Grey, I'm so glad to meet you. I know we spoke on the phone, but you have no idea--"
Charles waved him off. "The pleasure is mine, Senator. I've been reading about your work; it's inspiring. Mrs. McCree, very glad to meet you. Is Joel...?"
The couple exchanged glances.
"He's upstairs," said Mrs. McCree. "We think. It's hard to tell with him."
She tried to keep her tone light on the last part, but her voice broke and she shook her head, reaching for another tissue. "Excuse me! Will you have some tea? Dr. Grey?"
Charles allowed her to serve them tea, brewed strong, and a plate of squares that crumbled most delightfully into a napkin. The living room was so well furnished that he was nearly envious, and upon noticing the gleaming Petrof upright piano, brown as northern furs, he did feel a rare and novel stab of covetousness. The mansion had a very fine piano, of course, but the glossy Petrof made him ache to play it. Somebody did play it; a Schott book with a broken spine was open on the stand.
Jean seemed less taken with the place, and asked the McCrees about Joel's discharge from St. Rita's.
"Yes, he's been home for almost two weeks," said Mrs. McCree. "We've hardly seen him, although he told us he wouldn't leave the house. We trust him, of course, but it's just...hard to believe. You'll understand when you go up there."
Senator McCree nodded. "Frankly, I'm surprised that St. Rita's was able to take care of him as long as they were. When he first went there, it was hard. Knowing that no matter how much we wanted to, we couldn't help Joel with his problems. But we believed that he was getting the kind of care he needed. Now...it seems like Father Gilles just quit on him. We know he didn't; we understand that. But it's easy to feel abandoned, in a case like this."
Charles put his cup down. "I can certainly understand your feelings. I have no doubt that Dr. Visineau has done everything he could for your son. He believes, however, that the traditional models are sufficient for treating mutant children with mental problems. Except when they aren't."
A moment of ice, there -- they could criticise Visineau, but he couldn't.
"I respect Dr. Visineau's integrity and ideals very much," Charles backtracked, allowing a hint of diplomatic irony in his voice, to show that he had registered their disapproval and was not cowed. Senator McCree frowned.
"It is my belief, though," Xavier continued, selecting his words with great care, "that your son would benefit from different methods of teaching and support. I'm sure you will agree that the present state of things is...not desirable."
Mrs. McCree reached for the teapot, although no one's cup was empty. "Yes. Jim and I discussed all this last week, Professor. We both agreed that it was time to explore new options."
"I hate to send him so far," Senator McCree said to no one in particular. He pushed his half-full cup forward a few inches and let his wife fill it. "Surely someone -- in the whole country --"
Mrs. McCree patted her husband's hand. "Like we said. We've decided. Isn't Toronto almost as far? And Michaels isn't as well-recommended as Dr. Xavier anyhow. You're not betraying anything by sending him to New York."
"I know this decision can't have been easy for you," Jean said quietly. "But the professor believes he can help your son. And I believe it too."
"It's a decision we've already made. Jim is just being difficult."
Senator McCree sighed. "I don't even know if he's here, you know. I went up last night to put some things in a bag for him. He might have been in the room, he might not have. He didn't show me his cards. I might have walked through him."
The senator's hands were shaking, making the tea in his cup slosh back and forth. He put the cup down, folded his hands, and exhaled. "But Lily's right. We decided. As -- as far as we know, he's still upstairs in his room. I heard music coming from up there, early this morning. The bag is there. I wrote him a note, too, but...if you can, have him say goodbye to us before you leave, eh?"
"We will," said Jean.
And Charles felt a wave of grief break from the senator, visible only as a convulsive movement of his throat.
Joel's room was on the third floor of the big house, and it was accessible only by a very narrow flight of stairs on the second floor. Jean could have lifted the professor up telekinetically, but Charles shook his head. "You go on, Jean. I believe I'll have another date square, Mrs. McCree."
So Jean went up by herself, bending forward to keep from hitting her head on the low ceiling. She knocked on the small, dark door, hearing the faint sound of music within. Acoustic guitar chords, and a haunting female voice.
I don't have to tell you
That you're all alone.
Here, what you will...you not
Go home.
You'll have to be with your own kind.
I'll have to stay with my own kind.
Help me --
The music cut off abruptly. Jean had to suppress a shiver; she could sense nothing in the room on the other side of the door, no human mind, but clearly someone was there.
"I'm coming in, all right, Joel?"
No answer. Jean turned the knob and opened the door.
The room was large, with several dormer windows that looked out over the green backyard, and a skylight grey with rain. In one corner, an L-shaped desk that looked like it saw heavy use, stacked with books; in the opposite corner, a narrow bed piled with quilts and handmade afghans. They were not a cold family, Jean realised. Not like hers. In spite of that excessive good taste downstairs.
The suitcase and note sat in the middle of the floor. Under the far window, the stereo -- probably Joel had been there last, and Jean squinted at the empty air, trying to see if there was any sign...
Nothing.
Jean cleared her throat. "Joel?"
The radiator made a ticking sound, and she jumped.
"Joel, my name is Jean Grey. I'm a doctor, from Professor Xavier's Institute in the U.S. The professor is downstairs. I think your parents told you we were coming today."
No one, there was no one there. She was talking to herself. Not a breath, not a thought. How could he be so silent, if he was there? Why didn't he say something?
"I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind. Can you make yourself visible for me?"
She made out a slight whirring, and realised it was the stereo, on pause.
"All right. Maybe later. Um..." Suddenly Jean realised what this reminded her of -- leaving messages on answering machines or voicemail, something she had always detested. "Well, I'll tell you about myself, first. I work with people like you, who have special gifts."
"Like Father Gilles?" Jean jumped. The voice was quiet, like someone talking in another room. It gave no clue as to the speaker's location; he could have been three feet away or on the bed in the opposite corner. Jean thought she could make out a shape by the window, a shivering in the air, but then realised it was just heat from the radiator meeting the cold draught.
"A bit like him, yes. But at Xavier's School, we -- the teachers and staff -- are mutants too. People who can understand what you're going through, people who've had our own struggles with controlling our powers, and been successful."
Silence. He probably knew that already, she thought. His parents would have told him -- or would they? Perhaps they were just as reluctant to come up here and talk to empty air. Maybe they delivered their messages as quickly as possible and ducked out again without offering details.
"Joel? Are you there?"
A page on the desk rustled. Jean realised that her heart had been pounding since she had come in here.
"No one is going to force you to come to Westchester, Joel. Your parents think it would be best, and the professor and I agree, but..." She trailed off, thinking, then said, "If you'd rather stay, just make a noise for me. Drop something, or -- or turn the stereo on again, all right?"
Without warning, then, a card fluttered to the ground in front of her. It seemed to appear out of thin air, and Jean had to suppress a very unladylike yelp. She picked up the index card, which seemed to be old, edges warped by moisture. On it was written,
A teacher had made it for him, probably -- the handwriting was precise and elegant. Jean remembered what Senator McCree had said about Joel's "cards", and recalled a reference to them in the file sent from Dr. Visineau. He used them to communicate, but only sometimes. Other times, Visineau said, it was just as if he were dead, or unconscious. Incommunicado.
"Okay, Joel, I'll wait until you're able to talk. There's no hurry."
She waited for what felt like a very long time, although the clock on the bedside table said it was only a few minutes. It was hard not to look nervous, not to fidget or stare, but Jean tried, knowing that if she looked impatient that it would only make Joel more skittish. She had been shy once too; she knew that much.
Then, like a Polaroid developing, a figure faded into view by the window. Jean caught her breath.
He was thin, painfully thin, and the frayed grey sweater he wore showed a deep hollow above his collarbone. Young for his age -- Jean wouldn't have guessed more than 15. But his face! She was shocked, and didn't really know why. Perhaps she had been expecting him to be ugly, or at best average, but the boy by the window was stunningly handsome, despite the thinness of his face. High cheekbones, dark blue eyes, a soft, sensuous mouth. His auburn hair was getting long, but with a haircut and some decent clothes...and a few months' worth of meals...
No, even then he would still not be handsome, not really. Whatever was wrong with him was visible. He reminded Jean of some of the schizophrenics she had seen in the psych hospitals -- many were young, and good-looking, but their misery was palpable. There was just something not quite right. Joel had that look to him, as if he wasn't really seeing anything that he looked at.
Somehow, being visible made his thoughts accessible to her. She felt his choking nervousness, heard him thinking: don't fuck this up, McCree, she already hates you, just say something, it isn't hard. He had a loud mental "voice", thoughts pouring by at a fever pitch. His hands and bare toes were clenched and white.
"I'm sorry," he said, almost the way other people might say hello.
"That's all right, Joel," said Jean, and heard the relief in her own voice. "I'm glad to see that you have some control over your powers."
"No! I don't, no, I can't do it for long." He nearly faded again, but grabbed a handful of the curtains frantically, and his outline became sharp once more. "It's hard. I'm sorry."
"Joel, when was the last time you ate something?"
"I don't know. Yesterday? I don't know what day it is."
"It's Wednesday. The twelfth of May. Are you hungry?"
"No, I'm okay, thank you." It wasn't true; she could feel his hunger, ravenous, like an animal in his stomach.
"Do you think you could eat something anyway? We can go to a restaurant on our way out of town."
He shook his head. "I can't go to restaurants."
No further explanation, but Jean could imagine that the presence of strangers and the constant possibility of disappearing would be stressful for him.
"We can get take-out and eat in the car. How about that?"
He shifted his weight, still looking uncomfortable. "Okay."
Jean picked up the suitcase and opened the door. "Is there anything else you want to bring? Your cards?"
Joel flushed dark red, and nearly disappeared again. He picked up the stack of cards from the desk, and paused by the stereo to press eject and put the CD in his bag. While occupied, he seemed more solid.
When he had his shoes on, he tried to follow Jean to the door and abruptly disappeared. The duffel bag also disappeared, then reappeared as it fell to the floor. Jean remembered Dr. Visineau's notes -- small objects close to Joel's body, including clothes, became invisible with the rest of him, while larger, heavier things tended to phase through and become visible once they passed out of his range.
More jarring was the sudden telepathic silence, the knowledge that she was watched but could not sense the watcher. Suppressing her discomfort, Jean picked the bag up, and said, "Don't worry, just follow me, okay? The professor will help you."
As she lurched down the steps, narrowly avoiding a smack in the head from a low beam, Jean realised that for the first time she was by no means certain that the professor could help.
Soon they were on the road, driving past woods and farmland. They had left Manotick behind and were heading for the airstrip in the country, where the Blackbird was waiting. Jean was doing the driving, and Charles could sense that she was glad not to be alone with the boy anymore.
In the back, Joel was eating a twelve-inch sandwich from Subway and answering Charles's questions in the shortest possible sentences, apologising every few minutes. His mind was loud, as he berated himself with a bruising self-hatred, and Charles found himself listening without really intending to.
Thoughts raced like the beating heart of a captured animal. The boy's internal monologue was dizzying, a catalogue of every change of expression on Charles's face, every muscle that Jean shifted as she drove, every silence that lasted too long.
Still, Charles could also sense release. The goodbyes between Joel and his parents had been awkward, the boy smouldering with shame while the senator's grief was still palpable. But more than the grief was the shock of love.
"We love you," Senator McCree had told his son, without qualification or evident embarrassment, holding him in a tight embrace on the front steps. "You're our baby. We just want you to be happy."
Perhaps that was why Charles had so enjoyed being here -- it was such a welcome change from frightened parents who were outraged that fate had not given them a "normal" child; from runaways and victims of abuse; from bereaved or abandoned children who, like Scott and so many others, had been left in institutions that could offer little help.
And yet even being surrounded by love, in a family that had both money and power, was not enough to make you safe.
Notes: The quoted song lyrics are from "Help Me Lift You Up" by Mary Margaret O'Hara, on the album Miss America (Virgin, 1988).