The Telepath

Gerald can read minds but only the boring parts. He knows what you’re planning to have for lunch, whether you remembered to lock your car, if you’re worried about that weird noise your dishwasher has been making. The profound thoughts, the deep secrets, the hidden desires — these are as opaque to him as they are to you or I. He’s apparently had the ability since birth. Or, he’ll add, at least as long as he can remember.

We meet for coffee every Thursday at a place that makes terrible coffee but has excellent pastries. Gerald likes routine. He says it makes the noise easier to filter.

“You’re thinking about returning those shoes,” he says, stirring what is certainly too much sugar into his americano.

He’s right. I am.

“And you’re wondering if your cousin actually likes her boyfriend or if she’s just afraid of being alone.”

Right again.

“But I can’t tell you what you actually want to know,” he says, and this is our Thursday rhythm. We always end up here.

What I want to know is whether my father forgave me before he died. We’d had a fight before he passed. A sudden stroke, a near-vegetative state, and then he was gone. I visited with him each day in the hospital but he didn’t seem to be in there. Not really.