Frameshift

Molly nodded. “It can be. But I make a conscious effort not to invade people’s privacy. I’ve been called ‘standoffish’ more than a few times in my life, but it’s quite literally true. I do tend to stand off — to not be too close to people physically, keeping them out of my zone.”

“Reading minds,” said Pierre again, as if repetition would somehow make the idea more palatable. “Incroyable,” He shook his head. “Do other members of your family have this — this ability?”

“No. I questioned my sister Jessica about it once, and she thought I was crazy. And my mom — well, there are nights my mom never would have let me go out if she could have read my mind.”

“Why keep it a secret?”

Molly looked at him for a moment, as if she couldn’t believe the question. “I want to live a normal life — as normal as possible, anyway. I don’t want to be studied, or turned into a sideshow attraction, or God forbid, asked to work for the CIA or anything like that.”

“And you say you’ve never told anyone before?”

She shook her head. “Never.”

“But you’re telling me?”

She sought out his eyes. “Yes.”

Pierre understood the significance. “Thank you,” he said. He smiled at her — but the smile soon faded, and he looked away. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if I could live with the idea that my thoughts aren’t private.”

She shifted on the couch, tucking one bent leg under her body and taking his other hand. “But that’s just it,” Molly said earnestly. “I can’t read your thoughts — because you think them in French.”

“I do?” said Pierre, surprised. “I didn’t really know that I thought in any language. I mean, thoughts are, well, thoughts.”

“Most complex thought is articulated,” said Molly. “It is formulated in words. Trust me on this; this is my field. You think in French exclusively.”

“So you can hear the words of my thoughts, but not understand them?”

“Yes. I mean, I know a few French words — everyone does. Bonjour, au revoir, oui, non, stuff like that. But as long as you continue thinking in French, I won’t be able to read your mind.”

“I don’t know. It’s such an invasion of privacy.”

Molly squeezed his hands tightly. “Look, you’ll always know that your thoughts are private when you’re outside my zone — more than three or so feet away.”

Pierre was shaking his head. “It’s like — mon Dieu, I don’t know; it’s like discovering your girlfriend is really Wonder Woman.”

Molly laughed. “She has much bigger boobs than me.”

Pierre smiled, then leaned in and gave her a kiss. But after a few seconds, he pulled away. “Did you know I was going to do that?”

She shook her head. “Not really. Maybe a half second before it was obvious.”

Pierre leaned back against the couch again. “It changes things,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to, Pierre. It only changes them if you let it.”

Pierre nodded. “I—”

And Molly heard the words in his mind, the words she had been longing to hear but that had yet to be spoken aloud, the words that meant so much.

She snuggled against Pierre. “I love you, too,” she said.

Pierre held her tight.

After several moments, he said, “So what happens now?”

“We go on,” said Molly. “We try to build a future together.”

Pierre exhaled noisily.

“I’m sorry,” said Molly at once, sitting up again and looking at Pierre.

“I’m pushing again, aren’t I?”

“No,” said Pierre. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He fell silent, but then thought about what Shari Cohen had said to him that afternoon. Howard never told me. You shouldn’t keep secrets from someone you love. Pierre took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Damn,” he said at last, “this is a night for great revelations, isn’t it? You’re not pushing, Molly. I do want to build a future with you. But, well, it’s just that I may not have much of a future.”

Molly looked at him and blinked. “Pardon?”

Pierre kept his eyes on hers, watching for her reaction. “I may have Huntington’s disease.”

Molly sagged backward a bit. “Really?”

“You know it?”

“Sort of. A man who lived down the street from my mother’s house had it. My God, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”

Pierre bristled slightly. Molly, although dazed, had enough presence of mind to recognize the reaction. Pierre wanted no pity. She squeezed his hand. “I saw what happened to Mr. DeWitt — my mother’s neighbor. But I don’t really know the details. Huntington’s is inherited, right? One of your parents must have had it, too, no?”

Pierre nodded. “My father.”

“I know it causes muscular difficulties.”

“It’s more than that. It also causes mental deterioration.”

Molly looked away. “Oh.”

“Symptoms can appear anytime — in one’s thirties, or forties, or even later. I could have another twenty good years, or I might start to show signs tomorrow. Or, if I’m lucky, I don’t have the gene and won’t get the disease at all.”