The Fallen

I reasoned that if my condition was part of the reason Gina had gone, other synesthetes might tell me how to minimize or disguise its negative effects. Using these techniques, maybe I could bring Gina back to me. I also wanted to know if my synesthesia would change over time, and if so, what I could expect. And I was just plain ready to talk to people who wouldn’t think I was addled when I told them I could see their words.

I’d always worried that word might get back to the department if I attended a meeting, and people might assume that my brain wasn’t working properly. But now, driving toward Normal Heights, I didn’t care what people like Chet Fellowes or Roger Sutherland or Bryan Bogle thought of my brain. I was tiring of the bullshit — mine and everyone else’s.

So I drove home with the same kind of eagerness I used to have, anticipating Gina. But as soon as I walked in, the new smallness of the house hit me again. No messages. Not even a hello from Vince and Dawn, or more pity from Rachel. Just as Uncle Jerry had experienced after the death of Aunt Melissa, the temperature of the house was much warmer than it should have been in March. I opened all the windows and checked the temperature on the thermostat — eighty.

I got the Synesthesia Society meeting information off the Web, then washed my face in the bathroom sink, put on a clean shirt, and headed right back out.

I’d read that synesthetes consider their condition a gift and that high numbers of artists, performers, and writers are synesthetic. The great painter David Hockney is said to hear colors as music. It is also said that Balzac wanted very badly to be synesthetic but was not. Although I’m not an artist, I do know that I’m a better detective now than before my fall, because I can see very clearly when someone, such as Carrie Martier or Abel Sarvonola, is lying.

I’ve also read that there is no such thing as synesthesia. Some researchers have claimed that synesthetes are simply victims of their own “overactive imaginations” or are perhaps suffering from the abuse of hallucinogenic drugs. This uninformed view has fallen out of favor. There is an entire department at the University of California, San Diego, dedicated to the study of this phenomenon, which leads me to believe that what I have is “real.” There is an American Synesthesia Association, a UK Synesthesia Association, as well as an International Synesthesia Association. There are tests to see if you really have it. Several good books and many abstracts have been published on the subject, and many lectures have been given. I know for a fact that synesthetes don’t invent what they see and taste and hear. We’re not delusional. It’s not that we see UFOs or Sasquatch or spirits of some kind.

The meeting was held at the community center in Hillcrest. The chapter president was Moira Handler, a hefty, fiftyish woman with short blond hair and sober gray eyes. There were twenty-three people there, ranging in age from around twelve to maybe seventy. Eighteen of them were women and fifteen of the women were left-handed. Snacks and drinks were arranged on a pair of long tables set up in the back of the room. Most were homemade. After some social chatter, the doors were closed, the synesthetes took their seats, and Moira went to the podium.

She welcomed the members and introduced the first visitor, Lillian, a young woman from north San Diego County. Lillian had found out about the group online but was not sure if she was genuinely synesthetic or not. She was unsteady and fawnlike in her blue jeans and a long, worn, burgundy-colored velvet coat. As she talked, I suddenly regretted being here and mentally concocted a story about coming to the meeting because my wife was pretty sure she was having synesthetic experiences but was too shy and uncertain to come here on her own. But I can’t lie any better than I can cuss, so when it was my turn I stood and introduced myself and said that I’d come tonight because I’d begun experiencing synesthetic symptoms after an accidental fall. My voice wavered slightly and I wondered if anyone noticed. I focused my attention on Lillian, and tried to pretend that we were the only two people in the room.

Moira said she’d seen my fall too many times on television and was very happy that I had not only survived but was now “gifted.” She said I was living proof of either “miracles or majestic good luck.” A hearty round of applause followed. By the time the applause ended and I sat back down I felt okay again. I’d never been ashamed of who I was, and these people weren’t ashamed of who they were, so what was the problem? I thought about people like Chet Fellowes and Roger Sutherland and Abel Sarvonola and realized that they were enemies whether I had synesthesia or not, and that if news of my attendance here tonight got back to them I was really no worse off. I was beginning to feel the same way about them that I’d felt about the muscular husband trying to rip me off for Gina’s Hikari Cosmos styling scissors — mad and more than a little willing to do something about it.

Moira read the minutes from the last meeting and reported that the SDSS had $289 in the general fund. They had run up $26 in paper and postage for the March newsletter. Many members were behind on their annual dues, which were supposed to be paid by March 1. She glanced at me and said that yearly dues were $50, which included a Summer Solstice Party in the Bongo Room of the Outrigger Motel and discounts at Indy Tire & Wheel, courtesy of member Kris Shuttler’s husband.