The Telepath's Daughter

The Puzzle of Paint

Melinda Reid, almost four years old, stared at the single swipe of paint before her.

White. Titanium dioxide. Found in pigment. Found in sunscreen utilizing a non-chemical barrier. White reflects full spectrum. Black absorbs. She frowned. Yet titanium dioxide sunscreen doesn't turn your skin white. The tiny line between her brows eased. But it does prevent skin from tanning, so it is true to a paler nature, but not pure white. She squinted, sensing a conundrum. White, but also not. Absolute concepts are rare. The world runs on gray. Not white.

She remained still, fixed, staring. She considered the length of the streak of paint. Math is inherently a faulty paradigm. Distance can be divided into increasingly smaller increments to an infinite degree. Yet distance can be covered, grasped, measured. The tiny frown line returned. Time and movement negate the theoretical concepts of pure mathematics.

The frustrating thing was that if Melinda tried to voice her thoughts, she would falter. The concepts darting through her mind didn't seem to want to synch up with her still childish grasp of the spoken language. She would say something like "You can divide a step up smaller and smaller and smaller forever. So how come I can take a step, if it goes on forever? Something's not right, Daddy!"

Her daddy, Spencer Reid, would smile in a slow, sad way. He knew what it was like for ideas to outpace one's ability to communicate them. Verbal communication, anyway. Most people didn't have the choice of any other kind. Not like some. Not like the Reids.

Melinda's amber eyes remained focused, exploring the endless depths of intellectual possibilities engendered by paint.

Meanwhile...Uh-oh...

Ms. Claudia Keller was concerned. The Reid child had been contemplating that one, white swatch of paint for quite some time. The other children in her pre-school class were happily immersed in their colorful creations, splashing vibrant, primary colors with joyful abandon. Claudia had found that finger painting was a sure winner, especially on days like today when inclement weather prevented her students from going outdoors for recess and the school gym was in use by the older students.

But little Melinda Reid was different. Very, very different.

The girl had only been in class for a few days, but Claudia was beginning to think a parent-teacher conference was in order. She just wasn't sure how to tell the parents that their daughter wasn't...wasn't... What? What is it about that child? The teacher studied Melinda with the same calculating expression Melinda aimed toward the dab of white paint.

Claudia had met Spencer and Ana Reid when they'd brought their daughter in on her first day. Clearly, they were concerned and suffering separation anxiety more than the little girl, which was odd in itself. Usually the children fretted and cried about being torn from Mommy and Daddy's side. But the tiny girl with the honey-amber eyes had smiled sweetly at her distraught and pregnant, mother. She'd reached up and patted the woman's rounded belly. With her as yet unformed child's palate, she'd said, "Don't worry, Mommy. I can do this."

Unusual comment from a three-year-old; one Claudia didn't think she'd ever heard in a first-day-of-school situation.

Then the man had bent low; father and daughter touching foreheads in a way that made the teacher think it was an oft-performed ritual. And a cherished one as well, judging by the lingering way the two had gazed into each other's identically-colored eyes. When the man had finally straightened, little Melinda had beamed at him. "I remember everything, Daddy. Just like you."

Again, an odd comment in such a childish, lisping voice.

"I know you do, Mellie-bear," the father had responded. "But it makes me feel better, like I'm doing my job, when I remind you anyway." His eyes had filled, becoming liquid gold. "I love you Mellie."