Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

  “Next week may be too late. The onset of mental illness can be really rapid, and if it’s not diagnosed immediately—”

  “Maeve is not mentally ill. Or deaf or anorexic or planning to cut off her hair and sell it to get money so her father can come home.”

  “Cut off her hair?” Mary Clare cried. “Why would she—?”

  “It’s in Little Women,” Briddey said. “Which you insisted that Maeve read, as I recall. They’re only books, Mary Clare. And you should be grateful she’s reading instead of spray-painting graffiti on her school or setting fires or being recruited by terrorists on the internet.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “She’s not being recruited by terrorists,” Briddey said. “I only said that to show you how ridiculous you’re being. Maeve is fine. Look, I really have to go.”

  “Wait,” Mary Clare said. “You’re not still planning to have that EED done, are you? Because I read this thing on the internet that said they don’t last, and you have to have them redone every three months—”

  “Tell me later. What?” Briddey said, as if speaking to somebody else. “Yes. Right away. Sorry, Mary Clare. Gotta go.” She hung up.

  Her phone promptly pinged. She checked to make sure the text wasn’t from Trent—it wasn’t; it was from Kathleen—and then shut off her phone, got her overnight bag out of the trunk, took the elevator up to the Marriott’s lobby, and caught a taxi to the hospital, directing the driver to let her off at the side entrance so there was less chance of someone seeing her.

  She might as well have walked in the front door. Once inside, she was told she had to go to Patient Admissions, which was right in the middle of the lobby. She filled out the admission forms as quickly as she could and then waited impatiently as they scanned her insurance card, looking anxiously around.

  An aide finally came for her, calling her name out loudly, and Briddey hurried after her, eager to be out of sight. The aide took her upstairs and into an examining room where a large, cheerful nurse fastened a plastic ID bracelet on her. “My, what beautiful red hair you have!” she said admiringly. “The EED is a very routine procedure, and you’re in excellent hands with Dr. Verrick, so there’s no need to be nervous.”

  Are you kidding? Briddey thought. This is the first time today I haven’t been.

  “You were very lucky to get him as your surgeon,” the nurse went on. “He’s very much in demand.” She handed Briddey a hospital gown and left her to change into it.

  Briddey did and then turned on her phone to see if Trent had texted her. He had. So had Kathleen, with the names of three more psychics, and C.B., with links to articles about the unintended consequences of fen-phen, thalidomide, and the Industrial Revolution, and a picture of Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine.

  Maeve had texted her, too, in all caps, “WHAT DID YOU TELL MOM?,” the words almost quivering with outrage, which could only mean Mary Clare had latched on to the terrorist thing with both hands.

  I am so sorry, Maeve, Briddey thought, and read Trent’s text. It read, “On my way. See you after surgery.”

  She was about to text him back when the nurse reappeared, plucked the phone from her hands, and said, “We’ll put this and your clothes and purse in a locker for you.”

  The nurse took her vitals and gave her a waiver to sign, which released Dr. Verrick and the hospital from all responsibility if the EED failed to work and/or the connection proved to be only temporary, and an informed consent form listing all the possible side effects of the surgery: coronary thrombosis, hemorrhaging, seizures, paralysis, loss of life.

  But not a word about becoming a vegetable. Or about having her organs harvested. There, you see, C.B.? she thought, signing the forms. It’s perfectly safe.

  “Now let’s get you on the gurney,” the nurse said. She helped Briddey onto it, covered her with a white blanket, clipped an oximeter onto her finger, inserted an IV line in the back of her other hand, and hooked up a bag of saline.

  “Do you know if Trent’s here yet?” Briddey asked her.

  “I’ll go check,” she said, and went out, only to return a moment later with a distinguished-looking man. “This is Dr. Verrick, who’ll be doing your surgery,” she told Briddey, and to him: “This is Ms. Flannigan.”

  Thank goodness C.B. isn’t here. Or Maeve, Briddey thought. Because his expensive suit and gold Rolex watch fit C.B.’s picture of Celebrity Plastic Surgeon perfectly, and his hair, with a touch of gray at the temples, was even more neatly combed than Trent’s.

  But his manner was warm and reassuring, and he seemed genuinely pleased she and Trent were having the EED done. “I can guarantee it will add a whole new dimension to your relationship,” he told her. He took her through the procedure, telling her just what was going to happen and explaining how the EED worked. “I’m going to do yours first, and then Mr. Worth’s. Do you have any questions, Ms. Flannigan?”

  “Yes. How long will it take?”

  “The procedure takes approximately an hour, but most of that time is spent in imaging. The surgery itself—”

  “No, I meant how long after the surgery before Trent and I will be able to sense each other’s feelings? Before we’ll know whether it worked?”

  “There’s no need to worry about that,” he said. “You and Mr. Worth scored exceptionally high on the compatibility and empathetic-intelligence tests. I’ll see you in the operating room.” He smiled down at her, pleased. “Excellent,” he said, patted the gurney, and left before she could ask him again.

  She asked the nurse instead.

  “It generally takes twenty-four hours after the surgery for patients to establish contact,” the nurse said.

  Which meant she’d have to go on lying for two more days. “Does it ever happen sooner than that?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, the edema—the swelling—has to go down and the anesthetic has to leave your system first. But Dr. Verrick considers you an excellent candidate for the EED, so don’t worry.”

  But that was easier said than done, especially when the nurse produced an electric razor. “You’re not going to shave my head, are you?” Briddey asked, remembering what C.B. had said about her hair growing back white.

  “Those beautiful red curls? Oh, my, no. Just a tiny patch at the back of your neck.”

  To make it easier for the guillotine, Briddey thought, and must have said it out loud because the nurse said, “The anesthesiologist’s going to give you a mild sedative to relax you.”

  But it didn’t relax her in the least. All she could think about was those links C.B. had sent her about people dying during surgery, especially when the anesthesiologist asked her, “Have you ever had an allergic reaction to an anesthetic?”

  She intended to tell him no, but the sedative must have kicked in by then because she asked him instead if they were going to put her in a coma and harvest her organs.

  “Definitely not,” he said, laughing.

  “When can I see Trent?” she asked, but she didn’t hear the answer because she’d fallen asleep right there on the gurney. And she clearly wasn’t supposed to yet because they immediately tried to wake her up, patting the hand that didn’t have the IV on it and saying, “Bridget? Bridget?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said blurrily. “I must have dozed off—”

  “You’re coming out of the anesthesia,” the voice said, and it was a different nurse. “How are you feeling?”

  “What time is it?” Briddey asked.

  “A little past three. How are you feeling? Any nausea?”

  “No.”

  “Headache?”

  “No.”

  There were a lot of other questions, and Briddey must have answered them correctly because the nurse said, as Briddey closed her eyes again, “You’re doing really well. You’re going to stay here in the recovery room a little bit longer just to make sure everything’s okay.” And when she opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital room with two beds and a window, and the nurse w
ho came in to check her IV said it was five o’clock.

  So I must have already had the EED, she thought groggily, even though she had no memory of being taken into the operating room and the back of her head didn’t hurt. They’d said it was a minor procedure, but she should feel something, shouldn’t she? She tried to feel if there was a bandage back there, but she couldn’t. The IV on the back of her hand restricted its movement. But at least her hand moved, which meant she hadn’t ended up paralyzed. You were wrong, C.B., she thought sleepily. The surgery went fine, and in a little while Trent and I—

  She stopped, holding her breath. She’d heard something.

  Trent? she called, and then remembered that they weren’t supposed to be able to connect till at least twenty-four hours after the surgery.

  I must have heard the patient in the other bed, she thought, but when she raised her head slightly so she could see over the nightstand, the other bed was empty, a stack of linens piled neatly at its foot.

  The sound must have come from the corridor, then, but she knew it hadn’t. It had been in here, and very close. It had to have been Trent. Are you there? she called, and waited, holding her breath.

  Yes, she heard.

  But I can’t have, she thought. The EED didn’t make you able to hear your partner’s thoughts. It only made you able to sense his feelings.

  I did hear him, she told herself stubbornly, but before she could analyze why she was so sure it had been a voice, she was hit with an explosion of emotion: delight and worry and relief all mingled together. Emotions that hadn’t come from her, that definitely belonged to someone else.

  It is Trent, she thought. Dr. Verrick had said they’d scored exceptionally high in compatibility, so maybe that had allowed them to connect sooner than twenty-four hours after the surgery. Trent? she called.

  The burst of emotion abruptly stopped.

  But I was communicating with him! she thought jubilantly, and felt a massive rush of relief. She hadn’t realized how much she’d let C.B.’s warnings that something would go wrong get to her. I heard you, she called happily to him. Can you hear me?

  There was no response. Of course not, she thought. I need to be sending him emotions, not words. She closed her eyes and tried to transmit recognition and love and happiness.

  Still nothing, and before she could try again, a nurse came in to take her vitals and ask the same litany of questions that the recovery room nurse had asked. “Any dizziness or nausea?”

  “No.”

  The nurse wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around her arm. “Any confusion?”

  “No. Are you sure…?” Briddey began, but the nurse had already put the stethoscope in her ears.

  She had to wait till after the nurse had helped her into her robe and walked her to the bathroom—an ordeal during which Briddey realized that she was dizzy after all—and helped her back into bed before she could ask, “Are you sure it takes twenty-four hours for the EED to work?”

  “Yes,” the nurse said, and told Briddey the same things the other nurse had told her about the edema and the anesthesia. “You’ve only been out of surgery for a few hours. Nothing’s going to happen till at least tomorrow.”

  “But I thought I felt—”

  “You were probably dreaming. The anesthetic can cause all sorts of strange dreams. I know you’re eager to make contact with Mr. Worth, but you need to give your body a chance to recover first, and the best way to do that is to rest. Here’s your call button.” She showed Briddey where it was clipped to her pillow. “If you need anything, call.”

  I did, Briddey thought, and Trent answered me. I felt it. I need to speak to him and find out if he felt it, too. I need to find out his room number. But the nurse had already gone. Briddey fumbled for the call button. Before she could push it, though, the nurse returned with a huge bouquet of roses.

  She showed Briddey the card from Trent. It read, “In just one more day we’ll be inseparable!”

  It may not take that long, Briddey thought, and asked the nurse, who was setting the roses in the window, “Which room is Mr. Worth in?”

  “I’ll check,” she said, and came back a moment later to say, “He’s still in recovery.”

  Of course. Briddey’d forgotten that he’d had his EED done after hers. “I need to talk to him,” she said.

  “He’s not out of the anesthesia yet. You can talk to him later. Right now you need to rest,” the nurse said firmly, and shut the overhead light off.

  He must have come out of the anesthesia for a few minutes and then drifted off again, Briddey told herself, and that’s why he didn’t answer the second time.

  She was feeling a little drowsy herself, as if she might doze off at any moment. The nurse was right, she thought. I do still have a lot of anesthetic in…and was asleep before she could complete the thought.

  When she woke up again, it was to darkness. What time is it? she wondered, groping for her phone, and then remembered that she didn’t have it—she was in the hospital. The darkness—and her mind feeling much clearer—told her she’d been asleep for hours, and that was confirmed by the late-night hush in the corridor outside. There were no footsteps, no nurses’ voices, no intercom announcements. The entire floor was asleep.

  But something had woken her. As before, she had the distinct feeling that she’d heard a voice. Trent would definitely be out of the anesthesia by now. Had he reached out to her? Trent? she called.

  No response, and after a minute she heard a buzzer from somewhere down the hall and footsteps going toward it. Had she heard an actual sound—a door shutting or a patient calling for the nurse—and was that what had awakened her? And was it a sound like that, plus her imagination and the after-effects of the anesthestic, that had caused the first one, too?

  But it had felt so real—and so different from what she’d imagined Trent would be feeling. She’d expected delight that they’d connected but not relief. Trent had been completely confident about the EED. And there’d been other feelings in that explosion of emotion—surprise and uncertainty and amusement. And some other feeling, which had been suppressed so quickly she hadn’t had time to identify it. But she was sure about the uncertainty and the surprise. Were you secretly afraid it wouldn’t work, like I was? she called.

  No answer.

  She waited a long minute, listening in the darkness, and then called, Are you there? Can you hear me?

  Yes.

  I knew I heard him, she thought. And realized who the voice sounded like. But it can’t be him! And this can’t be happening. The EED doesn’t make you telepathic—

  Apparently it does, he said, and this time there was no question at all who the voice belonged to. She clapped her hand to her mouth, horrified.

  I told you it could have unintended consequences, C.B. said.

  “I can call spirits from the vasty deep.”

  “Why, so can I, and so can any man;/But will they come when you do call for them?”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV, Part I

  Please tell me I’m dreaming, Briddey thought, but she knew she wasn’t. She could feel the sharp pull of the IV needle in the hand that she’d clapped over her mouth, could hear the beep of the IV monitor next to her bed.

  And C.B.’s voice answering her, saying, I’m afraid not, unless I’m asleep, too. Which I’m not. Nope, I hate to tell you this, but we’re really talking.

  “But how can we be?” Briddey said aloud.

  That’s what I want to know, C.B. said. You ignored my warning, didn’t you? I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t warn you not to jump off a bridge, or you’d have ignored that, too. You went ahead in spite of everything I said, and had the IED—

  “It’s not an IED!”

  Yeah, well, that’s a matter of opinion. Where are you talking to me from? The hospital?

  “Yes,” she said. “Where are you?”

  My lab. At Commspan, he said, and if that was true, then he was miles away. Which meant they were talking telepa
thically. Which was impossible.

  Apparently not, C.B. said. I told you having it was a terrible idea, that there could be UICs, but you didn’t listen, and now here you are, connected to me instead of Trent.

  “I am not connected to you!”

  Then what would you call this?

  “I don’t know! Dr. Verrick must have gotten a wire crossed when he—”

  Brains don’t have wires.

  “A synapse, then, or a circuit or something.”

  It doesn’t work like that, C.B. said.

  “How do you know? You’re not a brain surgeon. Dr. Verrick could have spliced the wrong synapses together, so that when I called to Trent, I got connected to you instead.”

  So I’m what—a wrong number? And speaking of Trent, where is he? And how come he didn’t answer if you were calling him?

  “I don’t know!” she wailed. “Oh, how could this have happened?”

  I warned you there could be unintended consequences.

  “But not telepathy,” she insisted. “It’s not even a real thing!”

  Yeah, well, about that, Briddey. There’s something I need to tell you. His voice was so close it felt like he was standing at the end of the bed.

  He is, she thought, suddenly convinced of it. He wasn’t at Commspan. He’d sneaked in while she was asleep and was hiding somewhere here in her room, and this was all his warped idea of a practical joke.

  Hiding? he said. What are you talking about? Where?

  Under the bed, she thought. Or behind the curtains. But when she turned on the light above her bed, she saw that the curtains only reached to the bottom of the window, and the long dividing drape between the two beds was pushed all the way back against the wall, too narrow to conceal anyone.

  He could still be down behind the other bed, or in the bathroom or the closet, she thought, though if he was, why had his voice sounded like it had been right next to her?

  Exactly, C.B. said.

  “You’re throwing your voice,” she said accusingly. “Like a ventriloquist.”

  He laughed. A ventriloquist? You’re kidding, right?

  “No,” she said, and sat up. She swung her legs over the side to go look, but the sudden movement made the room lurch. She lay back down. “You’d better come out now,” she said, fumbling for the call button clipped to her pillow, “or I’m calling the nurse.”