Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

  I was right not to say anything to Trent, Briddey thought, and googled “CT scan.”

  C.B. had been telling the truth; it only took a picture of the soft tissue of the brain, not of the brain’s activity. And when she was taken down to have it done a few minutes later, the technician said basically the same thing. “Everything looks normal,” he told Briddey.

  Thank goodness, she thought. Now I can get out of here.

  But when she got back to her room, the nurse said Dr. Verrick needed to go over her test results before she could be discharged. “Then can I have breakfast?” Briddey asked.

  “I’ll check,” the nurse said, and Briddey moved her bed up to sitting position and resumed calling to Trent. But even though she listened intently for an emotion he might be sending or some sense of his presence, she didn’t hear anything.

  Though she didn’t hear C.B. either, which meant her efforts must be having some effect in weakening their feedback loop—or, if she was lucky, eliminating it altogether.

  Now all I have to do is establish a new one to Trent, she thought, and redoubled her efforts, but she still didn’t get anything. Except hungrier. Where was her breakfast?

  She asked the nurse who came in to check her IV and the aide who came in to make her bed, but it was clear the same thing had happened to her breakfast as to that blanket last night. She tried calling to Trent some more—to no avail—and then unlocked her phone and went through the rest of her family’s messages. Mistake. Mary Clare had decided that Maeve was definitely talking to terrorists online. “It explains everything. She spends all her time in her room, and she changed the password on her phone. When I ask her what she’s doing, she refuses to tell me.”

  I don’t blame her. Every time she does, you go off the deep end. Poor Maeve, Briddey thought, feeling guilty for having inflicted this on her niece, though the idea of terrorists had at least kept Mary Clare’s attention off her during these critical two days. And it was obvious from the changed password that Maeve could take care of herself.

  But it still wasn’t fair to her. I’ll talk to Mary Clare about it as soon as I’m successfully connected to Trent. And out of here.

  But it began to look as though that would never happen. Ten o’clock and then ten thirty came and went without either breakfast or Dr. Verrick’s okay. It was nearly eleven before a brand-new nurse appeared to say, “You can go home. We’re processing your paperwork. Is your fiancé coming to pick you up?”

  “Oh, we’re not engaged yet,” Briddey started to say and then decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out of here and then connecting with Trent.

  “Yes,” she said instead. “Should I call him now?”

  The nurse nodded. “Tell him it’ll take about half an hour to get you ready.”

  Briddey phoned Trent. She got kicked to his voicemail; he was probably still in his meeting. She texted, “Call me,” and then tried calling to him mentally, saying, They’re ready to discharge me. Can you come?

  There was no answer to either message, and it was a good thing because the half hour stretched to forty-five minutes and then an hour.Lunch was served, which she didn’t get either, and at twelve fifteen a student nurse poked her head in, inquiring, “Did you ask for an extra blanket?”

  Yes, she thought. Last night. “No,” she said. “I’m supposed to go home. Can you find out what’s happening?”

  “I’ll check,” the student nurse said. “Be back in a minute.”

  She wasn’t back, and after ten minutes Briddey phoned Trent again. Still no answer. She texted, “Call me,” and when he didn’t, called his office.

  His secretary answered. “Hi, Ethel, this is Briddey Flannigan,” Briddey said. “Is Trent still in his meeting?” and when Ethel said yes, “I need you to get a message to him. I think he must have accidentally turned off his phone.”

  “He doesn’t have his phone with him,” Ethel said.

  “What do you mean? He always has his phone.”

  “It’s a secure meeting. No laptops or smartphones allowed.”

  “Then can you take a message in to him?” Briddey asked.

  “I’m afraid not. That’s not allowed either.”

  Management must really be worried about leaks where the new phone was concerned.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Ethel was asking.

  Send someone to pick me up, Briddey thought, but if Ethel did, all of Commspan would know about it. She debated asking Ethel to come herself. She didn’t spread rumors. In fact, she was the only one at Commspan who didn’t, and she’d do anything to help Trent. But if someone saw her leaving in the middle of the day, they were bound to wonder where she was going, especially given the secrecy surrounding Trent’s meeting. Which meant it was bound to get back to Suki.

  “No, that’s okay. Just have him call me when he gets out of his meeting,” Briddey said, and ended the call.

  The nurse came in with Briddey’s clothes and a sheaf of papers for her to sign. “Did you reach your fiancé?” she asked.

  “Yes, but he’s been detained. It’s not a problem. I’ll just drive myself.”

  The nurse shook her head. “No driving for twenty-four hours. Dr. Verrick’s orders.”

  But Trent was allowed to drive, Briddey thought. “I’ll call a taxi, then.”

  “You don’t have anyone else who could give you a ride?”

  If I say no, does that mean you won’t let me go? Briddey wondered. “I could call my sister,” she said. She could tell her Kathleen was on her way and she was meeting her downstairs, and then call a taxi from the lobby.

  “Tell her she can pull up to the main door and call the desk,” the nurse said, “and we’ll take you down to her.”

  “I don’t really need—”

  “Hospital rules. We have to take you down to the lobby in a wheelchair.”

  So there went that plan. Who could she have come get her? Obviously not anyone from Commspan. And not Kathleen or Mary Clare or Aunt Oona. Or the Daughters of Ireland. It’s too bad Maeve’s not old enough to drive, she thought, racking her brain to think of someone she could call. Trent, this would be a really good time to get out of your meeting and talk to your secretary.

  The phone rang. Thank heavens. She snatched it up.

  “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Kathleen demanded. “I’ve been calling you since yesterday.”

  “I’ve been in conferences.”

  “All night?” Kathleen said, and thankfully didn’t wait for an answer. “I needed to talk to you. I took your advice and broke up with Chad, and now Aunt Oona’s trying to fix me up with Sean O’Reilly. What am I going to do? It never occurred to me that—”

  “Listen, Kathleen,” Briddey cut in, “I need you to do me a big favor. I—”

  “Here we are,” the nurse said, reappearing with a wheelchair. “All ready to go?”

  “Hang on a sec, Kathleen,” Briddey said, pressing the phone to her chest so her sister couldn’t hear her. “I’m still trying to find someone to take me home.”

  The nurse looked confused. “Didn’t your fiancé call you? He’s here.”

  Oh, thank heavens, Briddey thought.

  “I told him to bring his car around and meet us at the front door. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” She put the phone to her ear. “Kathleen, listen, I have to go. Meeting.”

  “Wait,” Kathleen said. “What favor did you want me to do?”

  “I’ll tell you later. ’Bye.” Briddey shut her phone off before Kathleen could ask any more questions and grabbed her bag and coat.

  The nurse helped her into the wheelchair, lowered the metal footrests, then put Briddey’s post-op instructions, her throw-up basin, her box of Kleenex, and the bouquet of violets in her lap. She told an orderly to follow her with Trent’s roses and the water jug and wheeled Briddey down the corridor and onto the elevator, giving her orders all the way: “Rest this afternoon and this evening. No strenuous activity for
forty-eight hours, no bending, no lifting”—the elevator pinged and the door opened onto the lobby—“and no stress. Don’t worry about connecting with your fiancé. The amount of time it takes can vary considerably, especially if you’re under stress or fatigued. If that’s the case, it may delay contact.”

  Or not, Briddey thought, thinking about Trent’s fortuitously timed arrival. When the nurse said he’d called, she’d assumed he’d gotten out of his meeting and Ethel Godwin had told him she’d phoned, but what if he’d heard her call out to him instead?

  When they arrived in the lobby, the nurse wheeled her through the glass doors and outside. “Here we are,” she said.

  Trent’s car wasn’t there yet. “He must still be—” Briddey began, and stopped, looking at the battered Honda parked in the drive. That looks like—

  C.B. got out of it. My lady, he said, your chariot awaits.

  “Will he always come when you call him?” she asked almost in a whisper.

  “Aye, that he will.”

  —FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, The Secret Garden

  What are you doing here, C.B.? Briddey demanded, clutching the arms of the wheelchair.

  He looked a little more presentable than he had last night, but not much. He’d shaved, but he was wearing a London Underground baseball cap, and neither his faded brown T-shirt nor the striped shirt over it was tucked in. The laces dangled untied from his work boots.

  I’m saving your bacon, he said, ambling over. “Is she all set?” he asked the nurse.

  No, Briddey said, and would have glared up at him if it hadn’t been for the nurse standing right there. I thought you avoided hospitals.

  I do. So let’s get out of here. “Do I need to bring the car closer?” he asked the nurse.

  “No,” Briddey said, and the nurse must have mistaken her vehemence for affirmation that yes, she could walk to the car, because she put the wheelchair brake on and knelt to flip up the footrests so Briddey could stand.

  Briddey glowered at C.B. as the nurse dealt with the apparatus. I am not ready to go, she said. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.

  You called and said you needed a ride.

  I wasn’t calling you. I was calling Trent.

  Yeah, well, apparently he didn’t hear you this time either. And there’s no telling how long it’ll be before he gets out of that meeting and sees your text. C.B. reached for the tote bag in her lap. I figured I was better than nothing. Unless you want to call your sister. Or Suki. I’m sure she’d be delighted to come get you—as soon as she posts it on her blog. And sends out a few tweets.

  He was right.

  Plus, the nurse here thinks I’m your fiancé, C.B. said, nodding toward the nurse, who’d finished with the footrests and was straightening up.

  You told her you were my fiancé? Briddey said.

  No, she just assumed it. So how are you going to explain that you don’t want to go home with me? Especially after your odd behavior last night? They might decide they’d better keep you for observation.

  The nurse was looking at them curiously. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked Briddey.

  “Yes,” Briddey said brightly. “I just can’t get up with all this stuff in my lap.”

  “Sorry, sugar,” C.B. said, taking her tote bag and the violets and then the throw-up pan and Trent’s roses and stowing them all in the back seat. He came back over and put his arm around her to help her out of the chair. “Ready, sweetheart?”

  I am not your sweetheart, she said, and would have loved to shake off his arm, but the nurse was standing right there.

  This is like being kidnapped, she thought. You want desperately to call for help, but you can’t because there’s a gun stuck in your side.

  May I remind you that you put the gun there yourself? C.B. said, helping her to the car. You were the one who wanted to have the EED. Now, look like you can’t wait to go home with me, so she’ll let you leave. You want to go, don’t you?

  Yes. She needed to get to Commspan so she could connect with Trent.

  Well, then, I’d suggest you act happy.

  “I’m so glad I’m going home,” she said, and beamed at the nurse. “Thank you for everything.”

  Atta girl, C.B. said, opening the door to his Honda.

  His car was as messy as his hair. There were papers and fast-food sacks strewn all over the seats and the floor. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to clean it out,” he said, hastily scooping them up and dumping them in the back seat.

  He bundled Briddey into the front seat, shut the door, and got in himself. He put the car in gear and pulled out of the driveway and toward the exit. And I resent being called a kidnapper, he said as he waited for an opening in the traffic. I’m just trying to help out here.

  “Good,” she said, getting her keys out of her bag. “Then take me to the Marriott. My car’s parked there. It’s just a few blocks from here. Turn left.”

  Sorry, C.B. said. No can do. The nurse said you aren’t supposed to drive for twenty-four hours.

  “No, she didn’t,” Briddey lied, and remembered he could read her mind. “Anyway, you know how overly protective doctors are. You can see I’m perfectly all right—”

  What I can see, he said, or rather, hear, is that there’s already been one unintended consequence of your surgery. Who knows what other UICs you might develop? Blackouts? Seizures? Your head might suddenly fall off in the middle of Union Boulevard. I couldn’t be responsible for something like that.

  “Fine,” she said, thinking, I’ll let him drive me to Commspan, and then I’ll call a taxi and go pick up my car, and then was afraid he might have heard that, too.

  But he must not have, because he said, Great. Let’s go, and leaned forward, watching for a chance to turn onto the street.

  “No, wait,” Briddey said. “First, you have to promise to talk out loud to me.”

  Why? Because you think our talking like this is “reinforcing our neural pathway”? That isn’t how it works.

  “How do you know?”

  I went on the internet and did some more research.

  What did you—? she began eagerly and then caught herself and asked aloud, “What did you find out?”

  I’ll tell you on the way.

  “No. We’re not going anywhere,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching into the back seat for her tote bag. “Stop the car. Either we talk out loud, or I’m getting out right here and phoning a taxi.”

  You really think a taxi driver’s going to pick up somebody standing on the curb wearing a hospital ID bracelet and carrying a throw-up pan?

  “Then I’ll walk.”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll talk out loud. Now can we go?”

  “Yes,” she said, and settled back into her seat.

  He roared out of the drive onto the street and flicked on the turn signal. “Where are you going?” Briddey demanded. “This isn’t the way to Commspan.”

  “We’re not going to Commspan.”

  Oh, my God, he is kidnapping me, she thought.

  “Oh, for…I am not kidnapping you,” he said. “I am taking you home. Doctor’s orders. When I told them I was there to pick you up, the nurse told me you were supposed to go straight home and rest. You just had brain surgery, remember?”

  “But I told my assistant I’d be back by noon.”

  “So tell her your meeting’s running long,” C.B. said.

  But the longer she was away from Commspan, the more questions it would raise, and—

  “So tell your assistant you’re back, and you’re on your way down to my lab, that I’ve got a new app to show you and you’ll probably be down there for the rest of the day.”

  “But what if someone calls to check up on me?”

  “They can’t. There’s no coverage, remember?”

  “Is that what you do?” she asked. “Tell people you’re in your lab and then take the day off?”

  “Only when I have to go give somebody a secret ride home fro
m the hospital,” he said, and grinned at her.

  But I need to connect with Trent, she thought.

  “Then you definitely need to go home,” he said, “because if you’re at work, you won’t have a minute to yourself. Let’s see, you’ve been gone since ten A.M. yesterday. That’s—what?—nineteen thousand emails to answer? Not to mention memos. And phone messages. Besides, do you really want somebody to see us come in together and tell Suki?”

  “Suki’s not there. She has jury duty.”

  “Nope, she’s back. The defendant jumped bail.”

  “I live on South Sherman,” she said. “You take Union Boulevard and then Linden. Turn left here.”

  “I know. I can read your mind, remember?” he said, and promptly turned right.

  “I said left!”

  “I know. I’m taking you to McDonald’s. Or did they finally bring you breakfast?”

  “No,” she said, and realized just how hungry she was. “You really can read my mind. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, pulling into the drive-thru. He stopped the car and reared back in his seat so she could lean across him and order a Big Mac and fries.

  “You don’t realize how lucky you are that you hooked up with me,” he said, pulling up to the second window. “You could’ve—”

  “Connected with a real kidnapper,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

  “Right. Or with one of those people who make a face and say, ‘Do you know what’s actually in a Big Mac?’ Or with someone without a car. Then how would you have gotten home? Speaking of which, you need to text Trent and tell him not to come get you. You don’t want him showing up at the hospital.”

  And finding out she’d already left with someone else who’d said he was her fiancé. She hastily got her phone out, hit Trent’s number, and then stopped. Who should she say had come and gotten her? She had to name someone.

  “No, you don’t,” C.B. said. “You’re forgetting Rule Number Two. Don’t say any more than you have to. Just say ‘You don’t need to come get me after all.’ ”

  “But what if he asks—?”