Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

  “Precious,” he muttered. “That’s hardly the word I’d use. Briddey, listen—” He took a step toward her.

  She put up her hand to stop him. “No, I won’t listen.” She’d almost bought his lies. She’d actually been starting to like him. “I can’t believe you did that to me. I could kill you!” she cried, and flung herself at the door.

  “Briddey—” he said, reaching out his hand to stop her.

  “Don’t you dare touch me, you liar, you jerk…y-you…,” she stammered, unable to think of a bad enough name to call him. “You hunchback!” She flung the door open. “And don’t follow me!”

  She stormed out of the conference room and down the corridor, fumbling in her pocket for her phone. She had to find Trent, had to tell him—

  C.B. said, Briddey, you can’t— and she whirled around furiously to face him.

  The corridor stretched emptily behind her. Go away, she said violently.

  You can’t just walk away from this, Briddey, C.B. said. I need to teach you how to protect yourself. Once you really start hearing the voices, it’ll be much harder to put up defenses.

  I have no intention of letting you teach me anything, she said, though she was fully aware that she had no way to stop him. I hate being telepathic, she thought.

  Yeah, and you’re going to hate it a hell of a lot more in the next couple of days if you don’t let me—

  Let you what? Tell me more lies?

  They weren’t lies—

  Then what were they? All that stuff about doing research to try to find out what was causing the telepathy—

  I did do research. Just…earlier. And everything I’ve just told you about the voices is true—

  Why should I believe you? she said furiously. You’ve lied to me about everything. I’ll bet all this talk about defenses and bulwarks is just crosstalk to jam my line to Trent.

  It doesn’t—

  Work like that? Briddey said bitterly. So you keep telling me. And how do I know that’s not a lie, too?

  Because—

  I don’t want to hear it. Now go away, she said, getting out her phone, or I’ll call the police and tell them you’re stalking me! I’ll get a restraining order!

  I doubt if that would do much good under the circumstances.

  I mean it, she said, scrolling through her phone list. I’m calling the police.

  No, you’re not, he said. I can read your mind, remember? You’re calling Trent. Which is a really bad idea.

  No, the bad idea was not telling him in the first place. She called Trent’s number.

  His phone went straight to voicemail. She called his office. His secretary answered. “Oh, Briddey, I’m afraid he’s in a secure meeting,” she said.

  That’s what you think, Briddey thought. With telepathy, there’s no such thing as secure. I’ve got to tell Trent that.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Ethel was asking.

  No. “Can you have him call me as soon as he gets out of his meeting?”

  “Of course. Did you get the message about Trent picking you up for dinner at seven?”

  “Yes.”

  You’re going out to dinner? C.B. said, horrified. At a restaurant? You can’t. You need to stay away from places like that.

  Away from Trent, you mean. Because if we’re together, we might connect, and that would ruin your little plan to keep us apart.

  No, because you have no business going anywhere where there are a bunch of people, C.B. said. Restaurants, movie theaters, churches, football games, parties. A crowd could…you need to get your defenses up now, before the voices get any closer together. I need to teach you how to build a barricade.

  I need a barricade, all right—against you! and then was terrified she’d said that out loud.

  But Ethel was saying calmly, “I’ll tell Mr. Worth to call you the moment he gets out of his meeting.”

  “Thank you,” Briddey said. “You don’t know how long the meeting’s liable to last, do you?”

  “No,” Ethel said, and she must have caught the anxiety in Briddey’s voice because she asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Briddey said brightly. “I just wondered.”

  She hung up and then stood there staring blindly at her phone, debating whether to call Ethel back, ask her where Trent’s meeting was, and go bang on the door and demand to speak to him. But all that was likely to accomplish was getting both of them fired. And I don’t have to do that, she thought. I have another way of contacting him. And I have no intention of letting C.B. stop me from getting through to him.

  Trent, she called. Are you there? I need to talk to you.

  That’s a bad idea, too, C.B. said. The last thing you want to be doing right now is opening yourself up to contact of any kind. The voices—

  I want to hear the voices. It’ll be better than hearing yours!

  You don’t mean that. You’ve only heard a couple of them so far, but you’ll start hearing more and more of them, and they’ll come more and more often, and in another day or two you’ll hear all their thoughts all the time.

  Like you’ve been hearing mine? All those times she’d thought he was gone, he’d actually been lurking there in her mind, spying on her like some common Peeping Tom. You have been listening to me in the shower, she said accusingly. You pervert!

  Fine. Call me whatever names you want. But you have to listen to me—

  No, I don’t. And whatever it is you’re trying to warn me against, it couldn’t possibly be worse than you! Go away, and don’t ever come near me again!

  You can’t go to anyplace crowded, and you can’t take any relaxants, no alcohol or sedatives—did Verrick prescribe anything for you, Xanax or Valium or something?

  That’s none of your business, she said, and when would she learn he could read her mind?

  Good girl, he said. Walking out was the smart thing to do. If he faxes you the prescription, don’t get it filled.

  Not listening, she said, and began singing, La la la la—

  That won’t work against the voices, and neither will sticking your fingers in your ears. The only thing that will is—shit!

  What? she said suspiciously. Is Trent trying to get through to me again?

  No, he said, but as if he wasn’t really listening to her. Shit. It never rains but it pours, he muttered. Listen, promise me you won’t do anything till we can talk about this. It’s important, and was gone.

  Good, Briddey said, in case he was still listening, which she wouldn’t put past him, and started back down to her office, walking in the middle of the corridor in case it was a trick, and he was lying in wait in the copy room or the staff lounge.

  He wasn’t, and she didn’t run into anyone else, thank goodness, though just before she reached her office she heard Art Sampson say, “…can’t live on what I’ve got saved.”

  Poor man, he was apparently roaming the halls nonstop, talking about the layoffs to anyone who’d listen. It’s not going to be me, Briddey thought, diving into her office. She already had too much to deal with.

  Including Charla, who stood up in alarm when she saw her and said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course,” Briddey said, starting past her.

  “You just look so…did you have an argument with somebody?”

  She must look as furious as she felt. And she’d better say something if she didn’t want Charla telling Suki she’d broken up with Trent. “Yes, I did,” she said. “With Art Sampson. He’s upset about having to work on a Saturday.”

  Charla frowned. “Art Sampson? But he’s not here.”

  “Not here?” Briddey repeated blankly.

  “No. That’s why his assistant called to cancel, because he’s sick and couldn’t come in today.”

  But I heard his voice, Briddey thought.

  Charla was looking at her worriedly. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Of course. He must have come in to pick up some files or something.”

/>   “But why would he come in if he was sick? And why couldn’t his assistant have emailed the files to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Briddey said, belatedly remembering C.B.’s Rules of Lying, and went into her office and shut the door before she could get into any more trouble. She hadn’t heard Art Sampson coming down the hall just now. He’d been a voice in her head. Had he been one yesterday, too?

  She’d told C.B. she’d only started hearing other people today, but if Art Sampson was one of them, that wasn’t true. She’d been hearing them since yesterday morning. And C.B. had said in another day or two she’d be hearing more voices than she could handle, which might be today. If he was telling the truth. If that wasn’t just another lie to keep me from telling Trent. But she wondered if she should tell C.B.

  Not until I know for sure that Art Sampson didn’t come in today, she thought, and called his office to find out.

  He wasn’t here. He’d called in sick this morning. And five minutes later Briddey heard him say, First layoffs and now the flu. It’s not fair!, and a moment after that: Where’s the damned aspirin? She said it was in the medicine cabinet, which pretty much confirmed his being at home.

  But she didn’t hear the decaf latte guy again, or the person who’d said, Why is this taking so long? And at least hearing Art Sampson was going to make it easier to tell Trent about C.B. She couldn’t possibly be emotionally bonded to him.

  Or to Lorraine from Marketing, who popped up to say, There’s definitely a spy here at Commspan. I wonder who it is. Probably my supervisor. I hope it is, and she gets caught and fired. I need to text Jeremiah in Human Resources and see who he thinks it is. He is so cute.”

  Now if Trent would just pop up. But he didn’t. Happily, C.B. didn’t either. Maybe he finally figured out I wasn’t going to listen to any more of his lies, she thought.

  But they hadn’t all been lies. She was hearing more voices, and they did seem to be random. Trying to hear more of what Lorraine thought and not to hear Art Sampson had no effect on her ability to pick up what they were saying, which worried her a little. If C.B.’d told the truth about that, could he have been telling the truth about needing to stay away from crowded places?

  But he’d obviously told her that because he didn’t want her to meet Trent at the restaurant—and Art Sampson and Lorraine hardly needed to be defended against. Hearing them in her head was no worse than what she experienced every day walking to her office. It was better, actually. She didn’t have to make excuses to get away from them, and it was sort of fun to know that Lorraine had a crush on someone in Human Resources and that she hated her supervisor.

  Charla came in to tell her that Jill Quincy wanted to meet with her and that she had an email from Trent. When Briddey opened it, it was an ad for Tiffany’s engagement rings. “To give you something to think about until dinner.”

  Maybe that means he’s out of his meeting, Briddey thought, but when she phoned him there was no answer, and when she looked at the time stamp on his email, she saw it had been sent earlier in the day.

  She went up to meet with Jill, wondering if she’d hear Jill’s voice, too, and who she had a secret crush on. Careful, you’re starting to sound like Suki, she thought, and pondered how much damage Suki could do if she could hear voices.

  None of us would be safe, she thought, and had to admit that C.B. had been right about telepathy being dangerous. And unsettling. Except for Art Sampson, who she knew wasn’t here, it was impossible to tell whether the voices she heard were real or in her head. When she heard Phillip say, “Briddey Flannigan,” she ignored it, only to have him catch up to her and ask, “Didn’t you hear me? I wanted to ask you, do you know what the Hermes Project’s working on? Somebody told me it’s a smart baseball cap.”

  Which she supposed was better than a smart tattoo. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve heard all kinds of things. Sorry, I’ve got a meeting.” She started past him.

  “Oh, you know, all right. You just don’t want to tell,” Phillip said, and she had no way to know whether he’d actually said that or not, and, consequently, no idea whether she should answer him.

  Maybe schizophrenics don’t start out insane, she thought. Maybe they just end up that way from the strain of not knowing whether the voices they hear are real or not.

  It was a positive relief to reach Jill’s office and sit across from the person she was talking to and be able to see whether she was speaking or not, though it turned out not to be necessary. She didn’t hear Jill’s thoughts at all through the entire meeting—or anyone else’s.

  “Okay,” Jill said as they finished, “so you’ll send me the analysis on this?”

  “Yes,” Briddey said, and got up to go.

  “So I suppose you and Trent are doing something exciting tonight?”

  I hope not, Briddey thought. “No, he’s just taking me out to dinner. To Luminesce.”

  “Oh, you’re so lucky. I’ve always wanted to go there! I know you’ll have a wonderful time!”

  A wonderful time, Briddey thought grimly as she headed back to her office. I rather doubt it, not when I’ve got to tell Trent I’m hearing voices. But at least she could finally stop lying and—

  “Briddey—” she heard Jill say, and turned around, thinking Jill had forgotten to tell her something, but the hallway was empty.

  That was Jill’s mental voice I heard, Briddey thought. That makes five voices. No, six, if Phillip only thought that thing about my knowing what the Hermes Project was doing. C.B. hadn’t been lying about that part. She was starting to hear more and more voices.

  “No, we’re not doing anything exciting tonight,” Jill said in a sarcastic, mimicking voice. “Trent’s only taking me to Luminesce, the most exclusive restaurant in town.” Oh, I could just slap her bragging little face!

  I wasn’t bragging, Briddey protested. You asked me what we were doing.

  I’m so sick of hearing about her stupid perfect boyfriend and her stupid perfect life!

  But you brought it up, Briddey thought, mortified. And appalled that Jill felt that way about her. She was grateful when Art Sampson cut back in, fretting about his health insurance again. But when she got back to her office and Charla smiled cheerfully up at her, she wondered, Do you hate me, too?

  “You have a bunch of messages,” Charla said. “Your sister Mary Clare called to say your niece is feeling better but she’s still worried about her. And Kathleen called to say she decided to go with Lattes’n’Luv, whatever that is.”

  “An internet dating site. For people who want to commit to coffee but not lunch.”

  “I wish I knew if Nate was willing to commit,” Charla said ruefully, and Briddey found herself turning to look sharply at her, wondering if Charla’d said that or only thought it.

  “Trent Worth’s secretary called and said his meeting is running long, so to go on home and he’ll pick you up at seven. Oh, and these came for you,” she said, pointing to a bouquet of pale pink camellias. The card read simply, “Tonight. Trent.”

  “Thank you,” Briddey said. She picked up the flowers and went into her office, bracing herself for some spiteful unspoken remark.

  I hope she goes home early, she heard Charla think. She looks exhausted, and Briddey was so grateful she hadn’t said something cruel, she came back out and said, “You can go home now, Charla. I’ll finish up here.”

  She didn’t hear anything more from Charla or from the others as she finished up her work and went out to the car. She didn’t hear anything from C.B. either, which was just as well, because Ethel Godwin phoned as she pulled out of the parking lot to tell her that plans had changed and Trent wasn’t picking her up. She was to meet him at the theater.

  “Theater?” Briddey said.

  “Yes, he was able to get tickets to Dropped Call after all, so you’re going to the play and having supper afterward.” She gave Briddey the name and address of the theater. “The curtain’s at eight.”

  If C.B. didn’t want her
to go to a restaurant, he definitely wouldn’t want her to go to a theater, and she was glad he didn’t pop up and start yammering at her again, especially since the traffic on her way home was terrible. She’d never make it home in time to shower and dress. And how was she going to be able to shower anyway, knowing C.B. might be spying on her?

  Maybe she should have listened to his instructions for keeping the voices out after all. She could have used them to keep him out. What had he said, to put up a barricade? I’ll definitely do that, she thought. One made of lead, in case he lied to me about the X-ray vision thing, too.

  The traffic was getting heavier, and up ahead brake lights were beginning to flash on in her lane. She flicked on her turn signal so she could change lanes.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a stranger said in her ear.

  Panicked, she whipped her head around to see who was in the back seat. Horns blared, and she realized she’d swerved. She pulled back into her own lane, heart thudding, mouthing an automatic “Sorry” to the driver of the car she’d nearly hit. He made a rude gesture and roared ahead of her. Didn’t you ever learn to drive? the voice bellowed.

  There isn’t anyone in the back seat, Briddey told herself over her racketing heart. It was just a voice, like the decaf latte guy.

  But it took all her willpower to keep her eyes on the road, and she reached for her phone and held it as she maneuvered her way over to the exit lane and down the off-ramp.

  Signal, will you? Make up your mind! Are you getting in this lane or what?

  He isn’t talking to me, Briddey told herself firmly, turning right at the bottom of the ramp onto a surface street.

  At the first opportunity, she pulled over to the curb, unlocked her phone, tapped on her contacts list, and scrolled down to 911—finger poised to hit it if someone put a gun to her head—and then turned to look in the back seat.