Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

  I thought you said people thought about the weather, she said.

  They do, but apparently nobody’s up yet. You didn’t happen to bring an umbrella, did you? Or a boat?

  No, she laughed. It might not be as bad as it looks, and as if in response, it began raining harder, the drops bouncing up from the already inundated parking lot.

  Maybe we’d better wait for it to let up, C.B. said, frowning.

  I don’t think it’s going to. And the longer they stayed, the greater the risk that Marian would pull into the parking lot. We’d better go.

  Yeah, he said reluctantly. Are you sure you’ll be okay? And she realized he was worried not about the rain but that the sight of the water might trigger the deluge of voices for her again. She also realized that she hadn’t once thought about them on the way down here, even though it had been dark most of the way and she could hear the faint murmuring of them beyond her perimeter. As long as C.B. was with her, she could face even Niagara Falls.

  Really? he said.

  Yes, really. I’ll be fine. Let’s go, she said, and to herself: Before you read any more of my thoughts.

  Niagara Falls it is, he said. Here, hand me the books. He tucked them inside his flannel shirt, pulled the door shut behind them, grabbed her hand, and they took off running across the parking lot.

  They were instantly soaked. “Bus shelter,” C.B. shouted, pointing at a blurred shape halfway down the street on the other side. She nodded, and they ran toward it down the wet sidewalk.

  The water in the street was running like a river. “This is ridiculous,” C.B. said.

  “I know,” she agreed, and they raced across it, totally soaking their shoes, and down to the shelter, laughing.

  It didn’t provide much shelter. Rain dripped from the roof’s edge, and the green-painted metal bench was beaded with drops of water. They huddled together in the middle of the shelter, trying to keep away from the rain blowing in from three sides. C.B. pushed his wet hair back from his forehead and wrung out his sleeves, and Briddey shook out her dress. “Your dress’ll get ruined,” C.B. said.

  Briddey looked down at the blotchy water stains on the bodice and skirt. “I’m afraid it already is.”

  “Yeah, well, no reason to make it worse. Or for both of us to get soaked. You stay here, and I’ll go get the car.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes, and if the voices start to break through, you’ve got your perimeter and your safe room.”

  And his hand, clasping hers, held close against his heart.

  “I won’t really be gone,” he said. “We can keep talking.”

  “I know. Here.” She shrugged out of his wet denim jacket and handed it to him. “You’ll need this more than I do.”

  “Thanks.” He handed her the books. “If the voices start again, or you have trouble keeping them out—”

  “I won’t,” she said. “Go.”

  He nodded. “Here goes nothin’,” he said, put the jacket over his head, and took off running. She stood there clutching the books and watching him as he ran down the street and rounded the corner and breathing in the sweet smells of grass and wet earth.

  You still okay? he called.

  Yes.

  Well, I’m not. It’s like an Old Testament flood out here. I could drown before I make it to…shit.

  What is it? she asked, alarmed.

  Nothing. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up drowning. Or deluges.

  It’s okay, really. I’m fine. But hurry! I’m freezing!

  You’re freezing? I’m about to succumb to hypothermia out here!

  Nonsense, you just need to think about something else. Like Lucky Charms. Blue lips, red noses, albino snowflakes—

  Very funny.

  Or songs, she said. Ones with lots of verses. Like “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” Or “A Little Fall of Rain” from Les Miz.

  And this is the thanks I get for rescuing you? he said. Next time I’ll leave you in the ladies’ room.

  “Singin’ in the Rain” would be good, she mused. It’s got lots of verses, plus you could do a tap-dance, like Gene Kelly.

  My Nikes are too waterlogged, he told her, and he sounded as giddy as she felt. And don’t tell me to think about “Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella” or “Rainy Days and Mon—” Damn it!

  What happened? Did you step in a gutter?

  No, a tree just dumped a gallon and a half of water down the back of my neck. Stop laughing!

  Sorry, she said contritely. Are you to the car yet?

  No, I’m still two blocks away, but I should be able to see it in another minute or two. If it hasn’t floated away. I hope it starts. It doesn’t like cold, rainy weather any more than I do.

  And it was getting colder and rainier by the minute. The drops blowing in on her were as icy as sleet. She retreated to the back of the shelter, feeling guilty that she was in out of the rain and C.B. wasn’t, and praying he wouldn’t have trouble starting the car.

  Briddey? C.B.’s voice cut in. Are you okay? The voices aren’t—

  No, I’m fine. Are you to the car yet?

  No, I’ve still got a block to go. So keep talking. Only make it about something warm. No more rain songs.

  Think about breakfast, she said. It’ll be nice and warm in the deli. You can take your jacket off and hang it over the radiator to dry, and the waitress’ll bring you a hot mug of coffee—

  Tea, he said. ’Tis a foine Irish lad I am, remember?

  That’s right, you are, she thought happily. The waitress will bring you a hot mug of tea, then, and you’ll wrap your hands around it to warm them. And the windows will be all steamy—

  I’m at the car, C.B. interrupted. Now, if my fingers aren’t too frozen to get the key in the lock…

  There was a pause. Briddey leaned forward, focused as intently as if she could see his numb fingers fumbling with the door lock, fumbling to get the key in the ignition. Did it start? she called. C.B.?

  Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m still here, he said.

  I know, she thought, and smiled.

  All right! he shouted.

  It started?

  I don’t know yet. I just got the door open. But I’m in out of the rain at least. Another, briefer pause, and then, Come on, darlin’. You can do this, he said, sounding just like he had with her in the theater bathroom. Come on. Another pause. It started! he crowed. Sit tight. I’ll be there in two minutes, and we’ll go find that deli and steam up the windows like you said. Okay?

  Okay, she said, more grateful than ever that he was blocks away so he couldn’t see her suddenly reddened cheeks.

  But he’d be here in a matter of minutes. And then we’ll go have breakfast, she thought, envisioning them sitting across from each other like they had in the Reading Room, holding hands under the table.

  Minutes passed with no sign of him. Where was he? She went to the edge of the bus shelter to see if he was turning the corner, but the street was deserted. Where are you? she called. I’m freezing here.

  He didn’t answer, which probably meant the windshield had fogged up when he got in and he was busy trying to swipe at it, turn on the defroster, and drive at the same time. And the last thing he needs is you yammering in his ear, she thought, hugging his books to her to keep warm. She waited another minute so as not to distract him and then said, Hurry up, C.B. You’re not the only one getting hypothermia, you know.

  Still no answer, and no sign of his car, and the rain was blowing in harder by the second. Where was he? Maybe the car stalled at an intersection, she thought, remembering how deep the water had been. Or he hydroplaned and hit a tree.

  Are you okay? she called worriedly. Talk to me. Can you hear me?

  Yes! Trent said. Oh, my God, Briddey, is that you?

  “It cannot rain but it pours.”

  —JONATHAN SWIFT

  Oh, no, Briddey thought. It can’t be!

  But it was.
I don’t believe this, Briddey! the voice said, and this time there was no mistaking it. It was definitely Trent.

  Not now, she thought.

  Oh, my God! I can actually hear you! Trent crowed. Not your feelings, your voice! We’re reading each other’s minds! Do you realize what this means?

  “Yes,” Briddey said, clutching C.B.’s books to her chest. It will change everything.

  I’ve got to warn C.B., she thought. But what if Trent heard her talking to him? He’d said, “I can actually hear you.” What exactly had he heard? Her calling to C.B.? Her thoughts?

  But how could he have? He was English. He had the inhibitor genes. So perhaps this was a fluke, and they’d only connected for a moment, like those people who heard a loved one calling—

  I can’t believe this! Trent broke in. I can read your mind!

  And there went that theory.

  What did you say? Trent said. I’m having trouble hearing you.

  Thank goodness for that, Briddey thought. Maybe if I don’t answer, he’ll decide this is all a hallucination, like I did that first night in the hospital, and—

  Hospital? Trent said, alarmed. What happened?

  Too late, Briddey remembered to run for her courtyard. She flung the blue door open, slammed it behind her, and leaned, panting, against it.

  Did something go wrong with your EED? Trent was asking worriedly. Is that why you’re in the hospital?

  I’m going to have to tell him I’m not in the hospital, Briddey thought, staring blindly at her courtyard and the rain, or he’ll call Dr. Verrick.

  But if she answered him, it would prove that the contact was real and not just something he’d imagined. C.B., she called. What should I do?

  No answer.

  He’s busy trying to drive in this rain, she told herself.

  Trent broke in again. Briddey, answer me! he shouted. Did something go wrong with your EED? Speak to me! You need to tell me where you are.

  No, that’s the last thing I need to do. C.B.! Come in! I need you.

  Still no answer. What if he wasn’t preoccupied with the car and the pouring rain? What if he couldn’t hear her anymore? What if it had been crossed synapses, and now they were uncrossed, and she was connected to Trent instead? But I don’t want—

  What do you want? Trent asked. I can’t hear you. Do you want me to call Dr. Verrick, is that it? I’ll call him right now—

  There was nothing else for it. She had to answer him and convince him she was all right, that there was no need to call Dr. Verrick. Trent? she said. Is that you?

  Briddey? Oh, thank God! I was afraid…where are you?

  I’m in my safe room, she told herself. He can’t hear anything I don’t want him to from in here. But even so, she’d better not think about the bus shelter or the rainy street. Or C.B. And you can’t call him by name. Call him Conlan. Trent doesn’t know that’s his real name.

  Talk to me, Briddey, Trent was saying. What happened?

  Happened? she said groggily, as if she’d just woken up. Nothing. What do you mean?

  Are you at the hospital? I heard you say—

  Hospital? No, I didn’t…what are you talking about? I’m at my apartment. I was asleep, and I thought I heard you calling my name. I thought I was dreaming. Where are you?

  Trent didn’t answer.

  It was a momentary connection, she thought, relieved. And I’ll be able to convince him he was just imagining—

  …beyond anything I’d hoped for! Trent said. There was a pause of several seconds, and then she heard,…can’t wait to tell…, his voice less clear, as if he were on a phone going out of range, becoming muffled and skipping syllables.…this will— he said, and his voice cut off.

  Trent? she called tentatively.

  No answer.

  Good. Conlan? she called. Night Fighter calling Dawn Patrol. Come in, Dawn Patrol.

  Silence.

  He’s gone, she thought.

  No, I’m not, Trent said. I’m not going anywhere now that we’ve finally connected! I was beginning to think it was never going to happen—and now this!

  I should have listened to C.—to Conlan, Briddey thought bleakly. He warned me there’d be terrible side effects.

  What did you say? Trent asked. I can’t hear you. Your voice keeps breaking up. I heard you say, “listen” and then noth—

  His voice cut out again, and this time it didn’t come back, though Briddey waited for several minutes. She waited another thirty seconds to make certain he was gone and then called, Dawn Patrol…Conlan?…C.B.?

  Nothing, except for the hammering of rain on the curved roof of the shelter.

  What if I’ve lost him for good? she thought sickly. If she had, if their connection had been rerouted so she was connected with Trent, did that mean C.B. was calling to her, too, and getting no answer? Or was he too focused on his car and the rain to have noticed her absence?

  No, because here was his car, rounding the corner and roaring down the street in front of her. She stepped out of the bus shelter into the rain, trying to protect the books from getting wet, and over to the curb, trying to see his face through the windshield, to tell from his expression whether he’d realized what had happened yet, but the rain was coming down too hard, the wipers whipping back and forth too fast.

  He pulled over to the curb, sending up a spray of water that made her step back to avoid getting splashed. “Sorry I took so long,” he said, leaning over to open the door for her. “I got the car started, but then one of the stupid windshield wipers wouldn’t work, and I had to get out and mess with it and got wet all over again.”

  Not wet, drenched. His T-shirt and jeans were stuck to his skin, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. “And then, when I finally got it fixed,” he said, “the car died, and it took forever to get it started again.”

  He doesn’t know yet, she thought, her heart sinking. I’m going to have to tell him.

  Tell me what? he asked, and a radiant feeling of relief swept over her. “You can still hear me,” she said happily. “Conlan, listen, I have to tell you something—”

  “Get in the car first,” he said gruffly. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”

  She nodded and got in. It didn’t seem any warmer in the car than outside, in spite of the warm air blowing from the heater. C.B. looked frozen. His hands on the steering wheel were bright pink with the cold.

  “C.B…,” she began, but he’d already roared away from the curb and up to the main thoroughfare, intent on the road. And on the rain, which was coming down with hurricane force. It pounded deafeningly on the car roof, and the windshield wipers weren’t even beginning to keep up with it.

  But noise or not, difficulty in driving or not, she had to tell him now. She pushed her wet hair back from her forehead, took a deep breath, and said, “Listen, something happened while you were getting the car.”

  “The whole, ‘my boyfriend’s back’ thing? Yeah, I know. I heard him while I was tightening the windshield wiper,” he said as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

  “But I thought you said he had inhibitors.”

  “Apparently I was wrong about that. He must have had an Irish ancestor in there somewhere, a seduced Irish scullery maid from Dublin or something.”

  “Or you were wrong about what causes the telepathy. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with being Irish.”

  “I wasn’t wrong,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because…I just know, okay? And how it happened is beside the point. What matters is that it did.”

  He was right. “So what do I do now?”

  “Well, hopefully, you’ll stop accusing me of blocking your boyfriend—”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right,” he said grimly, “it’s not,” and leaned forward to swipe at the steam on the inside of the windshield with his hand.

  “So what should I—?”

  “Turn on the defroster. I
can’t see where I’m going.”

  She peered at the dashboard, trying to figure out which knob was the defroster. She turned the likeliest one, and the radio came on. “It’s a really bad morning out there, folks,” an announcer was saying.

  “Sorry,” she said. She switched the radio off, found the defroster, kicked it to high, and looked over at C.B., waiting for him to answer her question, but he didn’t say anything.

  “C.B.? What should I do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He turned to look at her. “If it was just a matter of his hearing your voice, we might have been able to convince him it was one of those exceptionally strong emotions Dr. Verrick talked about, the kind that are so strong they come through as words, but with you answering him—”

  “I had to. He was about to call Dr. Verrick. But I didn’t think he’d react like he did. I thought he wouldn’t be able to believe it, that he’d—”

  “Think it had to be some kind of trick, like you did?”

  “Yes, and I’d be able to persuade him afterward that it hadn’t really happened, that he’d imagined it. But he was immediately convinced it was telepathy, and he was thrilled.”

  “I can imagine,” C.B. muttered.

  What did that mean? Could C.B. think she was thrilled, too? Well, why wouldn’t he? Connecting with Trent was all she’d talked about since this had started. “C.B.—” she said, and her phone rang.

  It can’t be ringing, she thought. It’s turned off, and remembered C.B.’s asking her what time it was when they were down in the library basement. She’d turned it on to look and must have forgotten to turn it back off afterward.

  Please let this be Kathleen, she thought, staring at Trent’s name on the screen. Or even Mary Clare. But the only way to find out was to answer it, and if it was actually Trent…

  “You’d better answer it,” C.B. said, “in case he wants to come see you.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. He might be on his way over to her apartment already. But what was she going to say to him? Maybe I can deny it ever happened and say I don’t know what he’s talking about. She hit TALK.

  “Hullo?” she said, making her voice sound blurred with sleep. “Who is this?”

  “Trent!” he said.