Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

  “Don’t you think we should wait to try and contact him again till we find out more about what this is and what’s causing it?” she asked. “Or if it’s going to last? Especially since it’s telepathy we’re talking about. He’s liable to think we’re crazy,” and surprisingly, Trent said, “You’re right. We need something definitive to show him.”

  “Definitive?”

  “Yes, like those ESP tests where one person thinks of an object and the other person tells them what it is. Here, I’ll go in the bedroom and—”

  No! she thought, forcing herself not to fling her body in front of the door to stop him. “We can do that after breakfast. I’ll make us an omelet—”

  “We can eat later,” he said, walking over to the bedroom door. “I want to do this now in case Dr. Verrick calls back. Think of an object”—he reached for the doorknob—“and then concentrate on that image for thirty seconds.”

  “But if it’s hard evidence we’re looking for, won’t we need to document it?” she asked, and clearly he wasn’t sensing her emotions, or he’d be picking up her panic. “There are pens and notepads in the left-hand drawer of my desk,” she said to get him away from the bedroom door, and while he rummaged in the desk, she positioned herself firmly in front of the door.

  “I’ll go in the bedroom,” she said when he came back, “and you can go in the kitchen and fix breakfast, since you didn’t bring any.”

  “We need to be concentrating,” he objected.

  “I know, but I’m starving.”

  “All right, though how you can think of food at a time like this…” He handed her a pen and paper. “I’ll think of ten different things, each for a full minute.”

  “And then I’ll send you ten,” she said. And that should give me long enough to get out of this incriminating dress. “Okay?” she said, and before he could object, opened the door, squeezed through it, and closed it again.

  Which was a good thing, because there on the bed in plain sight was her evening bag. She looked down at the door’s lock, wishing she could use it, but she was afraid Trent would hear the snick.

  She put her ear to the door, trying to hear if he’d gone into the kitchen. “Write down any words or images you get,” Trent called, obviously just outside. “Or emotions.”

  “Okay,” she said, and waited, her ear to the door again till she heard him move away, and then darted over to the bed, snatched up the wet evening bag, and slung it under the bed. It had left a damp patch on the coverlet. She unwound the towel from her hair, dumped it in a heap over the dampness, and dashed back to the door.

  “Ready to start?” Trent shouted through the door.

  “Wait, I need to get my phone so I can time it exactly,” she called, and darted over to the dresser to grab it. She hurried back and turned on the phone, leaning her body against the door so Trent couldn’t suddenly open it.

  Kathleen had left her four messages. She switched the ringer to vibrate, set the timer, and stuck it in the pocket of her robe. “Okay, ready.”

  I’m thinking of the coffeemaker, he said. Coffeemaker.

  He’s right, she thought. The connection’s getting stronger. But at least if he was focused on sending messages, he wasn’t listening to her. And the fact that he’d sent “coffeemaker” meant he was in the kitchen, and it was safe to get out of her wet dress.

  She locked the bedroom door, untied her robe, shrugged it off, unzipped her dress, and stepped out of it.

  “The Mona Lisa,” Trent said.

  She opened the closet door and took a hanger from the rack, being careful not to let it clink against the bar.

  Bacon.

  She hung up the dress and draped a raincoat over it, thinking, I should have worn this last night. She stuck the hanger at the back of the closet and shut the door quietly.

  Jasmine, Trent said.

  Jasmine? He must be looking at the teas in the cupboard, she thought. Which means he’s still in the kitchen, and I can get dressed. But she was supposed to be concentrating on the words he was sending. She’d better just put her robe back on. She changed into dry underwear and combed her wet hair and then sat down on the bed and tried to decide what to put down on her list.

  He was now on number seven, and she’d heard every one of them. She obviously couldn’t let him know that, but just writing down wrong answers wouldn’t persuade him the telepathy hadn’t happened. It might convince him something was wrong and he needed to get in touch with Dr. Verrick right away. But if she wrote down correct answers…

  She wished she could ask C.B. what to do. But he’s not here. He’d gone off and left her, and if she wanted to keep all this secret, she shouldn’t even be thinking about him.

  “And that’s ten,” Trent said. “Did you get them?”

  “Not all of them,” she said, hastily numbering the page and writing down “clock” for “coffeemaker,” “jackal” for “jasmine,” “bear” for “bacon,” random words—“kitten” and “pillow” and “building”—for three others, and question marks for the rest of them.

  “Let me see,” Trent called.

  “Not till after I send mine. Go back in the kitchen.”

  She put the list on the dresser and went into her safe room so she could make a list of the words she was supposedly sending without Trent hearing her. And then I won’t send anything, she thought, and I’ll tell him—

  “Are you sending?” Trent called through the door. “I’m not getting anything.”

  Good—at least that means my safe room works, she thought. “Yes,” she shouted.

  “Well, it’s not coming through. Maybe we should just forget this and see if we can reach Dr. Verrick at the hospital—”

  No. “No, I’m probably just not concentrating enough,” she said. “Let me try again. Go back in the kitchen, and I’ll start over.” She was going to have to send him something. But what? Obviously not the words she’d just listed.

  She hastily composed a second list, making the words as different as possible from those on the first list—and words he couldn’t possibly guess on his own, like “tear gas” and “petunias” and “Angkor Wat.”

  But would the words be the only thing she sent? C.B. had said her thoughts couldn’t be heard when she was inside the safe room, but she’d only had it up and running for a few hours. She’d better screen her thoughts, just in case.

  “Briddey!” Trent called. “I’m still not getting anything.”

  “I’m just starting now,” she called back, said, Petunias. Repeat, petunias, and began singing the theme from Gilligan’s Island, but her mind kept straying to the problem of how she was going to keep Trent from talking to Dr. Verrick when the test was over—and how she was going to keep him at bay. He’d said when they connected, he’d propose, and now—

  Don’t think about that, she told herself, and started reciting “The Highwayman,” but she couldn’t remember the words, and she found herself thinking about what C.B. had said. “It’s not my secret I’m worried about.” What had he meant by that? Did he—?

  Her phone vibrated. Kathleen, she muttered. That’s all I need, and then thought, I can use her to screen my thoughts. What she says won’t be related to any of this, Briddey thought, and it won’t matter if Trent hears it. She answered.

  “Kathleen? Hang on a sec,” she whispered. She padded into the bathroom and shut the door so Trent couldn’t hear her talking, and then sat down on the edge of the tub, set her phone’s alarm to warn her when ten minutes was up, and said, “Okay, shoot. You were on a date with the Lattes’n’Luv guy, and he’s perfect—”

  “Yes,” Kathleen said unhappily, “but he was late, and while I was waiting, I got to talking with the barista—his name is Rich—and he’s really nice.”

  “Umm,” Briddey said, listening to her rattle on and periodically sending Trent a word from the second list: “tear gas,” “endive,” “NASCAR.”

  “Anyway,” Kathleen said at the end of her story, “now I think I like h
im and not the other guy.”

  I shouldn’t have done this, Briddey thought. Talking to Kathleen was a mistake.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Kathleen said. “It’s all such a mess. I mean, I don’t even know if Rich likes me. He might just have been being friendly.”

  Or taking pity on a poor hysterical girl and trying to calm her down. And that bit about hopeless crushes was his way of trying to let me down easy—

  “What if it didn’t mean anything to him?” Kathleen was saying. “It isn’t like he asked for my number.”

  Or stayed here to help me.

  And if Trent heard her thinking any of this…“I need to go,” Briddey said.

  “But you have to tell me what to do!” Kathleen wailed.

  I don’t know what to do, Briddey thought, and her phone’s alarm went off. “Look, I’ve got another call coming in that I’ve got to take. I’ll call you back,” she said, hung up, tore the list of words she’d sent into tiny pieces, and washed them down the sink. She took the other list out to the bedroom, unlocked the door, and sat down on the bed to wait for Trent, trying to think what to do if he did propose.

  I can’t let him, she thought. I’ve got to think of some way to stall him—

  Wonderful, she heard Trent say disgustedly.

  Briddey froze. Oh, no, he heard me think that.

  I can’t believe I have to listen to him, too.

  He can hear someone else, Briddey thought. But how was that possible? He’d only started hearing her this morning, and it had been well over forty-eight hours after hearing C.B. before she’d begun hearing other people. And it was obvious from what he was saying that this wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Was that why he hadn’t been all that shocked when he first heard her voice, because it hadn’t been the first one?

  But then why had he said all that about their connection proving they were emotionally bonded? If he could hear other voices, he knew that wasn’t how it worked—

  No, I can’t meet you, Trent said. It’ll just have to wait till tomorrow.

  He’s not just hearing other people, Briddey thought with a shock. He’s talking to them. But how?

  I can’t believe I have to waste my time on this when I should be communicating with Briddey. How did he get this number anyway?

  He’s not connected to someone else. He’s talking on the phone, and I’m picking up his thoughts while he does, Briddey thought, and put her ear to the door to make sure.

  Yes, she could hear him talking, though she couldn’t make out what he said. And who would he be calling this early?

  Oh, God, I hope it’s not Dr. Verrick, she thought, but Trent wanted to talk to him. Could it be someone from the hospital who was refusing to give him Dr. Verrick’s number?

  Whatever it is, Trent said, I don’t need it anymore, now that I’ve got…His thoughts faded out and then came back. Suppose I have to see him…make an appointment with my secretary…

  It was just someone calling about business. Briddey sank down on the bed with relief, and her foot hit something. One of her shoes, not pushed far enough under. She got down on her hands and knees, retrieved it, and was reaching for the other one when she heard Trent say, I need to tell Briddey I didn’t hear those last two words.

  It gave her only a few seconds of warning, but it was enough. When he opened the door, the shoes were back under the bed, the closet door was shut, her phone was in her pocket, and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, pretending to add “measles” to the list of words she’d supposedly sent.

  She stood up and handed the lists to Trent. “Is breakfast ready? I’m starving,” she said, and walked past him out of the bedroom to the kitchen.

  The kitchen table was empty, and there were no pans on the stove. “I thought you were going to make breakfast,” she said.

  “I didn’t have time,” Trent muttered, comparing her list with his own. “I got six of the ones you sent right.”

  Six? she thought. How did he get six? There is no way he could have come up with “measles.” Or “Angkor Wat.” And I thought he said he didn’t hear the last two.

  “See?” he said, showing her his list. “Number two was ‘diapers’ and I put down ‘person,’ so I was obviously receiving an image of a baby, and for ‘measles’ I wrote ‘tomato,’ and they’re both red.”

  His interpretation of correct answers was as loose as Dr. Rhine’s. “What other images did you get?” she asked, taking the list from him. He’d written down “petunias” and “NASCAR,” which meant he’d heard at least two of the words she’d sent. He’d also written “hedge,” “star? Starbucks?” and “drove off.” Which meant he’d also overheard parts of her conversation with Kathleen.

  “You’re sure you didn’t send any of those words?” Trent was asking, pointing at “cigarette” and “hedge” on his list.

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “You might have been thinking of them in connection with the image you were sending. Like the baby might have been sitting next to a hedge?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Let’s see the list of what you received from me.”

  She watched him, thinking, Thank goodness I just put down question marks for some of them, or by his standards I’d have gotten a ten, even with the random words.

  As it was, he gave her credit for “building.” “I was sending ‘the Mona Lisa,’ ” he said, “and you clearly received an image of the Louvre.” He frowned. “You didn’t get ‘spaghetti’ at all?”

  “No.”

  “What about feelings? I tried to send emotions along with the images.”

  “No, I didn’t pick up any feelings, though when I was sending, I heard a phone ringing. Was that something you were thinking about, or did someone call you?”

  “Someone called me,” he said disgustedly. “That moron C.B. Schwartz. He wanted me to come see some stupid new app of his.”

  No, he didn’t, she thought. He was trying to rescue me. Her spirits soared. I thought he’d abandoned me, but he hadn’t. He’s been here the whole time, listening to us.

  Trent was gaping at her. Oh, no, had he heard that?

  “I take back what I said before about not getting any emotions from you,” he said. “I just got this…I don’t even know what to call it…this unbelievably powerful feeling of love from you.” He enfolded her in his arms. “Do you realize what this means, sweetheart?”

  Yes, she thought. It means I’m in even more trouble than I thought I was, and fled to her safe room. But it was too late. If Trent had been able to feel it, so had C.B.—

  “It means the EED’s even better than I thought it was!” Trent was saying. “Thoughts and emotions!”

  “Trent—”

  “This is going to change everything! We’ll be able to—” He caught himself. “I mean, knowing you love me will change our relationship! We—”

  He stopped again. “What is it, darling?” he asked, and before she could open her mouth, said, “You don’t have to answer. I can sense what you’re feeling. You’re concerned that you aren’t getting emotions from me yet, and that I can hear you better than you can hear me, but don’t worry. You heard Dr. Verrick. Some people are just more sensitive than others. I’m sure you’ll catch up.”

  He pulled her close. “And in the meantime, there are other ways of communicating.” He nuzzled her neck. “I’ll bet you can tell what I’m thinking right now. Because I definitely know what you’re thinking.”

  No, you don’t, she thought, because I’m thinking now would be a really good time for C.B. to phone again.

  “You’re thinking,” Trent said, “ ‘let’s go to bed and—’ ”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Thank you, Briddey thought, and moved to answer it.

  “Ignore them, whoever it is,” Trent murmured, pulling her back into his arms.

  “I can’t,” she said. “It might be my family.”

  “Shouldn’t t
hey be in church?”

  “They sometimes stop by on the way home from Mass,” she said, prying his hand off her sleeve. “And they’ve got a key, remember?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, and let go of her.

  “Be there in a sec!” she called cheerfully, tied her robe more tightly around her, and ran over to the door, wondering how exactly C.B. was going to explain his presence.

  He’ll think of something, she thought confidently, and opened the door.

  “Hi,” Maeve said. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  “Do it on the radio.”

  —Educating Rita

  Saved in the nick of time, Briddey thought, looking gratefully at Maeve standing there in the doorway with her pink umbrella and heart-covered rain boots.

  “You forgot you were supposed to take me to brunch this morning, didn’t you, Aunt Briddey?” Maeve said, glaring at Trent. “I told Mom you’d forget.”

  “Of course I didn’t forget,” Briddey lied, wondering when she’d promised that. It didn’t matter. This was a way to get away from Trent.

  “I forgot that I promised Mary Clare I’d take her,” she told him, pulling him into the kitchen, “and try to find out what prompted her to run away last night. And I’ve been thinking, our being apart might help me hear you better. Remember what the nurse said about it keeping us from falling back on other, easier methods of communication?”

  “You’re right,” Trent said. “And it’ll give me a chance to see if I can find another number for Dr. Verrick, too. What restaurant are you taking her to?”

  Oh, God, she hadn’t even thought about that. She wasn’t sure her defenses were sturdy enough yet to protect her in crowded places, and Carnival Pizza was at the mall, which would be jammed. She’d have to try to talk Maeve into somewhere less crowded, if there was such a restaurant on a Sunday morning.

  “I’m not sure,” Briddey said. “I’ll text you.”

  Trent laughed. “Don’t you understand, sweetheart? You won’t have to. We can communicate directly now. Send me words and feelings like you’ve been doing, and I’ll do the same. And keep a log of all the things you hear me say.” He pecked her on the cheek.