I fired an eye laser at Chris: Thanks a bunch. Really appreciate it. But my Minnesota Nice asserted itself. “I could probably do that. What’s involved?”
“Ninety minutes of your time, no more. I will attach electrodes to your face and head, then ask a series of questions and record your brain scans as you answer.”
“Sure, okay.” I tingled with pleasure at Chris’s beam of approval. I loved making Chris happy, especially since it was getting harder to do. I wasn’t sure why our relationship seemed to be faltering, but I was confident I could figure it out and fix things.
Dr. Rajamani clasped his hands together and bowed. “This Monday at nine a.m.?”
I nodded.
“Excellent. Please eat nothing after nine p.m. the evening before. You will need three hours after the experiment before you should drive. It takes the GCA that long to reduce in strength.”
“GCA?”
“The magic serum!” he crowed. “GCA, or glial cell activator, is the drug that will help me locate your consciousness by providing a slight electrical charge to cells that normally do not conduct electricity.”
I failed to hide my grimace. “Okay, first, I’m not big on drugs. Second, not wild about the idea of electrifying my brain. And third, is this GCA administered orally?” Chris stiffened at my question and glared at me. Her anger, however, was less important than my suddenly sweaty hands and crazy heartbeat.
“GCA is not oral,” Dr. Rajamani said. “One simple shot is all you will need.”
I stepped back, palms up. “Uh oh. Needles are my kryptonite.”
Dr. Raj threw back his head and laughed. “Ha! You are making a joke with me! Superman, no?”
“Jamie, it’s just one shot,” Chris said. “It doesn’t hurt. I’ve particpated in the experiment myself. There’s nothing to it.”
I lived to give Chris what she wanted, but I didn’t know if that included a shot. I shook the doctor’s hand. “Let me think about it.” I turned to Chris. “I’m late for an appointment. Gotta go. See you at home.”
I jogged up the stairs from the basement level, then detoured over to the lobby’s polyurethane collection box and dropped in a fiver, something Chris always refused to do. “It’s a free museum, she’d say,” and I’d always respond, “That’s why it needs our support.”
I moved with the crowds through the National Gallery’s wide glass doors out onto the landing. The crisp air brought relief from the stuffy exhibit room. A needle. Crap. After a nurse in college had clumsily taken a blood sample from my arm with a needle the size of a garden hose, I’d sworn off needles. I sighed. Sometimes I wondered if Chris had been paying attention these last ten years. How could she not remember that I hated needles? I knew everything there was to know about her.
When I started at the University of Minnesota, I’d been unwilling to live at home, so I rented an apartment over Midwest Mountaineering, where I worked part-time. Because both apartment and work were only a short walk to the U’s art department, my world narrowed to the West Bank campus, the bars gathering like lonely sheep at Seven Corners, and the Somali coffee shop that got me hooked on sambusas.
For twenty hours a week, I sold Midwest canoes, skateboards, skis, and mountaineering crampons with the confidence of someone who’d done it all, ridiculous since my riskiest sport was walking around Lake Calhoun. My knowledge came from watching weekend sports shows and Netflix documentaries.
During undergraduate and grad school, I went through girlfriends with the speed and recklessness of a world-class ski flyer. Then the week before I received my master’s in art education, a gorgeous blonde with high cheekbones and awe-inspiring grace came shopping for a pair of inline skates. Nearly tongue-tied by her slight dimple, I managed to croak out my usual spiel about skates and which brand I preferred and why. When I sputtered to a triumphant finish with the words, “Um…they’re, um, great,” the woman’s languid grin melted my remaining brain cells.
She leaned closer, smelling exotically of eucalyptus. “Has anyone told you that you’re full of shit?”
My eyes widened.
“You’ve not skated once in your life, have you?” Her voice was playful, not angry.
I met her eyes. “So busted.” When I held out my wrists for cuffing, she circled them with warm, strong hands, and I fell in love with Chris.
Applause for the juggler performing on the plaza below snapped me back to the present. The National Gallery, with its dramatic central portico and impressive facade, formed the northern boundary of Trafalgar Square. In my free time, I was drawn to the Gallery, spending most of my time with my favorite artist, Vincent van Gogh, in Room 45. The most compelling painting, however, was in Room 41—Paul Delaroche’s The Execution of Lady Jane Grey. I’d stand, transfixed, at the image of the sixteen-year-old girl, Queen of England for only nine days. Lady Jane was blindfolded, dressed in a flowing white gown that seemed made of polished pearls, and was reaching out a slender hand in search of the chopping block where she was to lay her head. Painting with oils wasn’t in my skill set, so a well-executed oil never failed to astound me. Delaroche’s layers of thin paint created flesh so real I was tempted to feel for a pulse.
I descended the Gallery’s front steps, then crossed the pedestrian plaza to the upper level of Trafalgar Square, scanning the main plaza below for Bradley’s faded military jacket. It still took my breath away to realize that just south of the square, in an area now filled with gray office buildings, was the former site of Whitehall Palace, home of King Henry VIII and his doomed wife Anne Boleyn. When their daughter Elizabeth became queen in 1558, she moved to Whitehall. The palace was gone now, but no matter. I drank up Elizabethan history like Chris drank up brain science. Soon after I began teaching at Carleton, my colleague Mary spent an evening entertaining me with the story of the Tudors. This family was the ultimate reality show, with its intrigue, adultery, hangings, and the occasional beheading. I was hooked, and after reading dozens of books and watching movies, I soon became weirdly conversant in Tudor England.
It didn’t hurt that every child in my dad’s family had been baptized in a christening gown said to have been given to the family by Queen Elizabeth I. Even though the story was just family lore gone wild, I loved to fantasize that Elizabeth might have actually touched the gown. The poor little dress was now yellowed with age, and almost all the tiny pearls from the gown’s front were missing.
Noise rose from the impatient traffic curling around three sides of the square. Where was he? Was I too late? Another scan found the aging Bradley sitting on the pavement against a short wall, with Annie on a slender leash by his hip. I hurried down the central staircase and past the western fountain as the spray cooled my skin. “Hey, Bradley.”
“Jamie Maddox! My very best American friend.” His gray dreads flashed almost silver in the sun. His worn eyes radiated a kindness that always drew me in. This was a man who’d been knocked down and dragged behind the pickup truck of life, yet could still love.
“I’m your only American friend, big guy.”
We bumped fists and I sank onto the warm pavement beside him, opening my pack. “More food for Annie.”
Bradley’s hands were scarred, the fingers curled with arthritis. It was a fire trucking crime that this veteran was living “rough” at his age. He’d fought for the British in the Falklands in the early 1980s.
Bradley’s worn, mahogany face glowed as he opened the box and fed Annie a few pellets. “Brilliant,” Bradley crooned. “She’s chuffed over this new flavor.”
I ran my hand over the brown-and-white rabbit, then scratched behind one floppy ear. I’d been trying for months to get Bradley off the streets, but he resisted at every turn. St Martin-in-the-Field Church, not twenty paces from the eastern edge of Trafalgar Square, had both day and night centers for the homeless.
“Won’t let Annie in,” had been Bradley’s excuse for St Martin’s. “Too claustrophobic,” had ruled out the shelter at the north end of Drury Lane. So I
did what I could, buying food for Annie, granola bars and toothpaste for Bradley, and listening to his favorite stories from British history. In Minneapolis, I’d never stopped for the homeless, but for some reason in London I couldn’t not stop. That was why last winter, as Chris and I were learning how to be Londoners, and Chris was starting special degree classes in cognitive neuropsychiatry at University College London, I had befriended Bradley, a fixture in Trafalgar Square. I’d been drawn to Bradley because of his rabbit, and we’d found in each other someone willing to listen to whatever crazy thoughts invaded our minds. The only secret I’d kept from Chris was that on six of the coldest nights in February, I’d let Bradley and Annie into the locked vestibule between our inner door and the second floor hallway. Chris, not a fan of the homeless, never knew that Bradley and Annie were rolled up inside a sleeping bag thirty feet from her bed.
“I love this square,” I said. Talking with Bradley had different rules than normal society. We could switch topics without warning.
“It’s the heart of London,” Bradley intoned. “Did you know that this whole area used to be the Royal Mews? They were the stables for centuries of royal horses.”
I did know that, since Bradley had told me three times already, but I didn’t want to discourage him. When he’d been stationed in the Falklands years ago, before cell phones and e-readers, the only two books he had access to were the Bible and a history of London. Too poor to actually travel by Tube, now he would walk to a station and establish a command outside, shouting all the history he could remember, hoping that donations would clank into his worn tin box.
Traffic banged on around us. Kids shrieked as they tried but failed to climb the four reclining lions guarding the base of Nelson’s Column at the southern edge of the square. Tourists chattered on in Japanese, German, and French. Twice, I climbed to my feet and fulfilled requests to photograph tourists in front of the nearest fountain. Perhaps selfies were finally losing their appeal.
I closed my eyes as Bradley and I sat in silence, feeling all of London swirling around its beating heart. Political protests, New Year’s Eve celebrations, rock concerts, announcements, everything happened here. Victory Day at the end of WWII brought Londoners to the square. The premiere of the final Harry Potter movie had Emma Watson walking a red carpet across the square.
We watched Annie nibble at her pellets. “Much obliged,” Bradley whispered.
“No worries,” I replied, then checked my phone. “Time for you to head for Charing Cross?”
Bradley nodded. “There is so much history to share.”
“I wish you’d use one of the shelters. And there are programs to help vets like you.” Bradley’s answer was to gently lift Annie and press his face into her lush side.
“I know,” I said. “Annie is your love and you want to keep her, but I worry about you.” How did he get up every morning, from whatever doorway or park bench had been his bed, and keep going?
“Life is a constant battle not to lose yourself,” he said.
“Amen,” I replied with appreciation, but really, I didn’t have any experience with that. I’d never really lost myself, since my parents, two brothers, my aunts and uncles, and Chris had always supported and accepted my choices. My mom called me “spunky” because I was such an optimist. Sometimes during parties in college I’d try to play the jaded pessimist, but my friends would end up laughing because I couldn’t pull it off.
Quietly, we began transferring the goodies from my pack into Bradley’s, which was patched with grimy duct tape.
“I hope to see you soon,” I said.
Bradley jumped when a shadow fell across our laps.
Chris.
“It’s okay,” I said as I shot to my feet. “Chris, I’d like you to meet Bradley. Bradley, my partner, Chris.” Chris knew about Bradley and Annie but had never met them.
Bradley scrambled to his feet, much faster than you’d expect from a guy his age, then held out Annie for Chris to pat. “This is my rabbit, Annie,” he said. I held my breath but needn’t have, for Chris’s Minnesota Nice was as automatic as my own.
When she reached out and lightly touched Annie’s head with one finger, her flinch was invisible to the untrained eye. Chris wasn’t an animal person. “Hello, Bradley. Hello, Annie. It’s nice to meet you.” She looked at me. “I’m done at the Gallery so I thought we could ride home together.”
After one last stroke of Annie’s silky back, I told Bradley I’d find him again. Then Chris and I walked across the main plaza and up the stairs. As we followed the sidewalk toward Leicester Square, I lightly touched Chris’s arm. “Slow down. No need to run.”
Chris’s usually rosy cheeks were carved marble. A muscle twitched along her jaw, but she slowed down. “I know. I’m sorry. Homeless people push some weird button in me that I don’t understand, so I flee. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”
I slid my arm into Chris’s to avoid being separated by oncoming pedestrians. “Are you afraid of him?”
“No, not at all. But right now, Bradley’s not important. I’m just so disappointed that you didn’t say yes. Dr. Raj really needs help with his experiment.”
“He’s a prof. He has dozens of students to experiment on.”
“Students are a little afraid of him. He’s sort of considered, well, on the fringe.”
“No kidding. Locating our consciousness? He’s not on the fringe, he’s hanging from the very frayed end of it.”
We crossed the street and fed our Oyster cards through the turnstiles just inside the Tube station. “I’m not just disappointed with you,” she said. “I’m disappointed in you.”
I swallowed. “What?” Instead of heading down the stairs, I pulled her aside into a small alcove. The unspoken rule of the Tube system was not to bring conflict down those stairs. Conflict created tension, and tension created a desire to flee. But when you descended crowded stairways, were trapped on crowded escalators, or stood along the narrow, crowded platforms, there was no way to escape. PDAs were highly frowned upon in the underground.
“You’re afraid of needles, which are sanitary and safe. Yet you’ll cuddle up right next to a homeless guy and his germ-infested rabbit.”
“How is it fair to be disappointed in who I am?”
Chris worried her upper lip. “I’m not saying this right. The last thing I want to do is hurt your feelings. You are so kind and diplomatic and creative, but I worry that sometimes you let your fears define you. Instead of stepping outside your comfort zone, you hide inside it. You don’t seem to take many risks in life.”
I felt as if I’d been slapped. “I took a sabbatical from teaching to come with you to London. That’s a risk. I often propose radical art classes. That’s a risk. I’m paying my half of the bills with work-for-hire that could disappear at any second. That’s a risk.”
“But you make no effort to conquer your fear of needles.”
People had begun to stare as they passed, no doubt noticing the hurt look twisting my features. “Chris, my dad is so claustrophobic he can barely get onto an airplane. It’s not a conscious choice. Do you judge him because he can’t will away his fear?”
“No, but—”
“One year my family rented a cabin in Itasca State Park. Marcus opened the door and came face-to-face with a spider the size of his fist. The little guy whirled around and climbed me like a tree. He’s still terrified of spiders. It’s a fear, Chris. Fears aren’t logical or defensible.”
Chris watched the crowds streaming past us. “I just wish you would try harder. It feels kind of cowardly not to step outside your comfort zone.”
My jaw dropped. “Cowardly? Remember your sister’s meltdown when I put a dirty knife in the sink? She started shaking like a leaf, yelling at me to get it out of there because she hated to reach in and touch the bottom of the sink. How cowardly is that?”
“Yeah, she is a freak.” Chris sighed. “Okay, I get your point. It’s just…it’s just that facing our fears build
s strength of character.”
“And you think I need to build character?”
She shot me an odd look.
“Chris, this is who I’ve always been. I can’t just run over to Harrod’s and buy a new personality.”
She turned and headed down the stairs. Stunned, I followed.
We said nothing when we reached the platform. A few minutes later, a low rumble announced the approaching train. It whooshed to a stop and the doors slid open.
Chris took the first open seat, but I strode to the very end of the car and sat down. This problem between us was bigger than I’d thought, much more serious than me loading the dishwasher wrong, or not being on time, or falling asleep in front of the TV.
I closed my eyes, feeling a little sick to my stomach as the train rattled around a curve. No, I would not despair. We loved each other. We could figure this out. I just needed a little time to nurse my wounded pride.
Once I’d recovered from this latest shock, I would do whatever was needed so Chris would continue to love me, to love us. We had four months left in London, and I would make each moment count. I was not a quitter.
And even though just the thought of a needle made me wince, I knew what my first step would be: Letting Dr. Rajamani experiment on me.
Chapter Two
When the train stopped at Holborn, I exited without looking back, then hurried up the left side of the escalator and out the building onto High Holborn Street. During the two-block walk to our flat, I knew Chris had to be no more than twenty paces behind me. Half a block before our flat, I turned to face her. “I’m sorry you’re so disappointed in me. I need a few hours to myself.”
She nodded, so I veered off to the right and entered The Bountiful Cow. Sam, a black Swede working the bar, looked up and grinned. I loved Sam for his sense of humor, and because every time I saw him it was a refreshing slap in the face. He reminded me that not all Swedes were blond, an easy stereotype to develop living in Minnesota. He was as tall and slender as the bottles of vodka lined up behind him.
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