When I opened the door, the scent of patchouli drifted around me. Uh oh. Incense only meant one thing: Chris was home and in a thoughtful, pensive mood. She greeted me at the door with a hug and kiss, then she nuzzled against my neck so sweetly I couldn’t help but lean into her. Maybe she’d come to believe my story.
“Babe, we need to talk.”
“You think?”
She led me into the small living room and handed me a glass of chilled Chardonay. We each took an end of the sofa and nestled our feet together in the middle. “Okay, let’s talk,” I said.
Chris nodded. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said yesterday, so I did some research and talked with a few colleagues.”
“Great, I’m gossip now?”
“Not at all, hon. You are the subject of much concern. Just listen to me, okay? I want to start by talking about the brain. I know science isn’t your thing, but it is mine. Remember I explained the brain to you once?”
“I don’t know why this is necessary,” I said, “but I’m with you so far.”
“The neurons in our brain are constantly changing their connective patterns every second of our lives in response to everything we perceive, think, or do. The human brain is so complex, so plastic, that it’s virtually impossible to predict how it will respond to a given stimulus.”
“And your point….?”
“Bear with me. Every single event we experience has the potential to upset the fragile balance of power within our brains.”
“Makes our brains sound fragile.”
“Well, the good news is that our own free will may be the strongest influence on our brains, and, therefore, on our lives. This means that with your thoughts, actions, and emotions, you can actually change the structure of your brain.”
“Why would I need to change the structure of my brain?”
“Normal consciousness occurs when the two hemispheres of the brain—the right and the left—work together. When this doesn’t happen, problems can result.” Chris bit her lip, then leaned forward and took my foot in her warm hand. “Babe, there is a condition called dissociative identity disorder.”
I frowned. “Never heard of it.”
She massaged the bottom of my foot, my second-favorite place to be touched. “You might know it as a split personality, or multiple personalities.”
My jaw dropped. “You think I’m crazy.”
Chris squeezed my foot. “Not crazy. God, no. But the shock to your brain from that lab accident could have certainly split your consciousness in two.”
“This is the most ridiculous—”
“Please, just listen. Dissociative disorder can be diagnosed when the person exhibits two or more distinct personalities. The person experiences loss of memory and a break in her sense of identity as a result of a trauma. To cope, the person literally dissociates herself from the situation. One way to do this is to create a second personality.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “You think I’m making this all up.”
“No, I don’t. I think you’ve built an elaborate escape world in your mind, one in which you ‘inhabit’ the body of Blanche Nottingham.” She made her point with air quotes, and I wanted to scream. “While you are in this fantasy world, your other personality—Blanche Nottingham—inhabits your body and runs the show. You no longer have to take responsibility or worry about things because Blanche is in charge.”
I snorted. “Where is Blanche now, since I’m clearly in charge?”
“You’ve tucked her away somewhere in the recesses of your brain. We don’t know where consciousness resides, and that’s true whether we have one consciousness or ten.”
“Does someone with this condition even know about the other identity? I know about Blanche and she knows about me.”
“It’s unusual, but it is possible.”
I pulled my foot from Chris’s warm grasp. “Here’s the thing. I believe Blanche Nottingham is back in 1560, living in her own plump body, her rosy breasts about to pop out of her ridiculously tight bodice.”
Chris nodded. “That’s exactly what a person with dissociative identity disorder would think. Jamie, I’m trying to help you, not hurt you. You’ve created a fantasy world in your head, and you have lived there for weeks.”
I showed her Blanche’s video. I showed her the page from the library about Blanche Nottingham.
“Jamie, these prove nothing. You clearly read about Blanche before this. And the video is the Blanche part of your personality talking. The Jamie part wouldn’t know anything about it.”
A flicker of doubt licked at the base of my brain. This couldn’t be what really happened. Dr. Raj shot me full of GCA, sent me on a magic carpet ride back to Blanche’s body in 1560, and Blanche into mine. No question.
But when you logically compared my story with Chris’s explanation, mine sounded like the ravings of a madwoman. I swallowed hard. “You mentioned good news. Why was that good news?”
Chris sat up and moved as close to me as she could get. “The good news is that the brain can be healed. Changing your patterns of thinking and behaving can change your brain’s structure. With a disease, some neurons, which contain little electromagnetic fields, become misaligned, or ‘locked’ in place. If you change your behavior, you can break this lock by forcing the neurons to change connections.”
“You think that if I stop talking about 1560 and stop thinking I was in Blanche’s body, then my brain would heal itself and my split personality would return to normal.”
“Remember, I’m still a student at this, which is why I think you need to see someone. They tell me Dr. Wendy Kroll is the best at UCL and could really help you.”
“This is bullshit, but if you think it’s true, why the lab accident?”
“What?”
“What if it was you who sent my consciousness running for Blanche? You really knocked me on my ass with all that ambition stuff. You want me to want more for myself, and you want it yesterday. Nothing is fast enough for you, is it? When you see something that needs to happen, you believe we must push our way there. Should I have jumped your bones the first night we met instead of wooing you for weeks? Should I have pushed Aunt Nicole down the stairs so her death happened faster?”
“That’s sick.”
“So is your refusal to believe me. You’re on the wrong track, Chris. What happened to me was real.”
“Just see Dr. Kroll, please? What would it hurt?”
More conflicted than I’d been in months, I shrugged, which Chris took as an affirmative. She handed me a card with an appointment time tomorrow. “I’ll go with you. We need to solve this together, babe.”
Head spinning now, I followed Chris into the kitchen and we made dinner, pesto chicken with a spinach salad. I didn’t tell her about my visit with Dr. Raj since she would accuse of clutching at straws. But I wasn’t. Dr. Raj sent my consciousness back in time and he was the only one who could reverse the process. Somehow my intralaminar nuclei weren’t oscillating at forty hertz anymore. My orchestra was creating cacophony, not music.
After a dessert of poached pears and caramel, I emptied my wine glass and cleared my throat. “Chris, I can appreciate how crazy my story sounds. I really can. But it’s true. My brain hasn’t been split in two. Blanche Nottingham really exists. She’s not just some creation of a troubled mind. So you might as well cancel the appointment with Dr. Kroll. I won’t be going.”
“But—”
“No.” When I used that tone of voice, Chris knew to let it go.
* * *
I spent the rest of the evening on a bench in Red Lion Square, wishing there were kids in the neighborhood kicking a soccer ball around or yelling. Anything to make my world seem more normal. But it was just a few people at the coffee shack in one corner of the park, me, and a handful of birds skittering around my feet in search of a handout.
I finally called my brother Jake.
“Boy, you got some balls, girl.”
“What is
going on? Ashley hung up on me, Mary’s not answering, and you’re sending nasty texts.”
“Don’t waste my time playing dumb. I can’t believe you said those things to Mom and Dad. They’ve stopped golfing, Dad’s skipped work all week, and they just sit around crying over your baby photo.”
I pressed my lips together. Whatever damage Blanche had done, I could undo. My family loved me. “Look, Jake, I know this is going to sound crazy, but my memory over the last month or so has been, well, spotty.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you really hurt them.”
I considered telling my brother the truth, but if Chris couldn’t handle it, Jake certainly couldn’t. He’d tell everyone I’d gone off the deep end. “I need help here, Jake. I don’t remember anything. Could you at least tell me what I said to them?”
The distance between London and Stevens Point, Wisconsin, was almost too far for this conversation. I wished I was sitting out on Jake and Amy’s deck watching my nephews battle with busted light sabers. I could disarm Jake’s scowl with a joke and easily get him to listen to me, but reaching him through my cell phone seemed impossible.
He sighed. “You said that family wasn’t important, and that you were tired of always having to check in, to answer their stupid questions. You said that life was easier without family anchoring you, dragging you down. You told them not to call you anymore and to stop interfering in your life.”
Now I sighed. “Jake, does that really sound like me?”
“Well, no, but you said it.”
“No, I didn’t. That was the lab accident talking. I’ve said some crazy things the last few weeks. Just ask Chris. Will you talk to Mom and Dad? And to Marcus?” I could actually hear his hesitation. “Please? When have I begged you for anything? Huh?” My voice shook like a trembling aspen. How could my family ever think I could say those things and really mean them?
“Okay, okay, don’t start blubbering on me. I’ll tell them you’re sorry, that you didn’t mean it, and that you want them to call you. How’s that?”
“Perfect. Thanks, big bro. Hugs to Amy and the boys.”
After he grumbled something and hung up, I sat there with the muggy August air pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe. Now I really, really didn’t like Blanche. My body could be taken over any minute by a woman who would be unkind to the people I loved. No way could Blanche really be me acting out a different personality.
I picked up my book on Queen Elizabeth I and scanned it for what happened in her world during the fall of 1560. I found pages and pages speculating on her relationship with Robert Dudley but nothing was said of pillow fights in the Queen’s bedchamber late at night.
Then I came upon the sad story of Amy Dudley, which I’d forgotten. She and Robert married young, and he quickly tired of her. She eventually became ill with what historians believe was breast cancer. She died on September 8, 1560, from a fall down a fairly short flight of stairs. For four hundred and fifty years, the mystery has been unsolved—did she fall, or was she pushed?
And had Robert Dudley played a role in this? When Amy died, Elizabeth distanced herself from Dudley to save her own reputation. She could no longer marry him, tainted as he was with rumors of murder, but she loved him too much to marry someone else. Instead, she simply flirted with men her entire life.
I watched a small pigeon peck at a bit of cracker on the sidewalk as it cooed softly. I kept coming back to this—If Robert Dudley were to be murdered, everything in English history—and the history of all its colonies—would change. If that history changed, my history, and that of every person I knew, would also change. My ancestors might not meet and marry, but instead marry other people. My brain struggled with the implications since it’d been a while since I’d read any science fiction. If my family line ceased to exist, then I would also cease to exist. If history changed, would I just disappear?
Chapter Seventeen
The next week was an uneasy one. Chris spent a great deal of time at her school office, and I painted frantically to catch up on the next Froggity book. In my absence, the publisher had decided to continue the series with three more books, but those needed to be completed almost immediately in order to be part of the packaged series. Blanche, of course, had not answered any of the frantic emails or text messages Candace, my art director, had left.
I felt a need to reassure Candace, so I called her. “Jamie, I am so relieved to hear from you.” Her voice was low and breathy, although since it came from smoking a pack a day, it wasn’t that sexy.
“Sorry, Candace, I had an accident a few weeks ago, so I’ve been in and out of the hospital.”
“Good Lord, are you okay?”
I made up a weak story about head injury and slight concussion, but it was enough to pacify my boss. “So I’ll get right on these notes,” I said, “and should have the dummies for all three books ready in about a week.”
“It’s going to be tight, but we’ll make it work. Once I get back to you, the finals will be due in another week. I know that’s a crazy schedule, twenty-four paintings in seven days.”
I wanted to scream. Crazy didn’t begin to describe the situation. Impossible was more accurate. “Candace, I know you’re getting pressure from the production people, and it wasn’t your fault I was out of commission for a few weeks, but wouldn’t it be better to give me another two weeks so the artwork is the same quality as the other books?”
“Yes, but you can’t believe the number of books waiting for artwork. The editorial team has finally gotten its act together and begun accepting books from the writers. Three weeks ago, we had four books in the queue. Now we have twenty-four. The Froggity books need to be finished yesterday so you can take on some of this backlog.”
“And if I need to take my time on Froggity?”
Candace sighed, her disappointment clear even though we were separated by the Atlantic Ocean. “I need to hire four more artists anyway, so I’ll assign them the bulk of the new books. I can give you what’s left, but if you’re not available to start this next project, there might not be room for you later.”
Four artists? Crap. I’d never get assigned another book, since there were four of us already. “Candace, I will absolutely do the very best I can. Depend on it.”
“Thanks, Jamie, I knew you’d step up. Now no more blows to the head. There’s just no time in our schedule for that.”
I disconnected and flopped down into my saggy green chair. Blanche probably had the painting skills, since I could play the lute in her body, but she clearly didn’t want to use them. Inspired, I grabbed a blank sheet of paper, pondered the tone to take, then decided friendly would be more effective than hostile.
Dear Blanche,
If you’re reading this, it means our minds have once again switched bodies. I assume you understand that’s what has been happening to us. I don’t appreciate the extra weight you’ve put on my body, but I can deal with that later. And your video threats really don’t mean much—I doubt either of us can control what happens.
There is one thing, however, that you MUST do should you inhabit my body again, and that’s keep up with my work. If I (or we) don’t deliver the paintings on time, I’ll lose my only source of income. Your nasty video mentioned your fear of poverty, so you must help. I need to earn an income, and painting is what I do best. Attached is a list of the paintings required, as well as a few samples from previous books. I know you can do this, since I’ve been able to play the lute in your body.
Jamie Maddox
I wondered where to leave the note. If I left it in the studio and Blanche never went there, all would be lost. I couldn’t leave it lying around the flat for Chris to see and think me even more mad than she already did. For now, I folded the note and slid it into my back pocket.
The next morning when Chris and I bumped around each other in the kitchen, I aimed for casual. “Let’s just say you’re right, and my personality did split into two, me and Blanche. How are we
different? Does Blanche dress the same way I do?”
Chris poured herself a mug of coffee. “Not really. She tends to wear what you’d consider dressy as her daily clothing. That crushed velvet jacket you bought as a joke? Blanche loves that.”
I shuddered. The midnight blue jacket was so dark it could have been the background for an Elvis painting. “What else does she wear?”
“Skirts. She doesn’t like wearing jeans. And she’s much bolder in her color choices. She puts crazy outfits together, but they work.”
That we were standing around talking about Blanche’s wonderful fashion sense churned my stomach. The elephant in the discussion, of course, was that Chris must think I chose boring, less risky, less flashy clothes, which fed right into her idea that I was too cautious and without ambition. And another thing—Chris seemed to brighten whenever she said Blanche’s name.
“Okay, thanks. I was just curious.”
“Does this mean you’ll go see Dr. Kroll?”
“Nope.”
Before I left, I slipped the folded note into the pocket of the velvet jacket, even though only an idiot would wear it in the summer.
Back at my studio, struggling to bring the next Froggity story alive with a few brushstrokes, I thought about what would happen if I lost this educational publishing job. Chris certainly wouldn’t let me starve, and she’d pay the rent, but she preferred to keep our finances separate. We still split everything fifty-fifty, coupled in such a way that an uncoupling could happen as fast as sliding down the emergency chute on an airplane. Yet if Chris and I were truly committed to each other, why did we still have things arranged for an easy exit? We were intimate in so many ways, yet we had no joint account of any sort. It was the most uncommitted commitment ever.
She was receiving money from her father, and she had a part-time job at UC London, but otherwise her income was lower than it had ever been. I would have been thrilled to pay more than my share, to literally feed and clothe the woman I loved.
Spark Page 13