Chapter Nine
I love living in England for the same reason I hated living in Wisconsin: history.
I’ll elaborate. Lisa rented us a “cottage”, which is British for “amazing house/mansion built long ago in the country and out of the financial reach of most citizens”. I don’t know about you, but when I think “cottage”, I think “Dad’s tool shed, which looked like a battered tiny house and smelled like oil and cut grass and, one summer, skunk and marshmallows”.
Not at all what Lisa and I are borrowing. The ad said it was a cottage “brimming with charm”, and it was. It was also brimming with bricks, exposed woodwork, and fireplaces. We always used the side door, which you could get to by walking through a little garden (don’t get excited—“garden” is Brit for yard; they’ll refer to the mangiest, tiniest, saddest yard as a garden just to dash your hopes) to a white door that led into the kitchen.
The kitchen was also white, with red appliances and black, exposed beams, and the de rigueur Aga, along with a tiny kitchen table that seated two, which Lisa and I used as our de facto dining room. (The actual dining room was my office and Lisa’s dissection lab/lair.) The kitchen led to the living room, complete with fireplace, built-in bookshelves stuffed with books (a fire hazard of staggering proportions), and some uncomfortable chintz-covered chairs. Every time I sat in one, it creaked and I would think, Am I about to shatter a chair someone made in 1525? Will it take me down with it? It could be nerve-racking, so mostly I just lolled on the couch.
All three bedrooms were upstairs and as they were decorated roughly the same (the walls painted white and the exposed beams painted black, so it was like sleeping in a zebra) and were roughly the same size, I took the one at the end of the hall, and Lisa grabbed the one on the right.
They were small—room for a double bed, a dresser, and an end table but not much else, with windows overlooking the back yar—garden, which was all we required. Neither of us were in the habit of, um, regularly entertaining visitors. Or stuffing closets (except there weren’t any, just beautiful ancient wardrobes paneled in dark wood). So there was no need to turn random bedrooms into sensual dens of seduction. Plus we didn’t have enough linens for that.
As for me, since The After, I liked things sparse; the only things on my walls were my father’s aikido medals and my Michael Scott poster (“Would I rather be feared or loved? Easy, both. I want people to be afraid of how much they love me.”). My other valuables—my parents’ wedding rings and a .38 pistol I’d had shipped to myself once we were settled—I kept in a locked, fireproof strongbox beneath my bed. The gun was exceptionally illegal and I didn’t want to know the strings Lisa had pulled or the cash she threw around to get it here. But we both felt safer knowing it was in the house, which was just dumb given the low crime rate. We were more likely to get struck by lightning than shot in the U.K. But that’s the American mentality for you. I just didn’t feel confident taking on an intruder with a spatula or a cricket bat.
There was an enormous bathroom next to my room, with a tub long enough and deep enough for me to submerge and float (bliss!), a double vanity, and a towel warmer neither of us could figure out how to work. We used room temperature towels, like savages.
So I was lucky enough to stay in a beautiful temporary home in Henley-on-Thames, twenty miles from the university and zero miles from my job. In addition to being my fairy godmother with a black American Express card, Lisa had also gotten me a job as a medical transcriptionist, which meant I transcribed tapes from medical exams, hospital intake notes, and the occasional autopsy, could do it in my pajamas with my laptop, and set my own hours.
Must be costing a fortune, right? I probably had to transcribe my fingers to the metacarpals? No. Lisa wouldn’t take a penny in rent from me, not so much as a farthing (they still had those, yes?). She pointed out that whether I had joined her or not, she still would have rented a house.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but not a lush ancient three-bedroom house that looks like something out of Masterpiece Theater.”
“Shut up,” was the logical rejoinder.
“No, you shut up!”
But after days of courteous discussion
(“No, you shut up!”)
we agreed that she was in charge of rent and utilities and picking fights with our landlord (I was honestly starting to feel bad for the guy), and I was in charge of grocery shopping and food prep. The post-meal clean-up chores would be settled in the traditional manner, via Rock/Paper/Scissors or a death duel. Since Lisa’s idea of a nutritional meal was a bowl of Cocoa Puffs with a V-8 chaser, it was a hierarchy I could live with.
Money was going to be an issue, though. Much as I enjoyed working from home, the pay wasn’t wonderful, and I was only working about twenty hours a week. Thanks to my folks’ careful planning, I didn’t have much student debt but had yet to snag my degree. And I hadn’t had much money when I’d followed Lisa to England.
Basically, I was one accident/car repair/unforeseen horror away from a negative bank balance. And since The After, I never liked living with an axe hanging over my head, even if the axe was figurative.
But I’m getting off track—all that to say I was mighty pleased to pop through the side door, even if it meant happening on Lisa caramelizing a strawberry Pop Tart over her Bunsen burner.
I greeted her with, “We talked about this.”
“Naw. You talked about it.”
“I’m sure it was an actual conversation.”
“Naw.”
“Dammit.” No energy to be had for this nonsense. I opened the fridge and smiled at the delightful array of nom-nom-nom.
There was a hiss behind me as Lisa took a bite of her Pop Tart while it was still lava-hot. “Thet any thurkey drumthticks?”
“Hardly.” That was the worst of my ordeal: I’d been cheated of the wonderful food. “I got a migraine before I even finished my Coke.”
A clatter behind me. “You did? When was the onset? Did you take a Maxipan?” And at my giggle, she grumbled, “Grow up, idiot.”
My giggle shriveled up and died as I realized this was the last thing I should be discussing with Lisa. She’d either think I was hallucinating (hello, 72-hour psych hold) or I was telling the truth (hello, violated confidential agreement).
I didn’t like lying to her, would make an exception. I barely understood what had happened myself; I certainly couldn’t explain it to anyone. Plus, I’d given my word. There was a time when my word was the only thing I had that was worth anything.
So I stuck with the basics: “Yes, I took one, but it didn’t work.”
By now I’d turned around, my arms laden with string cheese and Tim Tams, and saw she had unfolded her tablet and was fiddling with it. “You took it as soon as you saw the aura?”
“Yes.” Oh, string cheese. Whee have you been all my life?
“With a Coke, I’m betting?”
“What else?” I would bathe in Coke if it wasn’t impractical and sticky. The fact that doctors actually recommended it (drinking it, not bathing in it, as the sugar and the caffeine were known to ease migraine symptoms) was icing on the Coke.
“What time?”
Oh, around 1520. “Uh … about one o’clock.”
She looked up from her notes with raised eyebrows. “Try to be more precise in the future, okay? ‘About’ isn’t scientific. I know the aura’s distracting, but next time whip out your phone and note the date and time. Even if you just say it out loud as a voice memo. It’s important.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
She nodded, more sympathetic than annoyed. “And don’t be discouraged. Not working this time doesn’t mean it’ll never work. That said, I’m sorry your Costumed Nerd Day got fucked. Couldn’t have been any fun just hanging around waiting to feel better.”
Well. Parts of it had been fun. Chit-chatting with Wolsey’s bastard had been fun.
But again: nothing I could discuss with my roommate. So I settled on, “It wasn’t terrible.”
Lisa bit into another Pop Tart with dark pink frosting the exact shade of her close-cropped hair. It should have looked silly in contrast with her angular frame, almond-shaped dark eyes, and olive complexion, but she pulled it off. She looked like an edgy Easter egg chick in all the best ways.
We ended the day as we often did, bragging/bitching about our day while devouring processed snack foods, and it took me months to realize that by keeping Lisa in the dark that night (and all the nights that came after), I had made the second biggest mistake of my life.
Hindsight, thou art a bitch.
Chapter Ten
I’ve never been a fan of the grid. So I didn’t acquire a cell phone until three years ago, under duress.
Which is why I was alarmed to hear the thing click at me while I was transcribing a gerontology exam. Only three entities had that number: Lisa, me, and AT&T. And I could see at a glance that it wasn’t any of them.
So I answered with my best reanimated corpse impersonation: “…”
“Hello? Ms. Howe?”
“…”
“Hello? It’s Warren? From I.T.C.H.?”
“Hi!” Right. The paperwork. So four entities had my number. They must have read it and realized I hadn’t taken it seriously. The jig, she was up. “I mean, hello. How are you?” Why was I so excited? It wasn’t like he was going to ask me out. “And I think I know what this is about, but let me explain. Back when—”
“Oh, thank God, you’re there. Could I get you to come—”
“Yes!”
“—to the Institute? We’ve—there’s a problem.”
“Dammit.”
“What?”
“I said sure. What’s wrong? Or is it something mysterious that you can’t talk about over the phone?”
“It’s incredibly mysterious and I can’t talk about it over the phone.”
Right. Made sense, actually, given what they were (accidentally) up to. “Well …” I looked at the notes I was transcribing. I was right in the middle of Mr. Benniman’s benign prostatic hyperplasia. On the other hand, clinic notes weren’t due back for days, and I’d already gotten through Mrs. Barclay’s inflamed urethra and Jenny Fitzpatrick’s cyclic vomiting syndrome. Plus, Warren had those terrific forearms. “Sure, I’ll have to call a—”
“We’re sending a car. And thank you, Miss Howe!”
“Joan.”
“Thank you, Joan! See you soon!”
Warren was a screamer, apparently.
“You—what?”
“She’s not getting it.” This from Karen, who added insult to insult by not bothering to lower her voice. And why did her voice always sound like a slowly deflating balloon?
“I’m getting it, Karen,” I snapped back. “I just can’t believe what you’re asking. So I’m repeating myself to express flabbergasted surprise and not a little trepidation. Any other human behavioral codes you need me to translate?”
She mumbled something that sounded like “you’re a behavioral code”, which was senseless. Which meant I’d probably heard her correctly.
“We’re sorry.” Warren held up his (bare! short-sleeved shirt!) forearms in a placating gesture. Or he was motioning for someone not to park there. “We know it’s a lot to ask.”
“Expecting me to pick up your dry cleaning for a month is a lot to ask. You’re asking me to risk death by attempting the impossible. There’s a significant difference.”
He was nodding so hard my head ached in sympathy. “There is, there is, you’re right.”
“Stop agreeing with me. And roll your sleeves down, it’s distracting.”
“What?”
“Just explain what happened.”
What happened was, another poor idiot tumbled into the abyss and was probably stumbling around the early 16th century, terrified and hoping they were going to wake up soon.
“And …?” Because it couldn’t be what I was thinking. “What, you wanted a time travel consultant?”
“Not … exactly.”
There was a silence that felt like it went on for an hour, because I was damned if I was going to break it. If they were going to propose what I assumed they had in mind, I had no intention of making it easier by bringing it up first.
Karen cracked like an egg hurled at a sidewalk. “Look, we need you to go back through the gate and try to find her. And bring her back.”
I just looked at her, so Warren jumped in. “You’re the only one who pulled it off.”
“Out of sheer stupid luck.”
“And you actually know a bit about the time period—”
“No, I know what movies and television and fiction books had to say about the time period. I’m not a historian.” Yes. A historian, I said it like that. With a hard ‘H’, because I refused to say uh nistorian.
“But all that aside, the main thing is—”
“Because I didn’t die, you’ve decided I’m qualified.”
“Well.” Warren’s gaze darted everywhere but my face, but he finally gave in and looked straight at me. Which was more distracting than his previous shifty-eyed nonsense. “Yeah.”
“You’re all clinically insane,” I observed.
“Irrelevant.” This from the boss, Dr. Holt, whose eyes looked redder and his skin grayer than when I saw him last week.
I sighed. Had they thought to lull me into a sense of security by having this meeting in the break room? Because it wasn’t working, not least because the room smelled like scorched toast. “And one of you bums—the ones who created the problem in the first place—going after her is off the table because …?”
“Again: you’re the only one who made it back. And there aren’t that many of us left.”
“What’s that supposed to m—”
“It’s not that complicated,” Karen put in, and I was really starting to dislike the woman. “Just do what you did before and you’ll be back.”
“But I have no idea how I got back,” I protested. “I just saw lights and headed for them. Like a moth! And why is it on me to play fetch? I don’t even have a college degree.”
“You listed ‘student’ on the first page of the NDA,” Dr. Holt pointed out.
I knew I shouldn’t have finished filling out that paperwork. “Because I am.”
“You’re still in college?” From guess-who.
“Still? I’m twenty-six. I’m sure it seems quaint to you—you’ve probably all got Masters and Doctorates—” Nods and faux-modest shrugs all around. “—but I’m a part-time student. I’m only one semester away from graduating.” Or two. Or four.
“What degree are you studying?”
Tricky ground. Once upon a time, when people asked about my degree, I would tell them I was studying social history. Then this would happen:
“Wait, like social justice?”
“No, social history.”
“What’s that?”
“Historians know what really happened. Social historians know the versions we wish happened.”
“What?”
“You know—historiographic revisionism. Like how The Tudors isn’t really historically representative of the Tudor period due to the waxed legs and shaved armpits and perfect teeth.”
“What?”
Lisa calculated that in four years I had spent a little over three and a half hours explaining this to people. So now this happens:
“What’s your major?”
“Law.”
“Oh, okay.”
“My studies aren’t the point,” I said, dragging us back to the point. “My point is that everyone in this building is probably smarter than I am.”
Karen nodded, because she was loathsome. Warren just stood there and stared. Actually, mo
st of them were standing and staring.
“That’s a fair question. The answer is, everyone here is vital to fixing the problem,” Dr. Holt replied, but not even his soothing Scottish burr was soothing me. Nothing soothing could soothe me. Not even chocolate cake. “As you know, we’re working ‘round the clock.” Yes, and without brushing your teeth or changing your shirt, but I wouldn’t point that out. “It’s your choice, of course, Miss Howe. But I can’t spare anyone.”
“Except me,” I said dryly.
Holt inclined his head toward me. “Quite right, lass. And if you don’t go, Dana Edwards will almost certainly be trapped forever in the 16th century, if she’s not dead already.”
He told me her name! Dirty pool, Holt. “That’s quite a pep talk.”
“And we’ll pay you ten thousand pounds.”
Much better pep talk. I did the math. If I came back unscorched, I’d have a tidy sum to bank. It would also go a long way toward solving my dollar dilemma. From adolescence, I’d never been able to relax unless I had a four figure savings account. I was probably the only 8th grader in my district who worried about that.
The key words, though: if I came back.
“Ten thousand pounds,” I said, and let them hear the skepticism, because holy hell, that was a nice bundle. “That’s what you think my life is worth?”
“No, that’s how much we can afford,” Holt said bluntly.
I snickered. “Points for honesty.” Was I really considering this? “How about this? I get paid even if I don’t find Dana and bring her back.”
Karen opened her heavily Chapsticked mouth (she really laid it on, did she like the taste?) and Warren jabbed an elbow into her side. “Deal,” he said quickly, ignoring her glare. Holt nodded. “You’re taking the same risk either way. I think that’s a fair exchange.”
“And I want booze and accolades upon my return,” I announced. “Don’t skimp on either.”
Holt actually smiled. “Agreed.”
Huh. That was easy. From this day forward, those will be my terms for any errand.
Chapter Eleven
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 5