Crosstalk (45 page)

Briddey let her, still trying to think of a way to get in touch with C.B. If he
did
have a home phone, it might be listed in directory assistance. She turned her phone back on to look up the number, and it immediately rang.

Kathleen. “You never called me back,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” Briddey apologized. “Things got a little crazy.”

Maeve looked up from trying to coax the sparrow. “Who is it?”

“Your Aunt Kathleen.”

“Oh,” she said uninterestedly, and went back to feeding the sparrow.

“Did you decide what you were going to do?” Briddey asked Kathleen.

“No. I don't want to make a fool of myself by saying something if Rich was just being nice. He'll think I'm some kind of lunatic stalker. On the other hand, he might not be saying anything because he saw me with Landis and thinks I like
him.
And that's another thing. I think Landis really
likes
me, and I'd feel like a jerk falling for somebody else while I was dating him, you know?”

Yes,
Briddey thought.
I do.

“I just wish I knew what he was thinking. It would make it all so much easier. Maybe you were right, and the smart thing to do is get an EED.”

No. It's definitely not.
But Kathleen was right about one thing: It would help to know what Trent was thinking, or more specifically, exactly how much he could hear of her thoughts. If he was only picking her up periodically, and it was limited to intermittent words and phrases, it would be safe for her to call to C.B. But if not—

“I think I'll look Rich up on the internet and see what I can find out,” Kathleen was saying. “Maybe that'll tell me something. I need more information.”

So do I,
Briddey thought, and after Kathleen hung up and Briddey shut off her phone, she sat there watching Maeve feeding the sparrows, thinking,
I wish C.B. had had time to teach me to audit individual voices.
But he hadn't, and he obviously couldn't do it now with Trent listening. She was going to have to learn how to do it on her own.

Maeve tossed out a handful of popcorn, and the birds converged from all over like tiny vultures to pounce on it.
And that's what'll happen if you open the door of the courtyard,
Briddey thought, her heart quailing at the thought of the voices roaring in like a tsunami.

But she had to know how much Trent could hear. She hurried Maeve through her meal, and when Maeve asked if she could have dessert, said, “It looks like the rain's stopped. How about if we go feed the ducks now and then come back for dessert?”

“Great,” Maeve said, and took off for the car again while Briddey paid the bill, asked when the restaurant closed—“We're always open,” the waiter said forlornly—and gathered up what was left of the popcorn, the bagels, and Maeve's forgotten umbrella.

“You can use it,” Maeve said when she came back laden with food. “I can't hold it and feed the ducks at the same time.”

“Thank you,” Briddey said. “Do you mind feeding them on your own? I need to call Trent,” and then was sorry. Maeve didn't like Trent.

But Maeve said cheerfully, “Sure. I won't fall in, I promise,” and ran down to the edge of the pond.

“Watch out for the geese,” Briddey called after her. “They can be mean.”

“I
know,
” Maeve shouted back disgustedly. “You sound just like Mom.”

“Sorry,” Briddey said, and sat down on a bench. The bench was very wet, and she was grateful for Maeve's umbrella. Rain dripped in great wet blops from the trees.

It doesn't matter,
she told herself.
You're in a sunny courtyard in Santa Fe.
She took out her turned-off phone and put it to her ear so it would look to Maeve like she was talking to someone, and then walked across the courtyard's flagstones to the bench under the cottonwood. She took a long look at the solid blue door, wondering if she might be able to open it after all, just for long enough to distinguish Trent's voice among the thousands of others, but at the mere thought, the voices outside seemed to rise like a huge wave, ready to crash through, and she dived for the door, slamming the bar more securely against its brackets.

I can't do it,
she thought, gripping the wet arm of the metal park bench.
I can't.

She looked enviously down at the lake's edge. Maeve was completely surrounded by ducks, a couple of large geese, and a swan angrily flapping its wings, but she didn't look frightened or even worried. She was happily scattering Wheat Chex.

If she can do it, you should be able to,
Briddey thought, but even her shame at having less courage than a nine-year-old couldn't persuade her to lift the latch and open the door.

There had to be some other way to audit the voices, something more controllable. C.B. had said that it was a matter of visualizing, and that it didn't make any difference what you visualized. All right, then, what would stand for sorting through huge numbers of something, looking for a single item?

The card file in the storage closet, with its alphabetically ordered drawers. Maybe she could riffle through the cards like C.B. had done that night, and find Trent's…but the voices weren't written words; they were sounds. She needed something that would let her hear individual voices and tune out the ones she didn't want.

A radio,
she thought, remembering C.B. tuning through the stations on his car radio, looking for a song to screen the voices.
I can visualize the voices as stations and the roar of the voices as the static in between.

It couldn't be a car radio, though. It had to be something that could fit in the courtyard, like the portable radio C.B. had in his lab.

There's one in the gardener's cupboard,
she told herself, opening the weathered doors and hoping she could do this without C.B. here to coach her. What did Aunt Oona have in her potting shed? Gardening tools and packets of seeds and flowerpots.

There was a stack of cobwebbed flowerpots on the top shelf. Briddey reached behind it and pulled out the radio. She blew the dust off the pink plastic, took the radio over to the bench, and sat down, holding it on her lap. She wiped the face of the horizontal dial clear of dust, looked at the red needle and the black lines and numbers—550, 710, 850—and switched the radio on.

The dial lit up and voices rushed out, barking, bawling, screeching. Briddey reared back in fright and nearly dropped the radio onto the flagstones. The sound was earsplitting. She fumbled wildly to turn it off.

The voices stopped instantly.
It's only noise,
Briddey told herself, heart thudding.
You had the volume too high, that's all.
But she wasn't sure she had the courage to turn it on again.

She looked down at the lake. Maeve was still happily feeding the ducks and geese. But for how long?

Briddey took a deep breath and switched the radio on again, turning the volume all the way down first. The voices emerged from the speaker as a faint whisper, like the sound of the ones beyond her perimeter.

They're not voices, they're static,
she told herself firmly, and began moving the needle, searching for Trent's voice:
…traffic is terrible. I should have taken…so cranky…must be cutting a new tooth…leak in the basement…worst hangover ever! I need a beer…Jesus, who drank all the Budweiser?…

At this rate it could take forever. She needed to do this scientifically, so she could eliminate frequencies and narrow it down. She turned the knob all the way to the low end of the dial and began inching it slowly up, noting the station numbers as she went and hesitating only long enough to make sure it wasn't Trent before she moved on. At 550:
…marble sculpture…;
575:
…sniveling sycophant! I hope he…;
610:
…no business going off without leaving a contact number for his patients…;
650…

Wait, that was Trent,
she thought, belatedly recognizing his voice.
He's talking about Dr. Verrick.
But it was too late, she'd already gone on to the next station.
…think I'm coming down with the flu,
a voice was saying.

She dialed back to 610.
I won't. You can't make me,
a child's voice said angrily.

She must have overshot. She inched the knob forward.
…scratchy feeling in my throat…,
the person coming down with the flu said. No, that was too far.

He has to be here somewhere,
she thought, inching the knob back:
Oh, why do I have to get up? It's Sunday,
and then, faintly,
…tell Briddey…

Definitely Trent, but even as she heard her name, it blurred into static, like a station going in and out of range. She moved the knob gingerly back and forth, trying to get a fix on it, but she couldn't find him
or
the flu woman, and she was about to give up when she heard,
…my head aches…
, and before she could go a notch back, Trent's voice.

It was faint and static-y, and other voices kept breaking in, but she didn't dare adjust—or even touch—the tuning knob for fear of losing him altogether.

Trent was apparently thinking about the Hermes Project because she caught,
…adapting…wireless signal…Apple won't know what hit…what'll I tell…?
and then, perfectly clearly,
Where the hell is Dr. Verrick?
followed by more static, and then, patchily,
…can't afford to let…if Briddey finds out, she won't…
And she lost the station completely.

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.”

—A
NTOINE
DE
S
AINT
E
XUPÉRY
,
The Little Prince

If I find out, I won't what?
Briddey thought, trying to get the station with Trent's voice on it back, but there was only static.

What is he afraid I might find out?
she wondered, turning the knob slowly, trying to get him back or at least find a voice she recognized, but they all had that flat, anonymous quality:
…never going to that church again…why do I always have to let the damned dog out?…still raining…

That's why he was so alarmed at the idea that I could hear his thoughts and why he demanded to know exactly what I'd heard,
she thought, inching the tuning knob along.
Because he was hiding something.

…weatherman said…need to get gas…I'm not standing here all day!
And then a little girl's voice saying weakly,
…know he said to…but I'm…

That voice had sounded like Maeve. Briddey nudged the dial, trying to bring it in more clearly, and lost it altogether.

This is hopeless,
Briddey thought, and Maeve's voice cut in clearly. “Freezing,” she said.

That's not on the radio,
Briddey thought, and looked up to see Maeve standing in front of her.

“What is it?” Briddey asked, thinking,
And now she's going to ask what I'm doing,
but she didn't.

“I
said,
can we go now?” Maeve pleaded.

“I thought you wanted to feed the ducks.”

“I ran out of food. You've been on the phone a really long time.” And when Briddey glanced at the time, she was shocked to see it was almost one o'clock. She'd been sitting here for hours.

“And besides,” Maeve said, “it's raining again.”

It was, as witness Maeve's draggling wet hair and her pinched-with-cold face.
Oh, God, she'll get pneumonia, and Mary Clare will never forgive me,
Briddey thought. She hastily handed Maeve back her umbrella. “We'll get you a nice hot chocolate,” she said, hurrying her back to the restaurant, “and that'll warm you up.”

“You said I could have dessert later. And this is later, right?”

“Yes,” Briddey said because she was mortified she'd kept Maeve out in the cold so long, and Maeve proceeded to order an enormous ice cream sundae.

“Won't that make you cold again?”

“No, because I'll eat it first and
then
drink my hot chocolate. Don't you want anything, Aunt Briddey?”

Yes,
Briddey thought.
I want to know why Trent said,
If Briddey finds out, she won't…,
and I can't do that with you here, so I need you to hurry up and eat your sundae so I can take you home,
and amazingly, Maeve did, wolfing down her ice cream and gulping her hot chocolate in record time.

I can tell Mary Clare she's definitely not anorexic,
Briddey thought, and remembered the purpose of the outing had been to pump Maeve for information.
I'll do it on the way home,
she thought, hustling Maeve back to the car and turning on the heater full blast.

But she didn't have to. When her phone pinged with a text from Trent saying he'd still had no luck locating Dr. Verrick, Maeve said disgustedly, “I bet I know who that's from. My mom. And I bet she wants to know what you found out.”

“About what?” Briddey said, careful to keep her eyes on the road so as not to seem too interested.

“
I
don't know. She's always worrying about me. It's so stupid.”

“She just wants to protect you.”

“I know, but I'm fine. Or I would be if everybody'd just stop asking me questions.”

I know exactly how you feel,
Briddey thought.
But that's because I'm keeping secrets.
Was Maeve keeping secrets, too?

She glanced over at her niece, wondering how to approach the subject without making her instantly defensive, and while she was pondering strategies, Maeve dumped it in her lap: “If I tell you something, Aunt Briddey, will you promise not to tell Mom? There's…I like this guy—”

“A boy in your class at school?” Briddey asked casually.

“No,”
Maeve said in a how-could-you-possibly-think-that? tone. “He was in
The Zombie Princess Diaries,
and he's really cute. I want to use his picture as my screensaver, but if I do, I'm afraid Mom will find out—”

“That you've been watching zombie movies. Is he one of the zombies?”

“
No.
Do you want to see his picture?” She pulled out her phone and began busily swiping, and at the next stoplight, held it over for Briddey to see. “His name's Xander.”

He had gray eyes and even messier hair than C.B.'s. Maeve was gazing dreamily at his image. “So what do you think I should do?”

“Has he been in any other movies? Maybe you could tell her you saw him in something else.”

“You don't get it,” Maeve said. “It doesn't matter what he's in. If she finds out I think he's cute, she'll start worrying that I'm starting to like boys, and she'll give me ‘the talk' and make me watch sex-ed videos and stuff.”

Maeve was right. Knowing Mary Clare, she might even try to get a restraining order against poor, unwitting Xander. But she could hardly tell Maeve that lying was all right—even though she herself had been doing it more or less continuously for the last few days. “You really shouldn't be keeping secrets from your mother,” she said.

“But it's not like it's a
bad
secret. And everybody has secrets, right? I mean,
you've
got stuff you don't want anybody to know about.”

Here it comes,
Briddey thought.
She's going to ask about my stuffing my wet shoes in the drawer.
Or worse, about C.B.'s phoning her and asking her to cover for them last night. “What do you mean?”

“The EED. I saw the bandage when you were drying your hair. You didn't tell Mom or Aunt Oona or Kathleen you had it. But don't worry. I won't tell anybody. If you promise not to tell Mom about Xander.”

A spy
and
a blackmailer,
Briddey thought.
It isn't your daughter you should be worried about, Mary Clare, it's the rest of the populace.
And she shouldn't let her get away with it, but she didn't have time to deal with this right now, so she settled for saying sternly as she let Maeve out in front of her house, “I'll keep your secret for now because I have to be somewhere, but we are
not
done talking.”

“I know,” Maeve said, her eyes dancing with merriment.

“What's so funny?”

Maeve sobered instantly. “Nothing. I was thinking about this funny thing Danika said the other day.”

Which was obviously a lie, but Briddey didn't have time to deal with that either, so she said goodbye, watched to see that Maeve got into the house safely, and left to find someplace where she could try to get Trent on the radio again.

A library would be ideal—the screening voices of people reading would cut a lot of the static out and make him easier to find—but this was Sunday. The public libraries were closed, and the university library where she and C.B. had been last night was clear on the other side of town. He'd said Starbucks was a good place, but Kathleen might be there with her pair of suitors, so Briddey drove to the nearest Peaberry's, ordered a latte, and sat down next to a middle-aged woman reading
How Do You Tell If It's Truly Love?
Not exactly
David Copperfield,
but all the other customers were staring at their phones or watching cat videos on their laptops.

Briddey went into her courtyard, switched on the radio, put the needle on 650, and began nudging it back in tiny increments, afraid she'd miss Trent if she went too fast, even if it meant she had to go through scores of voices.

It took forever. In spite of her care, she overshot twice to the woman with the flu and had to start all over again, and by three o'clock she'd gone through two lattes and hundreds of stations and was beginning to think she'd never find him.
…why does it always have to rain on the weekend?…worst job I've ever…,
and faintly,
…never thought it existed…

Trent.
She leaned forward to catch his words.
…always thought…fake…can't believe…actually real…

She adjusted the tuning knob a micrometer.

…sound insane…when I called Hamilton this morning…

Which was why C.B. and I were able to beat him to my apartment,
Briddey thought. But he'd just found out he was telepathic. Why had his first reaction been to call his boss?

…Dr. Ver…,
Trent said.
…need…get him back here now…think they'd have some way to reach…if it were an emergency?…try…
Then nothing but static. She was losing the station.

She turned the dial back a smidgen, and Trent's voice suddenly came through crystal clear. But he was talking about Apple and Commspan's new phone.
…will need to analyze the circuitry,
she heard him say, and
…write code…

No, tell me what you don't want me to find out,
she thought, and remembered C.B.'s telling her that people mistakenly thought telepathy meant being able to listen to the people and thoughts you wanted to hear. He was right. She could sit here and listen to Trent all afternoon and never hear what it was.

Or how to tell if it's truly love,
she thought, and heard Trent say,
How am I going to tell her?…have to find a way to convince…
She strained to hear the end of that, but couldn't pick it up.
…revolutionary…can't wait…Apple might come up with…

No, forget Apple. Tell me what you're afraid I'll find out. And why you called Hamilton.

…thought I could just have the tests and get the data, and she'd never have to know about it…

What?

…thinks we had it done to make us communicate better…but that was when it was just emotions…now that it's telepathy…have to tell her…but when she finds out I needed us to have the EED so we…phone…she'll be furious…

You've got that right,
Briddey thought. He'd asked her to have the EED so he could get data to use with the new phone?

Of course he had. Hamilton had said, “Instantaneous communication is no longer enough. We need to be able to offer something more.” And that “something more” was emotionally enhanced communication. What had they planned to do? Design an app that identified a person's emotions and added them to their texts as emojis?

Whatever it had been, Trent had been only too happy to volunteer as a guinea pig.
And to volunteer me, too. Because it takes two people to have an EED. You snake!

He'd never loved her, in spite of all those flowers he'd sent her, all those dinners at Luminesce and emails and endearments. All he'd cared about was talking her into having the EED with him so he could get data for designing an emotionally enhanced phone.

That's why he was so frantic when we didn't connect right away,
she thought,
and so upset when Dr. Verrick wanted to keep me in the hospital and run more tests.
He hadn't been worried about her. He'd just been afraid something had gone wrong with his plan. And that was why he'd insisted on her seeing Dr. Verrick, even though he was out of the country and it was the middle of the night. Trent had promised his boss results, and she wasn't delivering. She thought of Traci Hamilton saying, “I know it's all very hush-hush and we're not supposed to talk about it,” and, “We should be thanking you, what with everything you're doing—”