Spark

by Catherine Friend

  “Lightning. It strikes the planet twenty-five to thirty million times a year. Mortality rate for lightning strikes is between five and thirty percent. One man, Roy Sullivan, was the human lightning rod, surviving seven strikes. People rang medieval England church bells violently to keep lightning from striking the towers. Commonly inscribed on the bells was fulgura franco.” He wrote this on his board. “This means I break up the lightning flashes.”

  “Dr. Raj,” I interrupted. “All interesting facts, but could you skip to the good part, please, where you remove the GCA from my blood before another storm hits?” Dad had given me advice, years ago, that if you want to accomplish something but are afraid, you must act as if you aren’t afraid, as if you’re confident the thing you want to come true will actually happen. For now, at least, I needed to act as if 1560 were real, as if Blanche Nottingham truly was a consciousness trying to take over control of my body.

  “Yes, yes, certainly. Electricity is drawn together when positively charged protons move toward negatively charged electrons. Lightning is negatively charged, the surface of the earth is positively charged, so the lightning is pulled down to the ground. Lightning happens!” He flung up his hands energetically.

  I began to pace the small room. “But what does this have to do with my consciousness?”

  “Yes, yes, certainly. Here is the key.” He returned to his board. “As a bolt of lightning approaches the ground, an upward streamer emerges from the object about to be struck. When the two meet, the bolt from the cloud hits the earth at the same time a return bolt from the earth is shot back into the clouds.”

  “Wait. Lightning moves from the cloud to the ground, then back up to the cloud?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why don’t we see that?”

  “Happens too quickly. Lightning moves at 320,000,000 feet per second.” Raj looked at me. “Remember the GCA I injected into your system before the lab experiment?”

  My mouth seemed to have stopped producing saliva. “Not likely to forget that.”

  “Somehow, inexplicably, the drug changed the electrical charge of your glial cells, which must contain our conscious minds. Remember the orchestra I described at the beginning, the conductor being the intralaminar nuclei oscillating at forty hertz? Together the GCA and your nuclei oscillating at a different rate have created the conditions for transport. So when the lightning strikes, your consciousness is the opposite charge of the cloud and is pulled from your body and taken up to the cloud on the return bolt of lightning.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re telling me that, basically, I’m riding lightning?” Fire trucking insane. “Let’s assume your theory is correct. Thanks to the GCA, I’m charged the wrong way. How do we recharge my glial cells so they’re repelled by lightning, not attracted? How do I get my orchestra back to forty hertz?”

  Dr. Raj dropped into his chair. “That, Jamie Maddox, is an excellent question.” His shoulders slumped. “I do not know how to counteract the GCA.”

  My pulsed raced. “Wait. You said you’d solved it.”

  “The reason for what happened, not how to fix it.”

  “How long will this stupid GCA remain in my system?”

  “I cannot know for sure.” He checked his calendar. “It has been seven weeks since the initial episode.”

  My jaw tightened. “So you haven’t solved anything.”

  “Not true!” He leapt out of his chair and returned to his whiteboard. “Why London? That one was easy—because that is where you, Meg, and Ray were when you were taken by the lightning. I assume Meg has gone to the same place as you and Ray. But why 1560? That is more interesting.” He scribbled a series of numbers on the board and stood back, beaming. “Your brain has three basic types of waves—delta, which is between one and four hertz, theta, between four and eight hertz, and finally gamma, which runs from thirty to seventy, with some spikes as high as one hundred. Your gammas, however.…” He tapped the board for emphasis. “Yours spiked to four hundred and fifty-seven hertz.”

  I winced. “Intense.”

  “Very! And that is the precise number of years you went back in time.”

  “That fits nicely, but why did Ray go back the same number of years? And what about Meg—we have no idea where she ended up. Wouldn’t our brains spike at different rates? Does it have to do with the strength of the lightning?”

  He shook his head. “I checked the records. You all spiked up to four hundred and fifty-seven hertz.”

  “But as the amount of GCA in my blood decreases, wouldn’t the spikes be lower? Wouldn’t I start traveling fewer years back in time?” The thought of popping up into an entirely new time made me twitch.

  “Either the pattern has already been set, or the GCA stays constant for a long time.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair, squeezing gently. “But how does this help me stop traveling back to 1560?”

  “I will solve this problem. Do not fear. Together we are making history.”

  I told Dr. Raj about my session with Dr. Kroll. His eyes widened. “But that cannot be true. She is trying to undercut the importance of my discovery. I am the first to locate and transport a consciousness! She cannot weaken this by throwing jumbo mumbo at my accomplishment.” He slammed the marker onto his desk. “No, I will prove that your experience is real, not jumbo mumbo. The Consciousness Conference is next year in Tucson, so I must be ready by then.”

  I stood. “Let’s focus on now, shall we? The clock is ticking, Doc. Thanks to all the thunderstorms we’ve been having this summer, I don’t know where I’ll be when.”

  Dr. Raj gathered together a chaotic stack of readouts. “I will solve this yesterday. You will hear from me soon.”

  * * *

  There was nothing to salvage from the mess Blanche had made in my studio. Standing there, heart breaking at the angry black slashes, I could not believe that I was Blanche. Why would I ever do this to my own work? Never, never, never.

  I didn’t have to replace my smashed computer because Blanche had bought her own. I found it hidden under the desk in the spare room. It wasn’t password protected—thank God her computer skills hadn’t progressed that far—so I could easily take the computer on as my own. Tempted as I was to open Word and read Blanche’s novel-in-progress, I decided not to. Doing so would make her seem more legitimate.

  Instead, I reentered the important email addresses I could remember, then sent a long, so-sorry-I-messed-up email to Candace. I claimed that vandals broke into my studio and destroyed all my work. I would have to start over on the Froggity books, but I assured her it wouldn’t take long since I’d already done them once already.

  Her reply was speedy, but terse. “So sorry to hear of the break-in. Send all Froggity art ASAP. We are behind behind behind. As for the new books, they have all been assigned. Our stable of artists is now quite full, so we don’t anticipate any more assignments for you.”

  If Blanche had been standing before me, all big hair and big bosom, I would have slapped her clear across the Thames. I wanted to open her novel file and perform the equivalent of black angry slashes across it, but instead, I forced myself to close the computer, then sit down and begin sketching the first Froggity painting.

  I worked all day and into the evening, texting Chris that I would be home late. She must have called Sam at the pub because a bowl of Thai noodles appeared at my door, along with a cold Mountain Dew. My eyes burned by nine p.m., so I finally shut out the lights, locked the door, and staggered home, surprised it was still light out. Working with such concentration always created in me the sense that the rest of the world had gone into some sort of stasis until I emerged from my cave. Yet men and women scurried down the short street on their way home from a day as long as I’d had.

  Chris and I watched TV for a while. Neither of us talked about the tests I’d undergone with Dr. Kroll. We were waiting to hear the results.

  I checked the sky before going to bed. No stars, but that wasn’t unusual for Lo
ndon. They were hard to see even with a clear sky. The Weather Channel said the chance of anything more than a light drizzle was low.

  I curled around Chris’s back, and she wrapped my arm around her chest. We must not have moved an inch because when I awoke in the middle of the night we were still locked in the same embrace. Rain pattered lightly on the window. There was no wind, otherwise I would have heard the long, tubular wind chimes on the neighbor’s balcony booming like a church organ. I sank deeper into the bed in relief. No thunder. No lightning.

  But then a loud boom made both of us jump. A car backfiring, nothing more. But I could feel Chris’s chest tighten, as if she were holding her breath.

  “Blanche, is that you? Are you back?”

  My heart stopped. Chris thought the noise had been thunder. Without a plan, I nuzzled the back of her neck. “It’s me, princess,” I said, my heart constricting with pain.

  Chris squeezed my hand. “Oh, thank God. I have missed you so much.” She rolled over and faced me. Luckily, it was too dark in the room to see each other. She flung her arms around my neck and began frantically kissing my face. “I can’t lose you, Blanche. We have to figure something out. My whole world is gray when Jamie’s in charge. But when you’re here, I come alive.”

  I rolled away then gritted my teeth as I pulled her close behind me. If she’d seen my face, she would have known it was me, not Blanche. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out,” I said flatly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chris sighed happily and tucked her knees up behind mine. “I love you, Blanche.”

  Blanche, not Jamie. Not me.

  Chris almost immediately dropped into a light snore, but for me, sleep never came. A fire burned so hotly in my chest that I nearly moaned with the pain of it. Eventually, the burning faded, leaving me a brittle, charred shell. I could not stop the tears now, and soon my pillowcase was soaked.

  In the time it took to say one name out loud, everything changed.

  Everything.

  The life I’d loved was over.

  It no longer mattered if 1560 was real or a fantasy. Nothing mattered anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The next morning, I woke before Chris and slipped from the bed. I showered, then used some of Chris’s fixative to spike my hair. I borrowed her eyeliner and clumsily created raccoon eyes. I found a tube of lipstick Blanche must have bought and grimaced as I applied it. The wine color turned my mouth into an angry slash. Perfect.

  I chose a combination of clothing that Blanche might have—lime green skirt, black lace cami, and that stupid velvet jacket. It was still hot outside, so I cut off the jacket sleeves and frayed the armholes. Standing before the mirror in the bathroom, I didn’t recognize myself.

  When I stepped into the bedroom, Chris rolled over and stretched, the covers slipping away to reveal the body I’d loved for so long but that now turned my stomach. Forcing myself to move, I knelt on the bed and planted a wine-kiss mark on her breast, her ribcage, her stomach, then flicked my tongue once between her legs.

  She moaned. “Blanche, come back to bed, please. I’ve missed you.”

  I slid off the bed and stood. Normally, I would have yielded to any plea from Chris for anything. But today all I wanted to do was hurt. “Sorry, princess, I’m taking my laptop and going to the Coffee Stand to work on my novel.”

  Chris’s eyes lit up. “Thank God. Jamie just lets that gem sit there. All she does is paint. If I have to look at another Froggity disaster I may slit my wrists.”

  Sickened by her words and by my anger, I slapped her on the ass so hard I left a pink stain. She yelped, then eyes dark, she once again pleaded with me to join her in bed. I felt close to throwing up.

  “Keep that flame burning, princess,” I said cheerily. “I’ll be home when you’re done with school.”

  I snatched up my pack and computer, grabbed my keys, and fled the once-cozy flat. Desperate for something real in this crazy day, I headed for Holborn Station. Friday mornings Bradley always visited Knightsbridge, an easy ride down the Piccadilly Line.

  * * *

  I heard Bradley before I saw him.

  “Do you people know that this station was built in 1906? The route twists to avoid a plague pit, where victims of the 1665 plague were buried. Grim news for such an exclusive neighborhood.” His voice echoed against the concrete walls. “And do you know how this area came by the name Knightsbridge? Think back to the Crusades. There used to be a bridge crossing the River Westbourne near here. Two knights crossed the bridge on their way to the Holy Land to fight in the crusades They quarreled, fought, and both were killed. Hence the name. Violence is never the answer, remember that!”

  I nodded to Bradley as he wrapped up his running commentary. He slowly lowered himself off the bench, then untied Annie from the bench leg. After I helped him collect his earnings from the filthy hat on the floor, he gave me a funny look. “Is it you?”

  “Yes, it’s Jamie. For now, at least, that bitch Blanche is back in her own body, but I need to talk to someone who’s impartial. I—” I stopped. “Bradley, are you okay? Annie’s not sick, is she?”

  He handed me the rabbit for inspection so I stroked her soft ears. “No, it’s Mouse,” he said. “She’s disappeared.” Bradley’s hands shook and his hollow cheeks were paler than ever.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  When he shrugged, I led him up out of the station and to a window taco shop. I was desperate to explain my plight but instead managed to shake off my self-focus. “When did you last see her?”

  Bradley rubbed his bleary eyes. “She’s been my shadow for weeks now. I make sure she gets a bite to eat every day, but she never speaks. Then two mornings ago, I was doing my thing at Charing Cross Station and she was sleeping off in a quiet corner. I had to deal with some foreign hecklers who didn’t like my uniform, and by the time I outshouted them, I turned to see her leaving the station. I ran after her, but she disappeared into the crowd.” He shook his head. “She’s helpless. She can’t take care of herself.”

  “Have you checked the shelters? Maybe she got tired of sleeping outside.”

  “She doesn’t even understand the concept. I tried explaining once as we stood outside of St. Martin’s, but her face was totally blank.”

  I started to tell Bradley about 1560 and Blanche, but he was too worried to even hear me. “She knows the schedule,” he muttered over and over. “I have to keep my schedule. Maybe she’ll find me.”

  Finally, I gave up. “Where to next?”

  “Gloucester Road. She might be there now.” I gave Bradley enough coins to buy a three-day pass. “Here, you look anywhere you need to.”

  When he squeezed my hand, his skin felt old and papery. “Bless you, Jamie. I’m going to find her.”

  So much for my plan to unload all my woes onto the shoulders of a homeless man. As I rode the Tube back to Holborn, I thought about my friends Ashley and Mary. They might take me seriously, but they weren’t talking to me. That was the great thing about Bradley—everything was possible. The guy was a well of hope.

  On the short walk back to the flat, I called my mom. This time she answered, her voice tight with the wounds Blanche had inflicted. “Mom, I’m so sorry. Please don’t hang up. I—It’s…it’s been really hard since my accident and sometimes I’m not myself. You have no idea how much I’m not myself.”

  I stopped walking and leaned against my building as I waited for her response. The rough brick dug into my skin.

  She sighed. “Well, you do sound more like yourself than the last time we talked. Your voice was so…so harsh.”

  “Mom, please. The next time you hear that harsh voice, just hang up. It’s not me, really. You can’t trust anything that voice says.”

  “Jamie, these personality shifts aren’t right. If I made you an appointment with Dr. Benedict, would you come home? He knows you so well, and could help us figure out what to do.”

  I shuddered to think of setting B
lanche loose on Minnesota. Those poor people would be defenseless. “Mom, I’m getting help here. Chris found me a shrink to talk to, and they’re looking at my brain scans and everything. We’re near UCL Hospital, and they really know what they’re doing. Not that Dr. Benedict doesn’t, but really, I’m in good hands.” I longed to tell her everything, but then I knew she and Dad would be on the first plane over here.

  “Anything new I should know about?” I needed to shift Mom’s focus.

  Her happy gasp told me there was. “Marcus’s fiancé is pregnant. She’s really struggling with morning sickness, but otherwise she’s fine.”

  I wanted tell Mom I knew what that felt like, but then I’d sound crazy again. “That’s exciting,” I said. “I assume the baby-to-be will wear The Dress for its christening.”

  “Of course. I’ve already gotten the box out of the closet. But the dress is really looking shabby.”

  “I could sew some new pearl beads on the front. That would really help.”

  My mom paused. “You don’t sew.”

  My chuckle was genuine. “Turns out that I’ve picked up some new skills while I’ve been in London.” Sewing, playing the lute, bathing in ponds, plotting murders.

  We talked for a few more minutes, enough that Mom’s voice finally relaxed into her usual cheerfulness. Hopefully, we could put this horrible episode behind us. “Mom, I love you guys. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, honey, we know. It’s just…”

  “Hang up when you hear the hard voice.”

  I finished the conversation and entered the building’s side door.

  Chris wasn’t home, so I was free to be myself. I tried to come up with a plan to fight off Blanche. If I were sent back to 1560 again, what would I need to get back?

  Lightning. Predictable lightning. With an ironic laugh, I remembered that in Back to the Future, Marty McFly knew precisely the date and time the city’s clock tower would be struck. He and Doc Brown used the information to return Marty to the future. I used to think it was a fun movie, but now that I’d actually been sent back into time, not so much. I opened my search engine and entered “lightning 1560s London.” My mouth dropped open as I scanned the hits provided for the 1560s. A bolt of lightning hit the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral on April 3, 1561, a few months from the last time I’d been in 1560.