Spark

by Catherine Friend

  The good news was that I had a predicable way home. Bad news? It was only late August now, so the summer thunderstorm season was coming to an end. Were I to be yanked back now, I might have to wait almost seven months to ride another bolt of lightning. By then I would be hugely pregnant and likely to deliver at any minute. What if I gave birth before April 3? What the hell did I do then? If Kroll was right, the baby was just a fantasy. But if this was all fantasy, I didn’t need lightning on April 3. Why did everything seem so murky? Nothing was straightforward.

  I called Dr. Raj and left yet another message. “Dr. Raj, I need that shot of anti-GCA stuff now. I can’t wait forever. What if I’m transported back in time, and then you give the shot to Blanche? I’ll be stuck back in time, unable to come home.”

  I slumped down onto the sofa, spent. I’d done everything I could think of. This feeling of vulnerability unsettled me. It was as if every ounce of confidence in my body—no, in my brain, since that’s where it had to reside—had been replaced with confusion. I didn’t feel like myself, and that had nothing to do with the strange clothing. I’d lost my faith in my sense of direction, in my ability to make a living from my art, and I could no longer rely on Chris. I was mending things with my family, but Ashley and Mary still refused to reply to my messages and texts.

  I didn’t know who I was.

  Was I Jamie Maddox…or Blanche Nottingham?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  At the beginning of our next appointment with Dr. Kroll, Chris and I took our same chairs. Chris had been looking at me strangely for a few days, despite my efforts to be Blanche. She knew something was off.

  Dr. Kroll reviewed the test results with us, all of which continued to point to some sort of trauma that had created two distinct personalities within my mind. She waited for me to comment. What could I say? That she was full of crap? That she was spot-on, as they liked to say around here? Should I tell her I believed in my friendship with Harriet, in my connection to the greatest queen England would ever know?

  “Every single event in our lives has the potential to upset our brain chemistry, and thus change all subsequent events. But that elasticity is a good thing. We can restore our brains through exercise, sleep, diet, friends, action, and setting goals. So that’s what I want you to do. Start setting goals for yourself.”

  I was about to reply without enthusiasm, then remembered I was impersonating Blanche. This was doing a real number on my mind—impersonating one of my multiple personalities. I leaned forward. “Okay, whatever. But what will help keep me just as I am now?” I glanced at Chris, who nodded encouragingly.

  Dr. Kroll settled back in her chair. “There are many options. The antidepressants citalopram, fluoxetine, and sertraline are all possibilities. These drugs help reduce depression in some dissociative identity disorder patients.”

  “I’m not depressed. I’m doing great. I’ve made huge strides on the novel I’m writing.”

  Chris lightly tapped my knee with her foot. “You didn’t tell me you’ve written more. When may I read it?”

  I forced a cheesy grin. “Soon.”

  “There are also anxiety drugs that can help as you work through this, and in rare cases some doctors prescribe stimulants to fight depression.”

  I shook my head. “Once again, not depressed. What about a drug that suppresses one of the personalities? That’s what we’re looking for.”

  When Chris reached over and squeezed my hand, it took every bit of restraint I had not to scream. Fury raged like a hurricane through my veins.

  Dr. Kroll shook her head. “I’m afraid there isn’t such a magic drug. One option is ECT, or electroconvulsive therapy. While it would probably work, I’d like to keep that as a last resort. Our best bet for success is psychotherapy. You and I will meet twice a week and talk this out until we can identify and resolve the trauma that caused this split.”

  Chris shook her head. “No, we need to control it more than that. With talk therapy, how can you know which personality will end up being the dominant one? I like this ECT option.”

  My jaw clenched. For Chris, keeping Blanche was worth the risk of frying my brain.

  The look in Dr. Kroll’s eye warmed my heart. She was beginning to see the problem. “Are you saying you both prefer one of Jamie’s personalities over the other?”

  “Yes,” I said before Chris could speak up and break my heart yet again. “I’m Blanche, and I love Chris very much. Chris prefers me to Jamie.” Chris nodded vigorously. “So I’d like to ensure that I remain the dominant personality.”

  “But don’t you see that both you and Jamie can have Chris? Both of you are part of Jamie. It doesn’t have to be this either/or proposition. With therapy we’ll figure out why you’ve split yourself in two. What part of yourself as Jamie didn’t you like? What was missing? You might have created Blanche to fill in that missing piece.”

  Oh, yeah, that was missing from my life—a destructive, vindictive bitch who only thought of herself.

  Dr. Kroll turned to Chris. “Wouldn’t you like to have a whole person to love? Aren’t there parts of Jamie you miss in Blanche?”

  “Not really,” she said.

  Dr. Kroll scribbled something in her notebook. I could imagine the words: spouse of patient wishes patient were different person, thereby causing the trauma that created the split.

  My emotions flatlined. The puzzle pieces did fit together alarmingly well. Chris had dropped the bomb about me not being ambitious enough for her, so I had created Blanche as a result.

  Chris and I didn’t speak on the walk home, but once we were inside the flat, the door locked and bolted behind us, Chris slid her arms around my waist and kissed me. “Blanche, I need you so much.”

  I leaned back, forcing myself to meet her eyes while I fingered a lock of her hair. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but sometimes it confuses me. What is it about Jamie that you don’t like?”

  Stupid of me to ask, of course. Why not just cut myself in a thousand places and pour lemon juice over the cuts?

  Chris nuzzled my neck. “She used to have an edge, but she’s gone all soft. She’s too comfortable with her life, with her art, with me. Jamie’s nice, but I’m tired of nice. Edginess makes me feel alive, makes me feel as if I can accomplish anything.” She nipped playfully at my ear, and something snapped inside me.

  I stepped back. “How’s this for edgy? I’m Jamie. I’ve been Jamie since that night the car backfired and you thought it was thunder. No matter who wins the battle for my body, me or Blanche, you and I are done.”

  I grabbed my keys and stomped from the flat. Shaking badly, I must have looked drunk as I weaved down the street and up into my studio. I engaged the deadbolt so Chris couldn’t enter. I jammed in my earbuds and turned Joan Jett up to ear-shattering, then ripped off everything on the studio wall, most of it gone already thanks to Blanche. Then with black and deep red and garish blue and shocking green, I began to paint Whitehall Palace on the wall. The paint splashed and dripped, but no matter. Fury held me in her grip, so I had no choice but to let her paint.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  A phone call interrupted my painting. It was Meg Warren’s neighbor. “Yeah, she came home, but I don’t know if she’ll call you. She’s in a bit of a snit and wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  I thanked the woman and called Meg’s phone. No answer. Damn. No wonder Dr. Rajamani had given up trying to contact her.

  Later that afternoon, I strolled High Holborn, then turned on Endell and worked my way through the narrow streets and tiny shops of Covent Garden. I took Long to Charing Cross Road, popped down Cecil Court, and stopped into Watkins Bookstore in search of a new deck of tarot cards for my mom’s birthday. I snickered at the box of alien tarot cards. Surely she didn’t have that set yet. Then across to Leicester Square and down Charing Cross Road. I stopped at the gelato shop and indulged in a double scoop of coconut. I’d gotten used to the extra weight Blanche had packed on. In fact, I felt a li
ttle healthier and didn’t look so gaunt when I happened to catch my reflection in a shop window.

  By the time I reached the National Gallery, the sun was weak behind a thin film of clouds, but it managed to throw a shadow or two. I don’t know how long I was in the Gallery, but I spent most of my time with Vincent and with Lady Jane Grey. As I stood there, I realized what was so compelling about this work of art. Even as she was about to be killed, the nine-day-queen was still generous and kind, reaching out to find the chopping block in order that the executioner could perform his ghastly task. Her long, slender fingers reminded me of Elizabeth’s hands, which made sense. They were cousins. Jane was the great-granddaughter of Henry VII; Elizabeth was his granddaughter.

  A pang of loneliness shot through me. Could I actually be homesick for that strange world? The long days in the company of courtiers bored me, but I loved my quiet time with Elizabeth as we talked, just the two of us. Heady stuff, to be the confidant of a queen.

  I strode next door to the National Portrait Gallery and lost myself in the paintings of Elizabeth. My favorite was a copy of the Coronation Portrait, the original painted in 1559. Elizabeth’s red-blond hair was loose and spread across her shoulders. The painter had captured her intelligence. It hadn’t taken me too long in 1560 to see how cleverly Elizabeth operated. Her council met daily, but she rarely attended. Instead, she preferred to meet with the councilors individually. This allowed her to play one faction against another, to play to each man’s strengths and weaknesses.

  One morning while I stitched, she met with one man and was bold and direct, to the point of nearly controlling his thoughts. He was a trembling mess by the time he left. Then the next councilor to enter the room caused Elizabeth to grow smaller, more feminine. She became the weak woman who needed help and direction, and the man was so flattered he didn’t notice how she managed to turn her opinion into his own. I remember chuckling into my pillowy breasts, which nearly reached my chin. Elizabeth was so adept at concealing her opinions that few knew what they actually were. This way she managed to keep her entire council unbalanced enough they didn’t know how to control her.

  I loved this portrait. In one hand she held a glittering scepter; in the other a globe draped in rubies. The shoulders of her ermine and gold cape were ringed by rubies, the edges dripping with large glistening pearls. Her stiff lace collar framed her long, oval face. I smiled. I now knew how to attach that blasted collar, and it wasn’t easy.

  Back outside, I perched on the top step leading down to Trafalgar’s main plaza and let the weak sun warm my eyelids. What the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t just will myself back in time to Harriet and Elizabeth. But I certainly couldn’t continue living with Chris, especially now that she knew I could impersonate Blanche, however awkwardly.

  “Jamie Maddox.” The breathless voice was Bradley’s. He lowered himself onto the stair with a grunt.

  “You’re getting old, Bradley. You need to start sleeping indoors, on a bed. Sleeping on benches can’t be good for your bones.”

  “You may be right, but I have good news. Look!” He motioned to the figure scurrying up to sit beside him.

  “You found Mouse,” I said. “And she looks great.” Her hair, obviously washed and brushed until it shone, curled around her face and neck. She didn’t avert her moss green eyes, and actually flashed me a shy, crooked smile that was so endearing I wanted to bring her home myself.

  Bradley patted her shoulder. “Someone must have taken her in, washed her up, and given her a change of clothes.”

  I considered the silk shirt and expensive jeans. “I’ll say. And that person has a lot of money. Those clothes are not cheap.”

  Bradley beamed at Mouse, who ducked her head shyly and scooted close enough their elbows touched. “Poor thing used to hover just out of reach, but now she’s terrified if she’s more than an arm’s length away. It’s like she’s afraid I’m going to disappear.”

  I shared all that had happened in 1560 with Bradley. Mouse watched me, eyes wide at my story. Bradley nodded encouragingly as I spoke, then when I finished he pursed his lips and looked out across the square. He sighed. “Didn’t I say to you that life is just one long struggle not to lose yourself?”

  “You did.”

  “You are losing yourself, my dear.”

  I bit my lip, alarmed at the lump filling my throat. “What do I do?”

  “You accept that things feel hopeless, but you don’t let that direct your life. You fight. You do what needs to happen next in order to survive.”

  “Is that what keeps you going?”

  “Every goddamned day,” he said softly.

  Just then my cell chimed. “I’ve been waiting to hear from Rajamani,” I said apologetically as I fished the phone from my pocket. “It’s a text from him: Anti-CGA serum almost ready. Will contact in next day or two. Also, Meg Warren is trying to contact me, but we haven’t been able to connect.”

  I barely registered the information about Meg. Instead, I clutched the phone to my chest. “Bradley, do you know what this means?”

  He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze, then scanned for police. They didn’t like the homeless people touching tourists or residents. “It means if you can remain in the present for a few more days, Dr. Raj will cure you. He will stop all this flipping back and forth between centuries. That’s gotta be driving you crazy, man.”

  I nodded, too choked up with hope to speak.

  He gestured toward the phone. “Not to bring you down, but what if something does happen before the anti-stuff is ready? Won’t Blanche see this text?”

  “Hell’s gate, you’re right. Neither she nor Chris knows I’ve been working with Dr. Raj. I specifically asked him not to mention it whenever he ran into Chris on campus.” I began thumbing a reply. “I’ll ask him not to send any more texts but to wait for me to contact him.” This way Blanche would be kept entirely out of the loop. There would be no threat of her receiving the injection instead of me. I was about to hit SEND when thunder rattled my teeth. I nearly jumped out of my skin. What the hell? The weak sun had disappeared, now hidden by clouds as thick as gray soup.

  “Bradley, if I—”

  Crack! Up, up, up I flew. Another ride on the bucking lightning.

  Winston stood next to me as rain clattered on the courtyard beyond the open doorway. The other two conspirators formed a tight circle around me. “Next week Holmes will take you in my carriage to Cumnor Place. The house is in Berkshire, near the Oxfordshire border. You will dispatch Mistress Amy, then Holmes will return you to London. You will be back in Whitehall before the news of Amy’s death can reach the Queen.”

  I bent, gritting my teeth against the need to empty my stomach. Acid pushed its way up my throat. “But—”

  Crack! With a bone-crunching jerk, I was back in my own body. I stood in the square, cell phone in one hand, the other pointing accusingly at an astonished Bradley, Mouse hovering behind him. Two police officers were biking toward us. “No,” I said, waving to them. “It’s all right. No problem here, Officers.”

  Boom! I stood up, reaching for the wall to steady myself as I gagged, but nothing came up. Winston made a noise of disgust. “Clearly you have no stomach for murder, but this was your idea so you will perform the action. If you do not, Dudley will be dead by the end of the day.”

  Crack! My head spun with the suddenness. Too fast to recover. Too fast to even know where or when or who I was. One officer had Bradley by the arm, the other struggled to restrain Mouse, who’d gone wild with fear. “No, they are my friends!” I cried. “Stop!” The officers shot me confused looks over their shoulders.

  “But you just said they were harassing you.”

  Crack! I was back in the heavy gown, Winston and the others walking away, their heels drumming sharply on the ceramic tile floor. I gripped the nearest hall table, bending over so low I nearly set my hair on fire with the table’s candle.

  Vincent stood nearby, stiff and angry, whining in alarm. �
�Poor baby.” I held out my hand. “It’s me, little guy.” When he gave me a cautious lick, I sank gratefully to the floor and leaned back against the wood paneling. My mouth tasted sour, my gut ached with emptiness. A choir sang softly in the distance, perhaps practicing for the Sunday service. The music was somber, the voices harmonizing perfectly. Hot tears slid down my cheeks from the violence of the last sixty seconds, the helplessness, the frustration of not having any control.

  I curled up around myself. I hadn’t had time to send the reply text to Dr. Raj. Even if Blanche didn’t see it, Raj would send another text when the shot was ready. Blanche would receive the text and figure out that this was the final scene between the two of us. The consciousness in control of Jamie Maddox’s body—my body—at the moment Dr. Raj administered the injection would be in permanent control of me. The other mind would be forever exiled to the plump and treacherous body of Blanche Nottingham, lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth I.

  Any flame of hope I’d felt over Dr. Rajamani’s text was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  After breakfast, I stood in the gallery overlooking one of the palace streets, the air hot and thick above the chaotic crowds—carts, horses, barrows, people. It was a sunny day, which I’d come to hate because sun meant no thunderstorm. Everyone’s mood was lighter except for mine.

  The last time I’d been in 1560, my Queen had commanded I reveal the father of my child. What had Blanche said? No one, not even Lady Mary, was making an issue of the pregnancy. If Blanche had kept her mouth shut, perhaps I’d dodged the bullet called “marriage.”