I gripped the lectern as I struggled to settle back into my body.
I glanced down quickly to make sure—yes, it was my body, but Blanche had dressed it in pink leggings with white polka dots, and some sort of filmy, voluminous purple thing with two camisoles underneath. The outfit was topped with a white cashmere cardigan. God’s teeth.
I lifted my gaze to meet about one hundred expectant pairs of eyes. Bookshelves clued me in that I stood in a bookstore. On the lectern was a fringed purse, ugly as sin. Next to it was my cell phone and a book, Sleeping with the Queen, by Blanche Nottingham. Stuck to the book were two Post-its: Sleeping with the Queen in tenth week on New York Times Bestseller E-book List, and Two More Books in progress: Anne Boleyn’s Girl and The Horse Master’s Murder. Blanche had been busy.
I touched my flat stomach and missed the baby with an ache so deep I wondered if I would ever recover. Then I grabbed everything off the lectern, jammed it into the fringed disaster, and leaned into the microphone. “Thank you very much for coming.”
As I fled, the murmurs followed me. “But she didn’t say anything. How could she be done?”
A lightning-fast taxi ride under the thin April sun brought me to Dr. Rajamani’s office. “Serum!” I shouted as I blasted through the open door. Where was Meg?
He leapt to his feet. “Only if you pass the test.”
“What test?”
“Wait while I prepare the injection.”
I tapped the floor with anxiety. “C’mon, Doc, hurry it up.” Until London, I’d never given much thought to my own sanity. But now, sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to get my shot, I finally got it. Sanity was a fragile mix of hope for the future and an unwavering belief in yourself. I’d lost them both, but never again.
Also, occupying two bodies—or thinking that I did—had scoured me so raw I no longer knew who I was. I wasn’t Blanche Nottingham, but I also wasn’t the same Jamie Maddox. As I waited for the doctor, I chewed on the puzzle that was me. From now on, with every thought I had, every word I spoke, I would probe myself like you’d probe a broken tooth. Did that phrase or thought come from me, or from Blanche? Was I some weird blended personality?
I frowned impatiently at the doctor. “Could we get this over with?” I wished Meg had met me here at the office, but with the serum strapped to her leg she wouldn’t need the doctor. But she had to know I’d be here and wondering. Of course, there was still the possibility that I’d made her up.
Dr. Rajamani finally turned toward me, syringe at the ready. “Blanche came here a number of times trying to get this shot, but she didn’t answer my questions. She returned with answers from Chris, but they were not the correct answers. So now I ask you: Why were you reluctant to participate in my experiment?”
“I hate needles.”
“Because needles are your….” He waited.
“My kryptonite.”
Humming happily, Dr. Rajamani injected me with the serum. Chris had been standing right next to me during the kryptonite conversation, but she hadn’t listened. I wonder if she ever had.
“Are you missing any GCA or serum?” I asked. Meg could still be the product of a split-personality-induced fantasy.
He shrugged. “I do not keep exact records of the quantity I make.”
As the serum flowed through my veins, I relaxed. The nightmare was over. But to determine whether my battle with Blanche Nottingham had all been in my head or not, I needed Meg. If she didn’t know me or what had happened these last months, then everything had taken place in my head and Dr. Kroll had been right. If Meg did know me, then I had truly been the confidant and “Spark” of Queen Elizabeth I of England.
When I thanked Dr. Rajamani for developing the serum, his whole body lit up like a scoreboard. “No, thank you, Jamie Maddox, for pushing me to develop it. I will soon be as famous as you!”
“Me?”
He typed something into his phone and showed me the results: Blanche Nottingham is the pen name of the literally overnight sensation Jamie Maddox, author of one of the best-selling e-books in the twenty-first century.
“Fire truck,” I said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry since it had been Blanche’s success, not mine. But I let it go in exchange for thinking about what to do next if there really was money in my bank account. Instantly, I knew I’d find a new flat, one without Chris in it. Then I would set up Bradley and Annie in their own flat. Then I’d fly my entire family, and Ashley and Mary, to London to help me get to know the new Jamie.
“We will both be famous!” It was impossible for me to remain angry with the goofy doc in the face of such enthusiasm.
We shook hands, then I covered both of his with my own. “No more experimenting during stormy weather. Agreed?”
His shake was vigorous, his voice sincere. “Agreed.”
Feeling lighter than I had in months, I left his office, and stood outside, my face raised to the heavens. Now it wouldn’t matter if the sky were blue or gray or black. I was staying here. I was done being Time’s plaything.
And there was no Meg. Clearly, I’d made her up. I inhaled deeply, disappointed that she wasn’t real, but I knew I would be okay. My spunk was back where it belonged, holding my vertebrae together. I would find a way to stay in London. I would rent a new flat, visit an animal shelter, and adopt a dog with silky ears and serious eyes. And of course I already knew the name I would give him.
Half a block away, a taxi screeched to a halt and Bradley popped out with Annie cradled in one arm. “Jamie!”
I ran for the taxi, reaching it just as a woman exited from the other side and paid the driver.
It was Bradley’s friend Mouse. Her long hair shone, and she looked adorable in a pair of baggy gray sweats and a form-fitting black T-shirt. We were about the same height, but she had more curves than I did.
“Meg Warren?” I asked, my voice trembling just a little.
Her gaze flicked down my body then back up. Her voice was cold. “Blanche Nottingham. What the fire truck are you doing here?”
Bradley clutched Annie so tightly she squeaked, and his voice was just as high when he said, “This is Blanche?”
I looked down at my body and laughed. “No, I’m not Blanche. I have much better taste than this.”
Bradley wasn’t sure what was going on, so he introduced us. Meg and I shook hands, then stood there.
Hope flashed across Meg’s face as I considered what to say next.
“Meg…” I looked into her moss green eyes and recognized the impish spark I’d seen in Harriet’s eyes in 1560.
Then I knew exactly what to say. “God, I love you… What was your name again?”
“Jamie,” she whispered. “Thank God.”
She pulled me into her arms and we kissed for the very first time.
—End—