Chapter Thirty-Five
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DR. WINONA CHAVANEL was beautiful as she was brilliant. They had met in Harvard during their doctoral studies. Winona—or as Bellamy called her— Win, was a sharp intellectual with a warmth that drew others towards her. While Bellamy had favored work as a researcher, Win established herself as a formidable psychotherapist. She loved helping those around her grow and develop a deep sense of compassion for themselves. Often, she teased Bellamy for his ambitions, dubbing him “the great philosopher king of psychological sciences.”
Her preference for humble and personal connection is among the many things Bellamy fell in love with. The two of them married shortly after completing their PhDs. They settled into their careers with Bellamy taking a full-time position at Harvard and Win establishing a therapy practice in Cambridge.
Life was comfortable, Win would accompany Bellamy on his lectures, taking them across the globe. Eventually, Win yearned for something more than a high-profile career, and Isabelle Bellamy was born just a few short years later. A bright and curious child, Win loved Isabell with her whole being. While unsure how to relate to a young daughter, Bellamy loved her in his own way. Often quizzing her on some arbitrary bit of facts — biology, psychology, history, anything to stimulate Isabelle’s intellectual growth.
Bellamy’s enthusiasm grew as she showed academic prowess that rivaled his own at her age. Win nurtured Isabelle’s emotional side while Bellamy tended to her education. Much to Bellamy’s surprise, Isabelle began demonstrating a precognitive attunement. First, it was small predictions — a spilled glass of milk, an impending rainstorm, but her premonitions grew into full-scale predictions. Initially, both of her parents marveled at her abilities, simply viewing them as a curious extension of their own psychological and neuroscientific inquiries. But as Isabelle grew older, her visions grew more profound — and distressing.
The turning points came when Isabelle, at just 12 years old, predicted Win’s terminal illness — a rare form of lymphoma — years before any symptoms appeared.
One evening, she climbed into Win’s lap, while the three of them sat reading, soft classical music played, “Mom, I’m worried about you.” Isabella said,
Win set down her book, a recent monograph on the emergence of trauma-focused therapies, “What do you mean, dear?” Win said, pulling Isabella into her lap.
Bellamy sat correcting manuscripts of a future research paper, his glasses perched at the tip of his nose, he continued revising, but listened intently.
Isabelle held a book in her hand, flipping the pages mindlessly, “I’m worried you’re going to get sick and die.”
“Oh, darling, eventually, we all die,” Win said, her tone nurturing but forward.
Isabelle frowned, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, “But, Mommy, you’re going to die before me or Papa.”
Bellamy sat the paper down in his lap, “What are you saying, darling?”
It was then that Isabelle's preoccupation with her mother’s health started. Some nights she would wake up screaming in terror, describing vivid unchanging images of her mother’s decline. Bellamy and Win did everything they could to comfort her, but the visions brought such anguish. When Win finally agreed to be examined by the doctor, if not simply to calm her daughter's anxieties, she was diagnosed. As Win fell ill, Isabelle fell into despair, blaming herself for being powerless to stop the inevitable.
Around this time, Bellamy’s career began to fall into disarray. Obsessed with his daughter's premonitions, he spent hours in the lab trying to replicate studying the precognitive attunement. Eventually, resorting to more precarious methods of inquiry. After his research was reported to the university, a major controversy erupted at Harvard. It was leaked to the press, that he was doing experiments on his own daughter, trying to understand the limits of her abilities. Critics accused him of ethical violations and alleged he had pushed the boundaries of human experimentation without proper oversight.
The fallout was swift, Bellamy was forced to resign, his reputation in shambles. Win’s illness worsened, and she passed away within a year of Bellamy’s resignation. The loss devastated him and Isabelle both. He became focused on rebuilding his career, leaving his daughter to fall further into ruin. She would spend days in her room struggling with the visions invading her mind until it became so overwhelming, she experienced a psychotic break. Eventually, she was institutionalized, her mental health fragile as glass.
One Christmas, Bellamy visited Isabelle at the state hospital. It had been years since she was committed, but time had done little to soften the cracks in her mind — or his heart. He carried with him a small gift: a thin, neatly wrapped package containing a book she loved as a child, A Wrinkle in Time, and alongside it an idea. A theory that had consumed him for months prior.
They sat across from each other in the stark, sterile visiting room. Isabelle’s hair once thick and dark like her mother's, hung in limp strands around her hollow face. Her eyes were dull, likely due to the medication. She barely registered Bellamy’s presence. He gazed upon her as a mere shell of the vibrant child she once was.
“I’ve been working on something new,” Bellamy said, keeping his voice optimistic. “A theory. Something that could change everything for us.”
Isabelle didn’t respond, her gaze remained fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor.
Bellamy leaned forward, his fingers gripped the edge of the table. “I believe,” he said carefully, “that with your abilities properly channeled, you could send your mind back in time. You could warn your mother. You could help her get treatment earlier before it’s too late.”
Her head lifted slightly at the mention of her mother, but her expression didn’t change.
“Think about it, Isabelle,” Bellamy pressed. “If we recreate the right conditions — an environment that amplifies your abilities then you could go back to that moment. You could save her. You could save us.”
For the first time that whole visit, Isabelle’s eyes met his. Her dead eyes sneered at him, her voice was sharp and raw. “I can’t do that. It doesn’t work that way.”
Bellamy frowned, his scientific mind unwilling to accept those conditions, “Of course, it does. We just need the proper circumstances. If you come home with me — “
“You’re not listening!” Isabelle snapped, “Just like you didn’t listen when I told you she was sick. It doesn’t work like that! Time isn’t…linear. I don’t experience it the way you do . It’s not a straight line — it’s a flood. It’s everywhere, all at once.”
Her hands trembled as she gripped her chair. Bellamy reached for her instinctively, but she pulled away.
“Don’t,” she screeched, flinching, “you think this is something I can control?” She continued her voice cracking, raspy. “You think I haven’t tried to change things? I can see every version of her death. I’ve seen it a thousand times, and I can’t stop it. I couldn’t then and I can’t now!”
Bellamy pulled back, stunned. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Isabelle escalated, “It doesn’t work like that, it doesn’t work like that, it doesn’t work like that you selfish motherfucker!”
Quickly, she was on her feet, shaking the table. Drawing the attention of the hospital staff who quickly moved to them.
“I’m sorry,” Bellamy said quietly, his words were drowned out, as she continued.
“It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t work like that…” Her whole body was trembling, a burly-looking hospital attendant and nurse approached her cautiously, “Okay, Ms. Bellamy, calm down.” The nurse produced a large syringe, expertly injecting Isabelle.
“This Ativan will help relax you,” the nurse said.
Bellamy watched on with horror, clutching the small wrapped package.
Isabelle was placed back in her chair, “It doesn’t work…” she said, her words drifting off, as her eyelids dropped.
A few months later, Bellamy accepted a position at Summit State University. He threw himself into his theory, developing the conditions for what he believed could reproduce the retrocognition. While simultaneously rebuilding his career, one academic paper, lecture, and grant at a time. But his attempts to rebuild were interrupted by a phone call that should have shattered whatever remaining hope he had.
Isabelle had jumped from the tallest window of the state hospital.
Bellamy didn’t cry when he heard the news. He simply sat at his desk and stared at the photo of his family — Winona’s bright smile and Isabelle's sweet, mischievous grin — seemingly mocking him now.
“I’ll find another one. I’ll set things right.”
He reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out the unopened Christmas gift — A Wrinkle in Time. Indeed, there were many wrinkles, but he intended to straighten them out.
Bellamy drained his glass, the whiskey had relaxed him. Ethan’s current state reminded him of Isabelle. That boy was on the edge and Bellamy needed him if he was going to test his theory. Perhaps, his doting boyfriend, Jason, wouldn’t be enough supervision. His mind made up, he stood up from his desk, extinguishing his desk lamp. Bellamy was going to learn from his mistakes. He was going to keep an eye on Ethan, if he was going to invest in this boy, then he needed to protect his investment.
He made his way across his office. Grabbing his coat from the rack adjacent to the door, he checked his pockets, his car keys jangled securely.