Chapter Sixty-Eight. Betty, 1964
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
“I have seen enough to make me believe that our minds are capable of much more than most of us dare to imagine … I believe it is our ‘left-brained’ tendency to analyze, judge, and predict that prevents us from tapping into this wider field of knowledge.”
—Jeff Tarrant, PhD, BCN
“Welcome home,” Douglas said, wheeling her up the newly installed wooden ramp and opening the front door with the only key, the one that would remain in his pocket at all times.
He brought Betty inside and locked the door while she looked at the furniture he’d chosen.
The curtains were too dark a shade of gold, but the striped sofa and matching armchairs were pleasing.
She wanted to stay in the living room a bit longer—something was nagging at her—but Douglas was already wheeling her into the kitchen.
“I had workmen lower the counters and sink,” he said. “You can still cook, just like always. You’ll find the bathroom has been modified as well.”
“How wonderful,” she replied.
He’d bought a new Impala, a duplicate of the car that was crushed in the accident. Other copies of things they’d left behind filled the new house: the record player and albums. China in the same pink-and-white pattern. CorningWare pots and pans and a bar cart.
“Shall we have something to eat?” Douglas asked.
Betty felt a rush of relief at the thought of occupying herself with a task. Despite the replicas of their old life, everything was disorienting here. Even Douglas seemed like a stranger.
“Would you like a cocktail first?” she offered.
“Wonderful.” Douglas’s exhale told her how relieved he felt that she was home. It couldn’t have been easy for him, living the bachelor life these past weeks. He’d lost weight and his shirt was rumpled. She hoped he’d replaced the iron and board so she could smooth away the wrinkles.
Dinner was simple, but Douglas seemed pleased with the casserole. Afterward, he wheeled her into the living room and she realized what was nagging at her. The television was missing.
They’d always enjoyed watching The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights, and My Three Sons and Bewitched on Thursdays. While she ironed and sewed, Betty also tuned in to The Price Is Right or Truth or Consequences. And Douglas never missed CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite.
“Will we be getting a television?” she asked.
“We don’t need one. Books are far better for the mind.” Douglas settled onto the couch with a Hemingway novel. And that was that.
Money wasn’t an issue for Douglas, whose family was wealthy.
The size of his trust fund meant he could purchase just about anything they needed—or travel anywhere they wanted.
But Douglas no longer had an interest in taking trips.
The dream they’d once had of renting a camper to drive around the Grand Canyon was tucked away, like a forgotten photo in the back of a drawer.
Douglas never returned to work, but his days still followed the shape of a scholar’s.
He read voraciously, visiting the library every time he went to the grocery store and checking out books for both of them.
He wrote papers, though he never submitted any for publication, and at night, he listened to records or played cards with Betty.
Occasionally they went for a drive after dark, but in time, it seemed easier for Betty to just stay inside.
For Betty, after her accident, there could be no children.
There was only this house, and her husband, and her memories. They didn’t fade, though. At night, she lay awake next to Douglas, replaying old images and conversations in her mind.
When she finally slept, she dreamt about the girls: Ivy’s boisterous laugh; Kathleen making a quip in her cool, throaty voice; Helen shyly linking arms with them while they walked. Her sisters.
Her days fell into a quiet rhythm. She cooked and cleaned and did laundry—slower than usual, given her mobility challenge, but just as thoroughly and well—while Douglas took over the grocery shopping and yardwork.
Douglas also taught her how to play chess and was delighted when she showed a knack for strategy.
He brought her books every time he went to the library, and although they were the only house on the street that didn’t get the newspaper delivered, he occasionally picked up a magazine from the store.
Reading helped fill the time, especially because he wouldn’t permit their families to visit.
“Even my mother?” Betty asked early on.
“What if she told a friend where we lived? And someone from Marquis or another institution tracked you down?” Douglas countered. His face grew red and he appeared so agitated that Betty never once asked again.
Something horrible must have been happening on that fateful day when Dr. Trimble had knocked on their door. Awful enough to send not only Betty, but all her friends running. Perhaps Dr. Trimble had another experiment planned for them—something even worse, Betty had told herself.
At night, Douglas continued his habit of checking the locks on all the windows, just as he had in the hospital.
Sometimes he’d test them dozens or even hundreds of times before he came to bed.
Betty grew accustomed to falling asleep to the clicking sound of the lock on their bedroom window engaging and disengaging.
One spring afternoon several years after they’d moved in, as Betty sat on the porch taking in fresh air, their next-door neighbor waved from over the fence and tried to strike up a conversation: “Where are y’all from?”
Before Betty could answer, Douglas stepped onto the porch, grabbed the handles of her chair, and wheeled her into the living room.
“Betty, why were you talking to her? You know you can’t trust anyone!” It was the closest he’d ever come to yelling at her. He closed the door and peered through the peephole.
“But, darling, she’s a neighbor! Surely she means no harm.”
“You assume she’s a neighbor. But she could be anyone,” Douglas replied. “Think about it. If someone really wanted to reach you, wouldn’t they plant someone your own age nearby to make you let down your guard?”
“Surely Dr. Trimble wouldn’t go to all that effort,” Betty said lightly. Douglas was fraught; his face was coloring again and he’d begun to pace.
“You have no idea what he’s capable of,” Douglas replied.
“Or the depth of destruction he caused. Besides, it’s not only him I’m worried about.
If he did publish his paper, everyone knows about your ability.
People could be looking for you right now, Betty.
The Russians! Other governments! You are not safe! ”
That night, Douglas rechecked the locks so many times that his thumb was swollen and red in the morning.
She never spoke to another neighbor again.
The years bled into one another, then formed decades. Betty’s hair turned white, and though Douglas’s hearing had faded, he remained as handsome as ever, with his angular face and soft brown eyes.
It wasn’t the life she’d imagined, but Betty never stopped loving him.
Then one morning, Betty woke up and looked over at Douglas beside her in bed.
He’d just turned eighty-five and had been sleeping later in recent days.
She started to slip away to fix her hair and face before he awoke, but something made her pause.
She reached out to touch his shoulder, her voice catching as she said, “Darling?”
He took in a shuddering breath and his eyelids fluttered. Then his chest stilled.
Betty bowed her head and rested her hand on his cheek for a long time. With tears streaming down her face, she kissed him and whispered, “Goodbye, my love.”