Chapter Forty-Six. Helen, 1964
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
It was the worst morning of Helen’s life.
Every time she managed to doze off last night, Dr. Trimble would shout at them to reveal their dreams before the images evaporated from their consciousnesses.
Gone was the man who’d lulled them to sleep the first night with soft, kind words.
He was now revealing a harsher, more demanding side of himself, one Helen suspected was his true core.
But physical fatigue wasn’t Helen’s most pressing concern.
What troubled her deeply was how strangely Betty seemed to be acting around her. Betty was avoiding her eyes and hadn’t spoken a single word to her. Or maybe Helen was being overly sensitive. It was only breakfast time, after all, and Betty was exhausted, too.
“Girls?” Dr. Trimble called from the kitchen. “Come eat.”
Helen stood up from her bunk, feeling as if she had the flu, and followed Kathleen and Betty into the kitchen.
Three metal trays awaited them, holding pineapple juice, coffee, French toast, and individual containers of fruit salad, each topped with a bright red maraschino cherry.
Dr. Trimble was finishing the meal on the fourth tray.
“Where’s Ivy’s tray?” Kathleen asked.
Dr. Trimble shoved the last triangle of toast into his mouth and spoke through it: “She’s eating breakfast alone.”
Dr. Trimble had come to them last night to let them know Ivy had asked to sleep separately, claiming she needed rest. It seemed strange to Helen and the others, but no one had questioned him.
Then Dr. Trimble instructed them to go to bed.
“We have a full day tomorrow,” he’d said before he lumbered away.
He seemed to think it was that easy, that no matter how exhausted and disoriented they were, they’d all fall asleep at his verbal command.
The new day seemed to be infusing Kathleen with a determination to get answers. Her voice was firm, not placating, as if she were nearing the end of her patience.
“How long will Ivy be staying apart?” Kathleen asked.
Helen noticed a blue vein in Kathleen’s temple seemed unusually prominent, as if signaling the pressure building in her system.
“Perhaps one more night,” Dr. Trimble replied. “It really depends on Ivy’s wishes.”
“I want to see her,” Kathleen said. “I’ll go right now and have breakfast with her.”
Dr. Trimble glared at her. Helen held her breath when Kathleen didn’t duck her head or apologize for her impudence.
“You will not. Ivy specifically asked to be away from you girls so she could rest. Now, come eat before it gets cold.”
The three women sat at the table, silently unfolding their napkins and removing their utensils. Helen had no appetite, but she forced herself to take a bite. The French toast was mushy and nearly flavorless in her mouth. She gathered her courage and asked, “Betty, could you pass the butter?”
She held her breath, waiting to see if Betty would ignore or acknowledge her. “Of course,” Betty said as she passed it over.
Maybe her guilty conscience was tricking her, Helen thought.
She couldn’t stop thinking about that foolish note.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t added the heart surrounding her and Douglas’s initials.
But surely the square of paper had been swept up by a janitor’s broom and deposited into a bin long ago, Helen reassured herself.
So why was she suddenly obsessing about it?
Last night she’d even dreamt about watching as Betty unfolded the note and looked at Helen with shock and anger filling her face.
When Dr. Trimble had barked, “What did you dream, Helen?” she’d lied to him. “I-I was a schoolgirl, and I got caught passing a note in class,” she’d blurted.
Had she caught a tiny smile tugging his beard upward?
She didn’t know; it was impossible to feel certain about anything. She looked down and realized she was buttering the same triangle of French toast twice.
Her napkin slid off her lap onto the floor and she bent over to retrieve it. Kathleen’s foot was tapping frantically against the floor. How did she have the energy to move? Helen wondered.
“Today we’re going to do something different,” Dr. Trimble said. “A longer Ganzfeld experiment.”
A sharp clatter signaled Kathleen had dropped her silverware onto her plate.
“How long?” Kathleen blurted, her voice shrill.
“A few hours,” he said, as offhand as if he were discussing something innocuous, not his plan to seal one or more of them away, their senses extinguished, their minds frantically spinning.
“I’d like for you ladies to vote anonymously on who will be the subject. Come back and talk to me, one by one, and tell me your choice. You are not to discuss this with each other.”
He pointed to Betty. “You first.”
Kathleen had stopped moving. Now she was frozen in place, like a prey animal sensing an imminent threat.
She won’t be able to take it, Helen thought. None of them liked the experiment. And to be in that state for a few hours—a shudder ran down Helen’s spine.
“Betty?” Dr. Trimble slapped his hand on the table. “Come with me. I need to know who you are voting for.”
Betty stood up from the table and Helen tried to catch her eye. Helen would volunteer to be the receiver; it would be her penance. She needed to convey her decision to Betty.
But Betty didn’t—or wouldn’t—look her way.