by Gwenda Bond
Terry had felt such love for them both in that moment. Her dad, who’d had to witness such horrors that he questioned even himself. Her mom believing in him, when he wasn’t sure. Her dad always watched the news, every single night, and told them how important it was to stay involved. What a gift the right to vote was. How they should always be on alert, that you never knew if it would be your turn to make sure freedom was preserved.
Terry had taken those lessons seriously; Becky and her mom had always thought too seriously. But her dad had been proud of her.
And so here she was. Excitement and nerves coiled together, tight as springs inside her, as she read on. She hesitated when she got to the end.
Then she signed her real name. Stacey didn’t want to be mixed up in this, so Terry would have to go forward as herself. Somehow.
“Stacey Sullivan?” The man in the door called.
After this last moment of impersonating her friend, anyway.
Ken gave her a look. “Is that you?”
Interesting that he phrased it as a question.
“Uh, yes,” Terry said, and leaped to her feet.
It was only then that she noticed the man who’d called her name was a different person from before. He was lean and handsome, with a shock of neatly styled brown hair and a mostly unlined face. But when his attention settled on her, she felt like her temperature dropped several degrees.
He smiled, a crinkle of the eyes at the edges. “Miss Sullivan?”
You’re just nervous.
Terry rushed forward, almost dropping her release forms because of course she did. She resettled her purse over her arm and clutched the papers tight against her. “Present.”
He motioned for her to step past him. “We’re down at the end. Last door on the right.”
The door to a large, cluttered room stood open. An exam table waited a few feet inside. She lingered by it as she took in the rest of the space. Very psych department leftovers—two gurneys and posters with diagrams and strange equipment with wires and tubes. Tables and stacks of notebooks. A microscope that didn’t look used shoved in a corner. She spotted a model of a brain, divided into pale pink sections that could be taken apart or put together.
“Sit,” the man said, waving his hand to the exam table. He had a tone of authority, like he was used to giving commands.
Terry hesitated, then perched on the edge of the table. Her feet dangled, a reminder she wasn’t on solid ground.
The man stood looking at her. Finally, when the silence began to get awkward, he asked, “And you are?”
Before she could decide how to answer, he continued, “I know you’re not Stacey Sullivan.”
Shit. That was quick.
“How?” The question slipped out.
“According to the notes made by the university staffer who provided her name, Stacey Sullivan has curly black hair. She’s five-three. Brown eyes. Average IQ.”
Terry was offended on Stacey’s behalf.
“You,” the man continued, “are five-eight with dark blond hair and blue eyes. My assessment of your intelligence depends on why you’re here claiming to be Miss Sullivan, but I’m going to guess it’s above average. So, who are you?”
His tone was casual. However Terry had expected this to go, this wasn’t it.
“Well, you’re not Stacey’s lab rat either,” Terry said, realizing it was true. Not only was this scene completely different from Stacey’s story, but no one would describe this man that way. “The guy who gave her drugs that made her feel weird last week. The reason she didn’t come back. So, who are you?”
She wondered if he’d answer.
He shook his head in something that might be amusement. “I’m Dr. Martin Brenner. That was a university psychologist working on a subcontract. They have a habit of botching the procedures. That’s why we’re taking this work over.” He paused. “Your turn.”
Fair enough.
“I’m Terry Ives, Stacey’s roommate,” she said.
“And so I have no idea if you meet any of the screening criteria set out for this experiment,” Dr. Brenner said.
“I talked to some of the others outside—they answered a newspaper ad. How strict can it be?”
He stilled, giving her that long considering look again.
She went on, encouraged by not being kicked out yet.
Terry stood up so they’d be face-to-face, not him looming above her. “I volunteered to take Stacey’s place, because I…could sense this is important. It’s too weird otherwise. Labs don’t call college-age women in to give them drugs. Not just for that, at least.”
“What is it you think this is, then?” Dr. Brenner asked.
Terry shrugged. “I read the release forms. All I can tell is that whatever this is, it’s something…big. I want to be a part of it.”
“Hm.” The grunt hit a skeptical note.
“What do I need to qualify?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“Are you single?”
Andrew’s face flashed in her head. “I’m unmarried.”
“Healthy?” he asked.
“I’ve never missed a single shift at the diner where I work.”
He nodded, approving. “Have you ever had sexual intercourse?”
She went stiff. This wasn’t the kind of conversation women had with unfamiliar men. Unfamiliar government doctors seemed even less appropriate.
“I’m afraid I need candor from our participants,” he said with a tone of apology.
“Yes.” Terry didn’t elaborate.
Another nod. “And have you ever given birth?”
“No,” she said.
“Are you strong-willed?”
Terry considered. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I suspect you do meet the basic criteria. But…” He paused, studying her.
He didn’t seem sold, not yet.
She searched her memory for what Alice had said about that advertisement in the paper. She didn’t think he’d be interested in the qualities she might list in her outstanding abilities column: able to serve six to eight tables without forgetting anyone’s order (harder than it sounded), never mixing up caf and decaf, doing homework at the last minute and still getting decent grades, making Andrew laugh when he didn’t want to, occasionally cheering up Becky…
“And I am remarkable,” she said.
“Fine,” he said, as if a scale had tipped. Or maybe he was humoring her. “I suppose you are. Now sit down.”
Terry hated being told what to do, but again, she sat.
3.
Andrew was parked behind the vans outside the psych building in his emerald green Plymouth Barracuda fastback, which he lovingly washed and detailed at least once a week. He’d insisted that Terry might need a ride if Stacey’s experience was any indication. The day had stretched out longer than she’d expected. He must have been waiting awhile.
She waved at Andrew as she trotted across the grass, and tried to decide how much of what had happened inside she planned to tell him. He was skeptical about the wisdom of her coming here. Though he was nice about it.
She climbed into the car. “I’m starving,” she said, stalling. “You want to go somewhere for a bite? My treat.”
“I take it you got paid the fifteen dollars,” Andrew said, looking her over like he was making sure she was in one piece. “Sure, wherever you want to go.”
“Let’s go the Starlight,” Terry suggested. It was Friday night and she didn’t have to work until 9:00 a.m. the next day. Summer heat made the evening feel like a warm oven. In other words: the perfect drive-in weather. The movies wouldn’t start for a couple of hours, but they could get a prime spot and the little café would be open already. “You wanted to see The Wild Bunch. I think it’s s
till playing.”
“Your wish…” He put the car in gear, steered them out through the mostly deserted campus. “I was about to storm the building to see if they’d kidnapped you. How was it? Were you right or wrong?”
“Right, I think.” Terry gathered her hands in her lap.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
To her relief, he didn’t question it. “What happened?”
“So far the doctor just asked me lots of questions. But he agreed to let me stay in.”
“No mysterious injections,” Andrew said, glancing over.
“No mysterious injections,” she echoed. It was true. “But I think it was a different guy. Next time, who knows? It…It did feel like something that matters.”
The radio announcer gave the latest Vietnam death toll, reporting on a battle. Andrew reached over and turned up the radio. “Another buddy of Dave’s from high school died over there.”
They all knew people who’d died over there. Terry could see their faces easily; she always pictured the boys who’d been killed as their high school yearbook photos. Smiling out, black-and-white, trapped.
Andrew was on a student deferment, but she knew he felt nervous about graduating the next spring. The only talk they’d had about it indicated he would enroll in grad school, and stay in school perpetually as long as he needed to.
“It’s so awful,” Terry said, loathing the understatement. Some things were terrible enough that trying to describe them in words never seemed to work.
Andrew nodded and kept listening to the news.
Terry thought about her final moments with Dr. Brenner. She had convinced him at last, in some way she didn’t fully understand, to classify her as a “high potential.” The rest of the sessions would take place off-campus in a dedicated government lab. He’d conceded it was important research, on the cutting edge. Exactly what that meant, she still had little idea. She had to be back at the psych lab in three weeks, from where they’d ride to the outside facility each week thereafter.
As long as it doesn’t interfere with my studies, was all she’d said. But, inside, she’d glowed like a star shone in her chest. Proud.
She’d have to keep this quiet around Becky. Her sister didn’t soak up the same lessons from their dad. When Terry would write letters about the war and send them off to their congressmen, Becky said it was better to know now that people like them had to work hard to survive, rather than be pumped full of hot air thinking they could change the world for the cost of a stamp. Maybe Becky would never have to know what Terry was doing at all.
“I just…I don’t know how we can trust the government anymore,” Andrew said. “They’re supposed to work for us.”
“Preacher to choir. I know,” Terry said. She reached over and lowered the volume on the radio. “They did the moon, too, though.”
“Science did that. JFK told them to do that,” he said. “All they do now is send more of us to die.”
Terry decided not to fill him in on who precisely was running these experiments yet. Scientists from the government. It might give him a stronger reason not to support her involvement, and she didn’t want to fight about it. Her mind was made up.
“I’m getting popcorn and a hot dog,” Terry said. “Possibly a slushie.”
Andrew shot her a wink. “Now you’re talking, big spender.”
1.
“They make me feel like I’m not going because I’m some kind of goody-two-shoes,” Terry said. “That isn’t it.”
Andrew pulled her back over to sit down on the tangle of sheets on his messy bed in the corner of his messier bedroom. “Keep your voice down. They’ll hear you. You could come along…if you weren’t being too good to skip school.”
Terry mock-pushed his shoulder. “You could always stay with me and be my kind of goody-goody.”
“But I’m not allowed in your mad science experiment,” Andrew said, grinning at her.
“There’s also class,” Terry said. “Becky already paid the tuition. Aren’t you worried about skipping out on yours?”
Intersession term was about to start and they’d both signed up for two-week classes. Terry’s was something about pedagogy techniques and Andrew’s a philosophy seminar.
“I’m worried about life passing me by,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
Terry could never forget that screwups on her part would impact Becky, who felt responsible for her now. Andrew was more spontaneous and also a little spoiled—he’d never been in any trouble someone wouldn’t step in to get him out of. But they believed in the same things, even if they approached them differently. That counted for more than their differences.
“I do have to go back to the psych lab this week,” she said. “So I can’t.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go back?”
“Yes, and that’s why I have to.”
“Babe,” he said, her hands in his, “everyone will be playing at this. You can’t miss it.”
“I barely convinced Dr. Brenner to let me in. I can’t run the risk of getting kicked out before it even starts.”
“Okay.” He touched her cheek. “I wish you were coming, though. I’ll miss you.”
From the other room, a man’s voice called, “Hurry up, we’re leaving in fifteen.”
The voice belonged to some guy named Rick, who had oily hair and made Terry’s skin crawl. He owned the van the five of them were driving to some town no one had ever heard of in upstate New York. Woodstock. It sounded made-up.
Terry rolled her eyes. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. You are going to spend days in a van with strangers from California, after those murders out there. I bet the killers had a van, too.”
Her tone might have been light, but she kept waking up at night, the details fresh in her mind. She read every story about the brutal killings. PIG and HEALTER SKELTER written in blood on the walls, and that poor actress Sharon Tate stabbed to death while eight months pregnant. What kind of monsters would hurt a pregnant woman?
“We’re going to the opposite end of the country,” he said. “You’re not really worried about murderers in vans?”
“No,” she said. Yes, she thought, and everything else that could happen. The world barely makes sense.
“And they’re not strangers. Rick and Dave grew up together.”
That didn’t account for Rick’s friends, another sketchy guy nicknamed Woog and a girl named Rosalee who stared at Terry like she was a joke in human form. Not to mention, people changed. As far as Terry was concerned, they’d only come by to invite Dave along on their way across the country from Berkeley so they could use the apartment’s shower.
“Maybe I am a little worried. I know it’s irrational,” Terry said, which was a lie. It felt perfectly rational. “I just feel like something bad’s coming. I can’t explain it.”
“That’s a given…Hopefully not to me though. Or to you.” Andrew smiled and toppled her back onto the bed, his lips beside her ear. “But just in case, maybe we should say a real goodbye.”
“I can’t believe you’re seeing Janis Joplin without me. You are a terrible boyfriend.”
“Like I said, come with me.”
It was tempting. And more tempting still when he pressed his lips against her neck.
But fifteen minutes later, Andrew left for Woodstock and Terry left for her dorm. This was the path she’d chosen and she intended to stay on it.
2.
A few days later Terry showed up at the psych building to find a van waiting. Familiar, gleaming and black; she was almost certain it was one of the same ones that had been parked at the curb the first time she came here. The windows were tinted, but only slightly. It had government plates.
Vans everywhere.
Terry stifled a laugh. If Andrew was here, he’d tease her about her sudden prejudice against vans. Although this was more like a church van with a dark color scheme than a hippie hangout or murder palace on wheels.
She hoped Andrew and company had made it safely to New York. The festival had started earlier that week, covered in the news. Two hundred and fifty thousand people were estimated to have overtaken the sleepy hamlet of Woodstock. Photos everywhere of mud-covered people with enormous pupils smiling like they’d reached the promised land. She hadn’t spotted Andrew in any of them, and she wasn’t sure she’d recognize anyone else besides Dave. Janis Joplin had reportedly done one of the best sets of her life. Meanwhile, Terry’s intersession class defined boring.
So this better be worth it.
She lurked at the curb instead of going over to the van, and had to smile when a beat-up muscle car screeched into the parking lot and Alice emerged from it. Grubby as in their first meeting, once again in smudged coveralls.
“I’m not late?” Alice said, not bothering with a hello.
“Right on time,” Terry said.
“Why are you just standing here?” Alice asked.
The van door swung open at that exact moment and Ken said, “Why are you guys just standing out there?”
Was that more of his “I’m psychic” shtick? Alice and Terry exchanged an eyebrow raise, then moved to get in. Gloria was already there, on the bench seat behind Ken. She was as perfectly stylish as before, this time in a sea-foam green knee-length skirt and blouse with a white polka-dot pattern. Terry slid in beside her, and Alice shot her a look that said, Thanks for sticking me with this guy, as she took the open seat beside Ken.
Terry shrugged.
The beefy man behind the wheel sported an orderly uniform and extremely hairy arms. He picked up a clipboard resting on the empty front seat beside him. “I need to check your names for security purposes.”
Ken interrupted by holding up a hand. “This is all of us. I already read your list.”
The orderly didn’t seem to like it, but he set down the clipboard and turned to the wheel. The van started up with a gentle roar.