“Welcome to the loony bin.” The male nurse laughs loudly, a booming sound. Wes and I are both silent.
“This way,” he says, still chuckling.
The hallway has a few pictures, cheerful landscapes in gold frames. Though the walls are white, the doorways are painted a sunny yellow. I remember reading that color can affect mood, and that yellow is supposed to make people feel happy and productive. I wonder if it actually works.
We pass a door with the word SECLUSION written above a narrow window. Inside, a man rocks back and forth on a mattress on the ground, staring at nothing. I slow down as I watch him, wondering who he is, and if my grandfather has ever ended up here in this room. Wes must feel me pause, because he turns around and follows my gaze. His face softens, and he steps back until he’s close enough to whisper in my ear. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I straighten my shoulders and nod. His hand finds the small of my back, and together we walk down the hallway toward my grandfather’s room.
The nurse pauses at a door and turns to face us.
“He might be tired,” he says. “He had another visitor this morning.”
I exchange a glance with Wes. “Who was it?”
“Some distant cousin. Maybe you know him since you’re Bentley’s niece. A John McGregor?”
I press my lips together. I’m not surprised to hear that my suspicions were correct—McGregor and my grandfather are connected. But a distant cousin? It might explain why McGregor was so affected by this visit, though is it enough to make him lose the election?
“Yeah, I know him,” I say slowly. “A politician, right?”
The nurse shrugs. “I don’t know. But he was pretty upset when he left. That can happen sometimes, when visitors aren’t prepared for the state their friends and family are in.” He looks both of us over. “Just . . . be ready.”
“Okay,” Wes says. I don’t answer, in no way prepared for whatever I’m about to find on the other side of this door.
The nurse knocks. There’s no response, but he opens the door anyway.
“Mr. Bentley?” he calls out into the room. “You have another visitor. She says she’s your niece.”
There’s a groaning sound, and then a muted thump, like a body turning over in bed. “Have no niece,” a scratchy voice responds.
I gasp. It sounds rusty and low, but that is definitely my grandfather’s voice.
“Of course you don’t,” the nurse says soothingly. “But why don’t you talk to the pretty girl anyway?”
There’s no answer. The nurse steps back from the door. “Go on in,” he says. “He’s not dangerous to anyone, and he’s having a good day. I’ll be just outside the door in case you need me.”
I cannot move, so Wes nods for us and takes my hand. He tugs me gently, and I step forward. The room is bare—there are only two beds pushed against opposite walls, and two freestanding wooden closets. A big, white lump occupies one of the beds. The other bed is empty and neatly made.
I slowly walk forward. The rubber soles of my shoes squeak against the linoleum floor. As I get closer, the white lump turns into the outline of arms and legs, a rounded middle, and finally a head with black and gray hair that sticks up out of the blanket.
The head turns and looks up at me. I squeeze my hands into fists, and my breath comes shallow and tight. This man looks like a stranger, with his longish curly hair and snarling grin.
And then something in his face changes, calms, and I want to throw myself against him. This is the man who helped raise me. One of the people I love most in the world. My grandfather.
CHAPTER 9
Grandpa.”
Wes makes a warning noise in the back of his throat, but I hardly notice.
The man in the bed narrows his eyes and his face changes again, looking feral and suspicious. “What did you say, girl?” he spits out.
“Uncle,” I amend quickly. “It’s good to see you again, Uncle.”
His eyes sweep up and down my body, landing on my face. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I have no niece. Have no brothers or sisters. You’re no relative of mine.” He cocks his head, staring at me intently. “Though the eyes are right. You’ve got Bentley green eyes.”
“I am a Bentley. Lydia Bentley.”
“Lydia.” He makes a humming noise. “I knew a Lydia once, when I was a small boy. She had red hair, too.”
My mouth falls open and I turn to Wes. He’s frowning. “You must be confused.” His voice is hard. “Lydia is your niece. That’s where you recognize the name from.”
Grandpa sits up in his bed and waves his hand in the air. “I know, I know what you all think of me. I’m ‘confused.’ I can’t hold on to reality. But it’s not true. They’re the ones who can’t see what’s right in front of them.” His eyes glaze over, and he starts to smooth the blankets down around him. “So what are you doing here, oh niece of mine?”
It takes a moment for me to speak. He’s younger than I remember, but has the same long face, with high cheekbones and a full mouth. But his hair is not completely white like I’m used to, and he’s not wearing his wire-rimmed glasses. He must be around fifty now; his face is mostly unlined, though there are deep grooves around his mouth and eyes.
I met my grandfather in 1944, when he was just a small boy. It was strange to see him as a child, but in a way it was easier than this; he felt like a completely different person then. Now he is enough like the man I remember that I cannot separate the two people in my head. But this version is too young and too angry. It’s like looking through old, wavy glass where the image on the other side is only slightly distorted.
“I, um . . .” I clear my throat. “We don’t want to tire you out. We heard you already had a visitor today.”
“I’m not tired.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I try to prod him in the direction of McGregor. “Was your visitor someone close to you? Another family member?”
“Another family member? I thought we established you’re not my family.”
“But this visitor was family?”
“McGregor?” His voice becomes lighter. “Son of my great uncle, don’t know what that makes him. Second or third cousin, I guess. Known him all my life.”
“Does he visit you often?”
“First time I saw him in years. No one comes here.” His eyes cloud. “Not even my son anymore.”
I glance at Wes.
“Did you know McGregor was a politician?” Wes asks.
“’Course I know that! Running for city council.” Grandpa turns his head to the side, as though dismissing us.
I take a small step closer to the bed and say the first thing I think of. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your childhood? About how long you’ve known McGregor.”
But it’s like he doesn’t hear the second part of my suggestion. He looks over at me again, and I flinch at the manic gleam in his eyes. It reminds me of those few times I saw him get like this when we were at Camp Hero. Did he always have this person lurking somewhere inside of him?
“My father disappeared when I was young.” His voice is slow, a little dreamy. “I knew they did it. I knew it. I went looking. I spent my whole life looking.”
“Looking for what?” I can’t help but ask.
“For them. She said he was bad, but she was wrong. He was the victim. They were the villains. She knew he was part of it.”
“Who said he was bad?”
“Lydia.”
I whip my head around to look at Wes. He frowns, and I know we’re both remembering that day in the woods behind my great-grandparents’ house, when Peter overheard me talking about Dean and the Recruitment Initiative. In a fit of anger and confusion, I did say that Dean was the bad guy. Is that the moment that I changed the course of history?
“Later I knew. I found the journal. I read what he wrote, and I knew that she knew something. But she was gone too. I searched for him, for them both.”
“Bu
t you didn’t find them,” I say, my voice small.
He smirks. “Who says I didn’t find them?”
“What does that mean?” I lean forward, McGregor and the election forgotten.
Grandpa’s smirk turns into a wide smile. He really does look crazy, with his wild eyes and long, messy hair. Like the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.
“What are you saying?” I move even closer to him and the wide neck of my dress slips to the side, falling down over one shoulder and exposing my upper arm. I start to yank it back up, but my grandpa reaches out and grabs my arm.
His face is pale. “You have it. You have the mark.”
“What are you talking about?” I try to pull away, but his fingers are claws that dig into my skin.
“The mark.” He wrenches his gaze away from my arm. His eyes focus like lasers on Wes. “Do you have it too?”
Wes steps forward, ready to pull me away.
But Grandpa lets go of me on his own, throwing my hand to the side like my skin is radioactive. “Who are you?” His voice is higher. He sounds horrified. “You’ve come for me, just like you came for him. I know too much, don’t I? I know too much.”
I back away from Grandpa, stopping when my body hits Wes. His hands come up and close around my shoulders.
Grandpa is starting to thrash in the bed, twisting from side to side. “You’re one of them!” he screams. “Don’t take me! I’m not ready! I’m not ready!”
I press my hands to my open mouth. What did I do? Why is he acting like this? The door bursts open and two nurses rush into the room along with two members of hospital security.
“Hold him down,” one of the nurses says.
The two security guards grab his arms and torso. He struggles against them, still screaming. “You have it! The mark! You’re one of them!”
Wes and I back away, moving as one unit. His hands tighten on my shoulders.
They are strapping Grandpa to the bed using cloth ties. A doctor in a white coat enters the room carrying a large syringe. She presses the needle into the pale skin of my grandfather’s neck as the guards hold him down.
“This will help calm you, Peter,” she says in an even tone. I almost don’t hear her over his shouting.
I feel someone touch my arm, and I jerk to the side. But it’s just the male nurse from before. “You better go,” he says.
I nod and follow him to the door. My grandfather’s screams have become whimpers. He is no longer shouting, but his breathing is heavy and labored.
I turn back to look at him right before I leave the room. He is staring at me. “You have it.” His words are garbled, as though some invisible force is strangling him. “The mark of the traveler.”
The nurse leads us to the main exit. The door to the nurses’ station is open and the hallway is empty—all of the other nurses on duty must be in with my grandfather.
“Sorry about that,” the bald nurse says as he steps into the office. He starts to rummage through a drawer, most likely looking for the key to let us out of the ward.
I blink rapidly, trying not to cry. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He has a delusional disorder.”
“A what?”
“It’s a rare psychological condition where a patient becomes obsessed with some wacko idea and lets it take control of his life. It’s odd though—he has no record of past psychosis. Our patients usually have a long history of being in and out of hospitals.” He shrugs. “But sometimes it can come on later in life. It’s just a shame that he can’t stay here anymore.”
“He can’t?”
“We’re not a long-term care facility. We try to rehab our patients and stabilize them enough to enter society, but I don’t think that’s an option for your uncle. . . .”
I don’t either, based on what I just saw. “Where will you send him?”
“Rockland State Hospital, probably.”
Wes glances back in the direction of Grandpa’s room. “Is there any way for us to see his files?”
The nurse shakes his head. “Only his doctors have access to those. Not even family.”
There’s a loud banging noise, and I hear screaming coming from a nearby room. “Excuse me,” the nurse says. “I have to check on that. Wait here, okay? I’ll unlock the door for you in a minute.” As soon as I nod, he takes off down the hallway at a sprint.
I turn to see Wes watching me carefully. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry.” He reaches out and traces the curve of my cheek with his finger. I close my eyes at his touch, but he drops his hand quickly.
“The last time I didn’t believe in him, it turned out he was right. I thought he might have some answers, but he’s so different from the grandfather I knew.” I shake my head, wishing I could erase the past few minutes from my brain. I thought seeing my grandfather would make me feel better, but . . .”He’s like a stranger. What do you think happened in there?”
Wes’s expression is dark, his mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t know. He freaked out after seeing your scar.” He gently pushes up my sleeve, exposing the small, round mark on my upper arm.
“You have a matching one.” I put my finger on his arm, touching the stiff material of his shirt. “I saw it back in nineteen forty-four when we were in that cell in the Facility.”
He looks down at his arm, surprised. “I do have a scar there. Just like yours. I never put it together.”
“Is it where your chip is implanted?”
“No, that’s here.” He pulls up his sleeve to expose a thin silver line on the inside of his arm.
“He called our matching scars the mark of the traveler. You’ve never heard of it before?”
“No.”
“How old were you when you got yours?”
He frowns. “I don’t remember getting it, but I first noticed it after I was already taken in by the Project.”
“Then why would I have it too?”
“I don’t know.” Wes’s voice drops. “But McGregor, your grandfather, these marks . . . Something is going on. We need more information.”
“They won’t let us see his file, and we’re not going to get anything else out of Grandpa. At least not now.”
“We need to know what he knows.”
I look down the empty hallway. Grandpa is a dead end. If only we could see his file.
My gaze falls on the open door of the nurses’ station.
“I have an idea.”
Wes raises an eyebrow. “What are you thinking, Lydia?”
“Just cover me.”
I creep into the open door of the office. There are windows along the front wall that look out into the hallway, so I duck down and crawl along the floor until I reach the file cabinet. I find the A-E section and try to open it. It’s locked. Of course.
Wes is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s alternatively watching me and scanning the area around the office. I spin around on my heels.
“Toss me your knife.”
He pulls it out of his pocket and throws it at me.
I yank the cap off the end and insert the pins into the lock. It gives way with a small popping sound. I smile up at him. “I love this thing.”
He smiles back. “I’ll get you one.”
“You better.” I rifle through the names until I find Bentley, Peter. I pull out the thick folder. Behind the file is a plastic bag with his name on it, so I pull that out, too. I slide the folder into the neck of my dress and throw the bag at Wes. He unties his sports jacket from around his waist and hides the plastic bag in it. I slam the drawer shut and just manage to dash out of the office before the nurse comes back around the corner.
“Sorry about the wait,” he says cheerfully. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Definitely,” I answer.
We sit down on a sidewalk bench, facing each other. I pull the folder out of my dress and put it between us. Wes drops the small bag
next to it, and I peer through the clear plastic. It holds a belt, shoestrings, and a copy of The Metamorphosis.
We don’t speak as we each take a section of papers from Grandpa’s file.
I find a handwritten note and start to scan it: Peter is more lucid today, though he still shows signs of his delusion, even after putting him on Haldol. Up his dosage?
“Do you know what Haldol is?” I ask Wes.
“I think it’s an anti-psychotic,” he answers absently as he rifles through my grandfather’s admission papers.
I turn back to the notes. He is obsessed with a conspiracy theory called the Montauk Project, and worries that “they” are coming after him. It is built on his continuous claim that he recently saw and spoke with his late father, though he has been missing and presumed dead for the past forty years.
“Wes, look at this.” I show him the passage I just read. “There’s no way he could have talked with Dean, right?”
“I don’t know.” Wes stares down at the paper. “Dr. Faust claimed that Dean was sent to the nineteen twenties, but it was an old machine and Dean wasn’t very young. He could have traveled anywhere in time.”
“If he survived it, which is unlikely.” I remember the files I found back in 1944, of all the soldiers they tried to send through time. I forget sometimes, that the Project isn’t all bad; in the beginning they were trying to send those soldiers on missions that would help them prevent World War II by killing Hitler. But even then, human life wasn’t as important as the mission, and the TM had turned those men into vegetables, if it didn’t kill them immediately. That was before they realized children have a better chance of making it out alive.
“Some of those soldiers did survive the traveling, they just got lost somewhere in time,” Wes says. “Not all adults die from the TM.”
“I guess it’s possible that the TM screwed up and sent Dean to the eighties instead of to the nineteen twenties.”
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