Mara never spent so long away from home. Mara stayed close to her art studio, as if leaving it was the same as abandoning a newborn, and the only time Ted ever left was to run an errand or teach his classes at Wicker.
It was definite, then: something horrible and irreversible had happened to them.
I extracted myself from my hiding spot. My hands shook as I reached for the phone, and it was then that the door burst open, Ted leaping into the house with Mara trailing behind him. Before I could react, Ted picked me up and twirled me around, his laughter thundering against my ear. I closed my eyes, savored the tightness of his grip, let the relief fill me up and up, my body buoyant as a balloon. When he set me down, I was smiling, because I still didn’t get it. I actually asked, “Where were you guys?”
“We were outside!” Ted answered.
“No, I mean—where did you go after dinner?”
“Dinner? There wasn’t any dinner. We were outside, Fern. Watching you!”
I tried to speak through the lump hardening in my throat. “You were here?” I asked. “The whole time?” My voice was squeaky and small.
“Of course!”
“So you were gonna… leave me alone, in the house… forever?”
“Forever?” he repeats. “No, no, an Experiment is never forever. You know I always reveal what I’ve been doing, always let you know what’s real and what isn’t. I do that for you, Fern. Because I value your participation in my work. So, come on now, let’s get upstairs. I’ve got so many excellent notes that I need to transcribe. So many questions, too. That thing with the coffee table and the blanket? It’s like you were paralyzed. This is wonderful, Fern. Truly sensational. We’re going to have a very productive interview. Let’s go!”
But I didn’t follow him the way I usually did. Instead, I opened my mouth and wailed. Closed my eyes and shoved out tears. Dropped to the floor and rocked.
“Fern,” Ted said. “What is this?”
I sobbed out my answer in thick gasps of words. “I thought… you were… dead!”
He smiled then. Pleased with himself. With me. “But we’re not dead, Fern. Not yet. Look, we’re standing right in front of you. You can reach out and touch us.” He held out his hand to me. I stared at the empty palm that waited for mine. “Let’s start the interview, okay? You’ll feel better once we do.”
For the first and only time in my life, I screamed at him. “No! I won’t do it! No more interviews—ever!”
Ted opened his mouth to protest, but Mara stepped forward. “Ted,” she said. I jumped at the sound of her voice; I’d forgotten she was there. “Perhaps you’ve gone too far this time.”
Her arms were crossed over her cotton floor-length dress, one of the many she always wore. I was surprised by what she’d said—she was usually quick to defend Ted’s research, having work of her own that kept her occupied for days at a time—but then again, her Break Room was evidence that she, too, needed an outlet.
Chuckling dismissively, Ted looked at her. He looked at me. He crouched down on the floor and, as tears kept spilling down my cheeks, he caught one on his finger, swallowing down his laughter as he examined the drop like a slide under a microscope. Then his face became serious.
“Mara’s right,” he said. “I’m sorry, Fern. You know how I get—so wrapped up in the science of it all. Sometimes I forget that you… well. Know that I won’t take it that far again.”
And he didn’t. In the years that followed, his Experiments were startling and intrusive, but never again as cruel. Maybe that, more than anything, is the reason I’m so quick to return to him: he realized he crossed a line, and he gradually backed away from it. It’s a difficult thing, admitting you were wrong. I’ve seen parents exhale excuses as easily as air. But Ted showed me that day that he loved me enough to see me as more than a research subject. That incredible truth—that a man so devoted to data could love me, when love is messy and immeasurable, impossible to pin down—made me feel powerful and electric.
Dr. Lockwood would probably say that, ever since, I’ve been yearning to feel that way again.
* * *
The drive from Boston to Cedar is always excruciating. The highway only takes you so far. Then it’s twenty miles of back roads: gaping potholes, deer crossing