grandfather’s memories of his father are blurred by age and sorrow. But my memories will be new and clear. I can share those experiences with him, but it won’t ever be the same as being here. I might end up knowing more about Dean than my grandfather ever did. It’s a disconcerting thought, and I almost wish it was my grandfather who had gone back in time, so he’d get to relive this through fresh eyes. But would he ever be objective enough to see his father for who he really is, and not as a larger-than-life tragic hero?
Will I?
I walk over to the low, wide bureau and open the drawers one by one. Socks, crisp T-shirts, folded slacks. I run my hand under the clothes in the top drawer and touch the crackled edges of a piece of paper. I pull it out. It’s an old letter, brittle with age. “My darling,” it starts, “you are my everything.” I read to the end. It’s from a girl named Elizabeth—the name of my great-grandmother—and dated 1940. I put it back into the drawer, feeling like a trespasser.
I trace my fingers over the dusty lettering on a basketball trophy. STATE CHAMPIONS, 1935. A stamp collection and a few comic books vie for space with novels—John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath , Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms .
I pull out Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own . I carry it over to the bed and sit down, flipping through the pages. A quote jumps out at me: “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.” I snap the book shut. Am I locked in or locked out by being here?
I turn to the window, where the black fabric hides the night sky. Wes is out there somewhere. He followed me to the past. He helped me escape. I need to find him again. He’s the only one who can tell me about the Montauk Project. And, for some reason, he might want to help me.
I wonder if he’s furious that I left him in the woods. I wonder if he’s looking for me, and if he wants to take me back into the underground labs. I look away from the window. While I’m not exactly glad that I’m temporarily trapped in 1944, I can’t deny that it’s exciting—and feels important—to meet my relatives, to see the past, and to get more answers about what will happen to my great-grandfather in the coming days.
I always thought going off to college and becoming a journalist would be my big adventure. But this feels bigger.
Maybe I am supposed to do more than just figure out the truth of what really happened to Dean. This might be my chance to make a difference, and to help my family. Dean will disappear in just a few days unless I can figure out a way to stop it. But should I try to fix the past instead of just learning its secrets?
It’s one thing to look for answers; it’s another thing entirely to change the question.
Overwhelmed, I lie back on the bed. The model airplanes stir in the empty air above my head, suspended forever, flying nowhere.
C HAPTER 8
I wake to the sound of raised voices. The dress Mary gave me yesterday is draped over the back of a chair. I pull it over my head and quickly yank out the rag rollers in my hair. Heavy curls fall in ropes down my back. I slip out of the room and creep down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step.
Dr. and Mrs. Bentley are in the parlor, perched on the overstuffed cream and yellow couches. A tall, dark-haired man about ten years older than me paces in front of the fireplace. I immediately recognize him from my grandfather’s photograph: it’s Dean Bentley, my great-grandfather.
“What were you thinking? How could you just let a stranger into the house?”
Someone clears his throat, and I notice that Lucas is sitting on a chair by the window. Both he and Dean are wearing fitted dark olive jackets over their uniforms.
“It wasn’t like that, Dean.” Lucas’s voice is firm.
Dean scowls at him. He’s squeezing a light brown cap tightly in one hand. It has a visor and a gold metal eagle
Will I?
I walk over to the low, wide bureau and open the drawers one by one. Socks, crisp T-shirts, folded slacks. I run my hand under the clothes in the top drawer and touch the crackled edges of a piece of paper. I pull it out. It’s an old letter, brittle with age. “My darling,” it starts, “you are my everything.” I read to the end. It’s from a girl named Elizabeth—the name of my great-grandmother—and dated 1940. I put it back into the drawer, feeling like a trespasser.
I trace my fingers over the dusty lettering on a basketball trophy. STATE CHAMPIONS, 1935. A stamp collection and a few comic books vie for space with novels—John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath , Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms .
I pull out Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own . I carry it over to the bed and sit down, flipping through the pages. A quote jumps out at me: “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.” I snap the book shut. Am I locked in or locked out by being here?
I turn to the window, where the black fabric hides the night sky. Wes is out there somewhere. He followed me to the past. He helped me escape. I need to find him again. He’s the only one who can tell me about the Montauk Project. And, for some reason, he might want to help me.
I wonder if he’s furious that I left him in the woods. I wonder if he’s looking for me, and if he wants to take me back into the underground labs. I look away from the window. While I’m not exactly glad that I’m temporarily trapped in 1944, I can’t deny that it’s exciting—and feels important—to meet my relatives, to see the past, and to get more answers about what will happen to my great-grandfather in the coming days.
I always thought going off to college and becoming a journalist would be my big adventure. But this feels bigger.
Maybe I am supposed to do more than just figure out the truth of what really happened to Dean. This might be my chance to make a difference, and to help my family. Dean will disappear in just a few days unless I can figure out a way to stop it. But should I try to fix the past instead of just learning its secrets?
It’s one thing to look for answers; it’s another thing entirely to change the question.
Overwhelmed, I lie back on the bed. The model airplanes stir in the empty air above my head, suspended forever, flying nowhere.
C HAPTER 8
I wake to the sound of raised voices. The dress Mary gave me yesterday is draped over the back of a chair. I pull it over my head and quickly yank out the rag rollers in my hair. Heavy curls fall in ropes down my back. I slip out of the room and creep down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step.
Dr. and Mrs. Bentley are in the parlor, perched on the overstuffed cream and yellow couches. A tall, dark-haired man about ten years older than me paces in front of the fireplace. I immediately recognize him from my grandfather’s photograph: it’s Dean Bentley, my great-grandfather.
“What were you thinking? How could you just let a stranger into the house?”
Someone clears his throat, and I notice that Lucas is sitting on a chair by the window. Both he and Dean are wearing fitted dark olive jackets over their uniforms.
“It wasn’t like that, Dean.” Lucas’s voice is firm.
Dean scowls at him. He’s squeezing a light brown cap tightly in one hand. It has a visor and a gold metal eagle
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