Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You)

by Rachel Carter

  “We’re running out of resources. We couldn’t get that much of a sample after the boy was shot. There are no second chances,” he snaps at his companion. “All you have to do is isolate the foreign agent in the blood. It’s not that hard.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  After the boy was shot. Could he be talking about Wes?

  A year ago, I watched Wes’s blood drip to the floor of the TM chamber, so dark against the white tiles. From the beginning, Dr. Faust had been fascinated by Wes and the quick, efficient way he acted. He saw Wes as an example of what the Recruitment Initiative could become.

  Was that day the birth of the time travel serum? Was it derived from the mixture already embedded in Wes’s blood?

  It would mean that no one ever really invented poly-penamaether, but that it was simply brought to the past inadvertently, creating a continuous cycle of discovery. I tighten my grip on the doorknob, the cold metal biting into my skin. If it is true, then I’m glad Wes will never know. He wouldn’t want to be responsible for aiding the Project in any way, let alone creating the basis for what makes traveling through the TM possible.

  Then the two men are gone, and I ease the door open again, stepping out into the hallway. It does not take me long to reach the stairs near the exit, and I sprint up them. They are dark and dingy, with no lights embedded in the floors or ceiling.

  I rip open the door at the top. There’s a guard standing in front of the wide concrete doors that lead out into the woods of Camp Hero. He has his back to me, his hands wrapped around a rifle, and he is just starting to turn around.

  I spring onto his back, locking my legs around his waist. He makes a grunting noise, and I grip his neck between my arms. His hair is an oily brown, pressed tight against my face. It smells unwashed, like musk and soot, and I struggle to take a breath. He drops his gun, but it makes no sound on the soft dirt floor. There are pieces of broken furniture scattered around the room, rotting wood and discarded nails and screws. The back wall is lined with metal doors. The one I came through is still ajar, and the thin light from the bottom of the stairs spills across the shadowed floor.

  The man claws at my arms, his blunt fingernails digging into my skin. I wince as he draws blood, but I don’t let go. He is wearing the black uniform that all guards in the Facility wear, though this one is in the boxy, high-waisted style of World War II uniforms. I tighten my hold. I’m not trying to kill him—it only takes five seconds to knock someone out. I soon feel the man’s body go limp. As he falls, I drop my feet to the ground and then take his weight, staggering under his heavy build. I lay him down in the dirt, and then look up at the concrete doors. They are sealed shut, with only a tiny line down the middle that lets in a strip of sunlight.

  I turn to the passed-out soldier and rifle through his pockets until I find what I am looking for. It is a rectangular piece of metal with random shapes cut out along the thin surface.

  I feel along the right side of the wall until I find a tiny slit and quickly slide in the key. The doors part with a scrape, stone rubbing against stone, the whine of a rusted gear. I move to the center. As soon as there is a large enough opening, I step out and into Camp Hero.

  The green army truck makes a rumbling noise as it drives down the packed-dirt road. I crouch in the back, half-hidden under an empty burlap sack.

  I found the truck parked near the bunkers and mess hall, the white buildings disguised to look like civilian homes from the air. Now we are headed toward the heavily guarded entrance of the camp, not far from the Montauk Lighthouse.

  “Just you today, Johnson?” one of the soldiers at the gate calls out as soon as we approach.

  “Yup,” the driver answers.

  The back of the truck is open, with rough canvas stretched over the rounded top. I pull the sack closer to my body. It smells like old grain, and I can only see an inch in front of me: the scarred metal of the truck bed, a corner of dusty road, a man’s khaki pant leg as he walks past.

  I think back to what the scientist said. It’s the spring of 1945. Thanks to my endless history studies as a recruit, I know that Hitler killed himself five days ago, and American and Soviet troops have successfully taken Berlin. Japan is still fighting, but in only a few months America will drop the atom bombs that will finally end the war.

  When I traveled to 1944, World War II seemed like it would never end. Mary’s friends were signing up to fight; her brother, Dean, and her crush, Lucas, had already fought overseas. Food was rationed, and everyone was on edge, waiting for bad news, fearing for loved ones. But a year has passed now, and the war is almost over. I feel the change even at this gate. Before, a guard would have inspected the back thoroughly, but now he just waves the driver through. “Get us some more Spam, will ya? Mess is almost out.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The truck starts moving again, and the wind picks up, rippling the canvas overhead. I know we’re on the long highway that stretches from Camp Hero to the downtown area of Montauk and I pull the sack away from my face to watch the low, scrubby trees pass by, light green with new leaves. The ocean is to my right, the waves breaking against the beach in rolls of white foam. Now and then we pass a small roadside stand selling fish or vegetables with hand-painted signs. As we get closer to town I see a few fishing shacks tucked into the dunes. Made from blue and gray weathered wood, they are sea tossed and crusted with salt, as if they sprang up from the ocean rather than made by men on land.

  We reach the downtown, and it is exactly as I remember: a few low buildings, the general store with a sagging porch, one tall, brick, Tudor-style town hall.

  The truck does not stop in the center of town; the driver must be headed to East Hampton, where the army picks up most of their supplies. I pull the sack off and crawl to the back end, waiting for the truck to start climbing the short hill that’s not far from the school. As soon as we reach it the truck slows, and I feel the driver shift down and then down again, the engine whining, the wheels churning under us. Bracing one hand against the bumper, I throw my body toward the side of the road. I roll and roll, stopping when I’m lying on my back, gasping for air. The cut on my leg burns, and I sit up, pulling stray pieces of grass from my shoulders. There are no other cars on the small highway, and the truck keeps going, quickly disappearing from sight.

  I circle the pond that sits near the middle of town. It is only steps from the road, and the water reflects the few houses and trees that run alongside it. The day is bright and cool, the spring air sharp.

  Soon I leave the main road and turn onto a narrower, more private street. The trees are thicker here, and I walk in the shade, watching the shadows of the leaves make interlocking patterns in the dirt. It’s not long before I see the house: two stories, white, a bright-red front door.

  I climb up the steps and knock. My breath is short, and I bite my lip. It has been a year since I was last here. They might not even remember me.

  “I’ll get it, Daddy!” I hear shouted from inside. There is a clomping sound as feet quickly hit wooden steps, and then the door is flung wide-open.

  Mary Bentley, my great-great-aunt, only eighteen years old in 1945, freezes, one hand at her chest, the other still wrapped around the doorknob. “Lydia?” she whispers.

  “Mary.” My voice breaks on the word. I take in her dark-red hair, a mirror of my own, her Bentley-green eyes, high cheekbones, and full mouth.

  “Lydia!” This time she squeals it and flings herself at me. Her arms are tight around my neck, our cheeks pressed together. I hug her back. Beyond Mary’s head I see her mother, Harriet Bentley, emerging from the kitchen holding a dish towel. Dr. Bentley must be in his study; I smell his pipe, sandalwood and spice.

  For the first time in a year, I feel like I have finally come home.

  Chapter 18

  Mary crosses her legs, and the blue shirtwaist dress she’s wearing falls across her knees. She is sitting on the cream-and-yellow stuffed couch in the den, and as she leans toward me the tea in her
cup sloshes against the rim, threatening to spill over and onto her lap. “We didn’t think we’d see you again. I had completely given up on you, but then—”

  She’s cut off by Mrs. Bentley, who comes into the room holding a tray of small cookies. “Real sugar and butter.” She smiles at me. The lines around her eyes are deeper than I remember, and her dark-red hair has a touch of gray at the temples. “Now that the fighting in Europe has ended, we’re getting some rations back.”

  “Thanks.” I take one from the tray, realizing that I haven’t eaten—or slept—since I was hiding in the dark in the back of the banana truck. I swallow the butter cookie whole and reach for another. The chair I’m sitting in is old and soft and I sink back against it, trying not to close my eyes.

  “Oh, you’re exhausted!” Mrs. Bentley sits in the chair adjacent to mine and looks at me with concern. “Your trip must have been grueling, Lydia. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap?”

  Mary waves her hand dismissively. A drop of tea flings out of her cup and lands on the coffee table. “She can’t sleep here; it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why not?” I sit up again. “Should I find somewhere else to stay? I don’t want to burden you.”

  “Nonsense. Of course it’s not that.” Mrs. Bentley nudges the cookie tray toward me and I take another one. “But you’ll be eager to get settled on your own, I’m sure. Where is your man, anyway? Why isn’t he with you?”

  I feel the heat rise in my face, my cheeks staining with color. “Well, that’s—”

  “Lydia!” Dr. Jacob Bentley is standing in the doorway. I get up from my seat as he approaches me with both hands held out. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  His fingers are warm and dry in mine and he squeezes once before letting go.

  “Dr. Bentley.” I smile and sit back down in my chair. “It’s been so long.”

  He moves next to Mary on the couch, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he takes a seat. Like Mrs. Bentley, his dark hair has a bit more gray in it, stretching along the side of his head and down into his short beard. “You’ve returned, and the news is reporting that Hitler is dead. It’s a good day.”

  “We’re not sure it’s true yet, though,” Mrs. Bentley says. “There are rumors he might be faking it, since he knows our troops are closing in on him.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s true. Hitler’s dead.” The words are out of my mouth before I have time to process them.

  Mary moves forward in her chair. “How do you know that?”

  “I mean, I’m sure it’s true. . . . I want to believe it’s true.”

  Dr. Bentley nods. “You were in Europe, weren’t you, Lydia? We heard you followed your fella overseas for a while. Do you have any adventures to tell us about?”

  “Um, not quite,” I hedge. “I’m more interested in your family. How have you all been?”

  No one speaks. Even Mary is silent, her knuckles white against the delicate china of her teacup.

  I press my lips together, realizing my mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry.” Mary rests her cup back on the tray, then reaches over to take my hand. “It’s just that Dean went missing last year, around the same time. We’re all not . . . well, it’s been a real hard time.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat. “Dean was . . . kind to me.” I glance down, remembering the last time I saw him at that hotel in 1989. He didn’t recognize me then, and he wouldn’t recognize his family now. The Project stole everything from him. But of course I can’t tell the Bentleys that.

  “He was always a good boy.” Dr. Bentley clears his throat and reaches for a cookie. “It would be easier if we knew what happened to him. It’s the wondering that makes it hard.”

  “It would be hard either way,” Mrs. Bentley whispers.

  Mary squeezes my hand and then lets go, reaching up to wipe at the corners of her eyes. “I’m being a real pill these days, Lydia. I just can’t seem to stop crying.” She forces herself to smile, her teeth white against her signature red lipstick. “I’ll just go take a powder. When I get back we’ll stop talking about all this unpleasantness.”

  Mrs. Bentley watches Mary closely as she leaves the room. Dr. Bentley sits back with a sigh. “Mary isn’t taking it well.”

  “She and Dean didn’t always get along,” Mrs. Bentley adds, “but she secretly idolized him. She can’t seem to move past it.”

  I think back to something my grandfather said, about how his aunt Mary was never the same after she lost her brother. It’s why she eventually left town with her husband and almost never returned to Montauk. “Is Lucas helping at all?” I wonder.

  The two exchange a glance. “Perhaps Mary should tell you more about that.” Dr. Bentley dusts the crumbs off his hands and stands up. “I need to get out to the hospital for a few hours. But I’m glad you’re back, Lydia. Mary sure missed you. Losing both you and Dean at the same time . . .” He shakes his head. “Anyway, maybe you’ll be able to reach her. We certainly haven’t been able to.”

  “I’ll try,” I promise, though I know I don’t have much time.

  I’m glad to see the Bentleys, but I can’t lose sight of what I need to do. I will no longer be able to infiltrate the Facility by trying to apply for an assistant position—the TM is already up and running, and I can’t spare the few months it would take to get a job there. That means I’ll need to do a hit-and-run mission, stealing into the Facility at night and destroying the TM and Tesla’s notes without getting caught.

  But everything is different now. If I don’t have enough time to help Mary before the mission, I can do it afterward. I’ll have the Bentleys in my life again.

  Before, I thought I would be stuck in the past forever, with no one who remembered me. But now if I succeed in killing Faust and ending the Project, I will not be trapped here without a family. I will not be alone.

  Mary appears in the doorway again as Dr. Bentley moves to leave the room. He touches her shoulder as he passes and she smiles up at him, though we can all see the dried tear marks on her cheeks.

  “Lydia, get up!” She waves her hand at me. “There’s someone you just have to see. You are going to flip your wig, I swear it. I’d tell you who it is, but I’ve decided that it’s going to be a surprise, and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”

  “Thank you for the tea,” I say to Mrs. Bentley as I stand.

  “We’re so glad you returned.” Her voice is soft and serious. “Our house is your house, you know that, Lydia.”

  “Come on!” Mary bounces over to me and grabs my arm. “I can’t wait to see the look on your face.”

  I smile one last time at Mrs. Bentley before Mary pulls me from the room.

  I follow behind Mary as we walk along the paved road that leads to the north part of town, where the navy set up their own base near Fort Pond Bay.

  “Jinx is still working in the factory, and Mick’s coming home in a month or two. Suze is over the moon. He wrote her every week, just like he promised; isn’t that swell? Sometimes the letters would come in a big batch, twenty at a time, and Suze and I would read them for days. Billy wrote to me too, sometimes. But then . . . the letters stopped.” She turns her face toward the rough pavement.

  I picture the young man dancing with Mary on the sand, laughing as they spun in circles. “What happened?”

  “He died overseas.” She lifts her head and her eyes are wet again. “German sniper, we heard. It’s just awful. His sister was the year below me in school and she hasn’t spoken a word since they found out. Ma and I baked their family a cake—we used real sugar, even though supplies were low, but there was no other choice, obviously—and brought it by a few months ago, and their whole house was stuffed with food from neighbors. Isn’t that nice? We could barely fit it in on the counter.” Her voice drops. “Though half the women sitting in the parlor clucking like old hens were those fuddy-duddies from church w
ho always whisper about Mr. McDonald, Billy’s dad, being a philanderer. He is one, everyone knows it, but still.”

  She spins around and starts walking backward in her scuffed saddle shoes. It is chillier the closer we get to the ocean, and I rub my hands together, wishing my dress had longer sleeves.

  A grayish-blue navy jeep passes and Mary waves. The soldiers honk their tinny-sounding horn at us, but don’t stop.

  “I’ve been talking your ear off, haven’t I?” Mary asks once it has disappeared farther down the road. “It’s just that Suze is so busy setting up house for Mick, and I’ve been so lonely lately.”

  “What’s going on with Lucas?” I ask. “When I left it seemed like something might happen between you two.”

  She smiles quickly. “Lucas is keen on me. Who would have guessed it? He’s been coming around on Sundays for dinner, and he takes me to the movies or dancing on Fridays. You know I’ve been stuck on him for years, ever since De—” She takes a quick breath. “Lucas is getting discharged soon, and I know he’s gonna ask me to marry him. He wants us to go live on his farm in Georgia with his sisters.”

  I look sideways at her. “Aren’t you excited? You don’t sound it.”

  Mary shrugs. “Georgia? It seems so far away. And how can I leave Montauk? Especially now.”

  I speed up a little until we’re side by side. “You don’t want to leave because of Dean.”

  She doesn’t answer. I hesitate, glancing over at her profile. Her red hair is in short tight curls, her skin glowing pink in the afternoon sun. “Mary, I don’t think Dean’s coming back. Be happy with Lucas. If you want to go with him to Georgia, then you should.”

  She tilts her head at me, her mouth twisted to the side. “It’s a nice thought, Lydia.”

  I start to speak but she cuts me off, her voice bright again. “Can you picture me as a farmer’s wife? The thought of waking up at five just to milk cows.” She gives an exaggerated shiver, her shoulders wiggling up and down. “I’d have to get rid of all my dresses. I’d probably never even do my hair again. I’d be too busy chasing after chickens.”