The Women in White

Chapter One. Riley, Present Day

Just before Riley knocks on the door of the small brick house, she's gripped by the skin-tingling sense she's being watched. When she twists her head around, the only thing she sees is a neglected stretch of yard. It must have been pretty once. Brittle rosebushes line the worn picket fence, gardens are overrun by weeds, and a graceful sugar maple is being choked by vines. She turns back, shakes off the unease, and knocks so firmly her knuckles sting.

Betty Sadler is eighty-one, a sweet but incredibly picky woman, and the social worker warned Riley how hard it's been to fill this caretaker position. When the front door opens, Riley lowers her gaze to Betty, who uses a wheelchair. Betty's white hair is swept into an updo, she wears a pink dress and a string of pearls, and her skin is so creamy and unlined it could belong to a woman half her age. Riley aims for a confident, warm smile and introduces herself as Riley Bell. Betty says it's a pleasure to meet her, and asks if Riley is an Irish name. Riley explains it's her mother's maiden name. Betty notes that explains her pretty auburn hair, and invites her in.

The living room smells of lemon cleaner, and the furniture looks old but well-kept. Heavy gold drapes are pulled back, letting fall sunlight brighten the space. Riley compliments the lovely home and asks if Betty has lived there long. Sixty years, Betty replies, noting how time flies. Betty doesn't use email, so Riley brought a copy of her résumé. She slips it from her bag, hoping nerves haven't made her hands sweaty. Standing in a stranger's house with nothing to her name but the old Toyota she's been sleeping in for weeks is a place she never imagined she'd be at age thirty-two. But impulsively marrying a hilarious, handsome guy who hid a massive gambling addiction led her here.

Betty offers coffee or tea. Riley says she'd love some and asks if she can help, but Betty tells her to make herself comfortable and wheels herself down the hallway into the kitchen, propelling swiftly with arms that must still be strong. Left alone, Riley looks into the dining room, where a table and chairs are framed by faded floral wallpaper. A pile of papers sits on the table, close enough that she can glimpse the top one. The formatting gives it away: it's a résumé. Her competition. When her life imploded in a series of hard, fast blows, her discovery of Danny's enormous secret followed by their bankruptcy and divorce filings the same week, she began searching for a better-paying job than her position as a nurse's aide at the hospital. She's applied for dozens, but with only two years of college, she rarely reaches the interview stage. Betty is offering a generous salary, plus it's live-in. Riley will do whatever it takes to get hired.

She hears water spurt and dishes clatter in the distance. Betty probably won't be back for a couple of minutes. Riley loudly admires the painting in the dining room, asking if it's of the Grand Canyon. Betty calls back yes, explaining she always dreamed of seeing it but never made it there, so her husband bought her the painting as a birthday present. Riley says she's never been either, then reaches down for the pile of neatly stacked résumés, hoping to glean a way to set herself apart. Her eyes widen as she scans them. They're from nurse practitioners, physical therapists, and nursing aides, people who speak multiple languages and have twice her experience. Why would Betty ever choose her over these candidates? Riley walks back into the living room feeling defeated. It isn't over yet, she reminds herself. There must be something I can do to make myself stand out.

A moment later, Betty comes in with a tray balanced on the flat armrests of her chair. Atop it sit two pink-and-white china teacups with matching saucers, a sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of cream. She sets the tray on the coffee table and hands Riley a cup, hoping she likes Earl Grey. Riley says that's actually her favorite; her insomnia forced her to give up coffee, but on chilly fall days she craves hot, sweet black tea. Betty smiles, seemingly pleased by the coincidence that they both prefer the same beverage. She prompts Riley to tell her a bit about herself. Riley launches into the speech she prepared on the drive over: she's been a health care aide at Union Memorial for the past five years, she enjoys being around people, and ever since she was a little girl she's wanted to be a healer. She used to bring home wounded birds and try to nurse them back to health. It's just in her nature, she guesses.

Betty asks if she has family nearby. Not too far away, Riley says. She grew up in Northern Virginia, and her parents still live in the house she was raised in, though right now they're on a bike tour around Italy, which her father has always wanted to do. Betty marvels and asks whether they traveled by airplane or ocean liner. Riley blinks. They flew. She also has an older sister and brother who live in the DC suburbs, both married, with five kids between them. Betty nods, then asks why Riley is interested in a live-in position. Riley shifts in her seat. Unfortunately, her husband and she recently divorced, and they sold their home. It's a partial truth; the bank repossessed it. Betty says, "Oh, dear," and asks how long ago this happened. A month ago.

Betty pats Riley's arm, her hand soft as talcum powder, and tells her that's how long her Douglas has been gone, too. Riley says she's sorry, and can't imagine how hard it must be. Betty explains it was very sudden, a heart attack. She called for an ambulance and they took him to the hospital, but it was already too late. He didn't suffer, so she takes comfort from that. As Betty lifts her cup to her lips, Riley catches a familiar scent, one of the five most identifiable aromas in the world. Betty isn't drinking tea. She smells coffee, and a glance into Betty's cup confirms it. How could Betty know Riley prefers tea? Her mind scrambles for a logical answer. Before she lands on one, Betty says something that leaves her so stunned she's momentarily speechless: "I'd like to offer you the job. How soon can you start?"

Chapter Two. Betty, 1964

Betty Sadler puts the finishing touches on the evening: a fresh coat of Revlon’s Berry Bon-Bon lipstick, the Marvelettes spinning on the turntable, a pot roast in the oven, and the Sears dining table set with her pink-and-white wedding china. She is following the advice from a recent Women’s Weekly article, making herself pretty and the home welcoming. She mixes two Manhattans in a silver shaker, believing a cold drink is the sure way to warm a man’s heart. When the front door opens and Douglas calls out, “Darling? I’m home,” her heart flutters. She rushes to greet him. He drops his briefcase, cradles her face, strokes her cheekbones with his thumbs, and kisses her. They have been married eight months, since just after her nineteenth birthday, and Betty has never been happier.

They settle in the living room with cocktails, and the console turntable drops the next record: “Love Me Do” by the Beatles, one of Betty’s favorites, especially because Douglas looks a bit like Paul McCartney. Betty tells him about her day: after class she met Marilyn and Babs for a sandwich, then stopped at the market because she is almost out of Ajax before laundry day. She worries whether his drink is all right. He says it is perfect, but he is distracted. Work was interesting today. She suggests she give him a moment with his thoughts while checking on dinner.

As she stirs green beans, she glances at Douglas. He wears the same intent look he had when they met the previous fall on the Marquis University campus: dark brows knitted, eyes faraway. That day he had been so lost in thought he bumped into her on a walking path. She apologized instinctively; he insisted it was his fault and asked forgiveness. The campus was beautiful, blue-gray stone buildings with gothic arches, finials, and gargoyles, trees tipped with orange and crimson, students in pretty skirts and letterman sweaters, leaves swirling in the wind. It felt like a scene from a movie. He asked if she was a college girl. She said she was in her second year. He told her he was earning a PhD and working in the Trimble Institute. Everyone knew the Department of Psychology building housed extraordinary research testing the psychic capabilities of the human mind. When she asked if he worked with Dr. Trimble, he cleared his throat, looking the tiniest bit nervous. And Betty knew with swift certainty he was going to ask her out and change her life forever.

Back in the present, Betty turns down the heat on the green beans and sits beside Douglas, quietly waiting until he is ready to talk. He tells her he tested a volunteer who did well with Zener cards, but not well enough for Dr. Trimble’s purposes. Betty asks what Zener cards are. Douglas explains they were developed at Marquis, each card bearing one of five symbols. He held up the cards while the subject tried to intuit which symbols were on them. Betty asks if people can actually do this well. Douglas says some do better than others. Dr. Trimble’s theory is that extraordinary abilities exist naturally in a tiny section of the population, like the musicality of Dean Charles, a mint quarterback’s arm, or the writing of a Fitzgerald. Dr. Trimble is hunting for the cream of the crop, the chosen few with innate psychical ability.

Betty reaches for a Lucky Strike, and Douglas lights it with his silver lighter. She asks what the symbols are. He smiles and offers to show her. From his briefcase he pulls a pack of twenty-five cards, each printed with a circle, a cross, three wavy lines, a square, or a star. He notes that each symbol has one more line than the other: the circle has one line, the cross has two, and so on. Betty finds this clever. Douglas shuffles and asks to test her. She bats her hand at him, telling him not to be silly, but he insists it will be fun. He holds up a card with its back to her. She guesses a circle. It is a square. She tries again and guesses a star. It is a circle. She giggles and calls herself hopeless.

Douglas calls those practice. He tells her to take a deep breath, because subjects do better when completely relaxed and highly focused. Betty protests that she is no good at this, suggesting they go eat dinner instead. He asks her to try for him again, this time closing her eyes and taking a moment before answering. She closes her eyes, lets her mind play with the five symbols, imagining them lined up in a row. Her interior world tunnels into a singular focus. She says, “Wavy lines.” She keeps her eyes closed, then says, “A star ... a cross ... a Squa—no, another star.” Douglas asks if she is peeking. Her eyes snap open, and she insists of course not. He shuffles the remaining cards, picks up the top one, and tells her to keep going. She guesses the final card.

By the time she finishes, the record has ended and the room is silent. Her forgotten cigarette has burned down to a snake of gray in the ashtray, and Douglas has not taken another sip of his drink. Betty asks how she did. Douglas says it is too soon to say. He places the Zener cards on the coffee table, tapping the edges to align the stack. Betty reminds him to put them back in his briefcase so he does not forget them tomorrow. Douglas looks at her, but his mind is elsewhere. Quietly, barely audible, he says, “It could be luck.”

Betty reaches for his hand and pulls him to his feet, telling him he is in for some luck too because she made ambrosia salad for dessert. She chatters gaily through dinner, trying to find a topic that engages him, but none takes hold. After she clears the table and washes the dishes, she comes into the living room to find Douglas on the couch again, shuffling the cards. She stops short. A strange sense of foreboding grips her. He instructs her to come here. He wants to test her again.

Chapter Three. Riley, Present Day

A rush of relief softens the hard knot that has taken up permanent residence in Riley's chest as Betty shows her the bedroom she will be staying in. Pink walls, a plain bed, a wooden dresser, and a nightstand: paradise compared to sleeping in her car. When Betty asks when she can move in, Riley looks down at her feet and says she can do it anytime, even today. Betty claps her hands together, delighted, and says the sooner the better. It seems almost too good to be true. Riley admits her belongings are already in her car, and Betty tilts her head, a sharpness filling her pale blue eyes. It is almost as if Riley knew she was going to get the job. Riley's cheeks burn at having revealed too much. She cannot bring herself to tell Betty the truth: that her belongings are always in her car, because creditors claimed everything of value from her home, including the furniture. Betty insists she call her by her first name, especially since they are about to become housemates.

Riley empties her Toyota in half a dozen trips. When she carries in the last bin of clothes, she finds a set of daisy-patterned sheets left on her twin bed, still in the soft old plastic package that reads "Penn-Prest means you never iron!" The fonts and design on the mattress label look as retro as the sheets, and the mattress itself is just as pristine. Betty certainly knows how to take care of her belongings.

The Kitchen

Riley stops short in the kitchen doorway. The low cabinets and counters are expected, since Betty needs an accessible space. It is the colors that surprise her: turquoise counters, a matching stove with oversized round dials, a black-and-white checkerboard floor, and burnt orange walls. A designer would call it retro, but this is no kitschy throwback diner. The worn spots on the floor and counter edges reveal a kitchen old enough to have gone out of fashion and, more than half a century later, edged back in. Betty is at the sink filling an ice cube tray. She assures Riley it's no trouble and expertly slides the tray into the freezer. Surely Riley hasn't finished putting away her things already? Riley explains she just brought in her belongings, then asks whether there is a daily schedule she should follow. Betty says they will figure it out as they go along, but there is one thing she needs help with today: the refrigerator is nearly bare, and she hopes Riley can run to the grocery store.

Betty fetches the list from her desk, and Riley follows her into the living room. A record player is built into a wood console, with albums by Bobby Vinton, Elvis, The Beach Boys, and The Supremes. A brass sunburst clock hangs on the wall. The bookshelves hold thick, worn volumes of psychology and history, plus classics by Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Hemingway. The house reminds Riley of her grandparents' place, the one they lived in for fifty years, except they had added modern touches: a flat-panel TV, a microwave, a cell phone. Nothing like that exists here. Every single thing Riley has seen in this house could come from the past century, including the string of pearls around Betty's neck.

Betty hands Riley a folded slip of paper, explaining that her husband shopped at a store called the Food Lion and that she will give Riley one of his maps so she can find the way. Riley reaches into her pocket, pulls out her cell phone, and asks for the Wi-Fi password. Betty stares at her as if she is speaking a foreign language. Password? Riley clarifies that she means for the internet. Oh, they don't have one, Betty says vaguely, like she is trying to pretend she understands. Then she wheels closer, peers at the iPhone, and breathes that it is a marvel.

Riley's gaze falls on the telephone on Betty's rolltop desk: a rotary dial, with a long curly cord connecting the receiver to the base. Is it possible Betty has never seen a cell phone? The way she is staring at Riley's says it is. Riley's eyes widen as the realization slams into her: it isn't just the décor that is frozen in time. The music Betty listens to, the books she reads, her innocence about electronics, even her clothing and beehive hairstyle. Betty is still living in the 1960s.

Chapter Four. Betty, 1964

Night falls over the streets as Betty sits beside Douglas in the Impala, watching the headlights carve a path through the dark. She protests, isn't it a bit late? But Douglas won't be swayed: if what he thinks is happening is actually happening, he has to bring her to Dr. Trimble. Betty thinks they should be home relaxing, but Douglas grips the steering wheel and insists that Dr. Trimble is always working.

The psychology building rises before them, its pale stone walls gleaming in the moonlight. With leaded glass windows and tall, pointed spires topping the roofline, it looks like a haunted house from a child's storybook. Douglas points to a maroon Buick, the only car parked on the street: that's Dr. Trimble's. Betty feels lightheaded and confesses she's not sure about this. Douglas doesn't seem to hear her. He climbs out of the car and hurries up the steps, unlocking the tall arched door with a key on his chain.

Inside the Institute

Douglas calls for Dr. Trimble, but his voice is swallowed by the empty hallway. He suggests they check his office. Betty has been to the institute a few times before, but in this shadowy light, every detail takes on an ominous dimension. A photograph on the wall shows a college girl lying on a cot with her eyes closed while three men in dark suits stare down at her. Stacks of heavy books threaten to topple over on the floor. And a peculiar blindfold, made of fabric straps and two halves of a Ping-Pong ball, rests on a small round table.

Dr. Trimble's dinner plate sits on his desk: a chop, a baked potato congealing in a puddle of melted butter, a glass of milk, and a slice of chocolate cake. Douglas whispers that his wife must have delivered it, as if they stand in a sacred space. The scent of cooked meat lingers, but the meal is untouched. Betty flinches at the sight of a barn owl perched on a table, staring at her with round, unblinking eyes. Douglas says it's stuffed, but he's wrong, at least to Betty: a stuffed animal is a sweet toy, while this creature had been alive once, a trophy whose soul had been claimed by Dr. Trimble.

The door to the adjacent room flies open, and Silas Trimble stands there blinking rapidly. Betty understands in an instant: he has been in a completely dark room, and his eyes are now assaulted by the light. Peering past him, she sees the walls are painted black. There is nothing in the room but a recliner chair, no artwork, no windows. It is worse than a jail cell. She cannot imagine why anyone would voluntarily seal themselves inside.

Dr. Trimble frowns at Douglas, asking why he brought her here. Douglas can barely contain his excitement, his cheeks flushed. He has been testing Betty with Zener cards for the past few hours, and her average is eleven. "My own wife! Who would ever have thought what you've been searching for could be right under my nose!" His voice rings with pride. Betty can envision him as a boy bringing home a perfect report card to his father, delivering a prize. She knew Douglas respected Dr. Trimble, but now she understands it is more than that: Douglas reveres him.

Betty tries to smile pleasantly as she studies Dr. Trimble: his graying beard, the fringe of darker hair above his ears, his broad shoulders and slightly curved back. He is a large man, perhaps six feet two, carrying extra weight in his belly. He tells her she may as well sit down. She sinks into the chair opposite his desk while Douglas stands by her side. Dr. Trimble packs fresh tobacco into his wooden pipe and lights it, exhaling blue-gray smoke that smells like burnt vanilla. He pushes aside his dinner plate and reaches for a deck of cards identical to the one Douglas used at home. He will hold up the first card, he explains, and she must tell him the symbol when she is ready.

What began as fun in her living room now carries a deep undercurrent of tension here. Her body clenches as she closes her eyes. The sweet smoke tickles her nostrils, and she becomes aware of Douglas's breathing hitching faster than normal. She says "a square," finally, because she has to say something. She calls out symbol after symbol, desperate to get this over with and return to their cozy home, to lie together in bed with their hands entwined as they drift off to sleep.

"Five," Dr. Trimble announces. "Exactly what chance would allow. Are you sure you didn't let your wife see the cards, Douglas?"

Betty's eyes fly open at the rebuke in his voice. Douglas stares at her, his whole face flushed. She has embarrassed him. Betty has followed all the rules for young married girls, the ones she learned from experts like Suzy Wagner and Betty Crocker: she applies makeup and does her hair before Douglas wakes, she has perfected seven recipes, one for each day of the week, she spritzes jasmine perfume every morning before greeting him, and she does her facial saving exercises every night to keep her youthful appearance. Her job as a married woman is to keep her husband happy. She has to fix this.

She takes a deep breath, hoping her voice won't shake, and asks if she can please try again, sir, insisting she was nervous and knows she can do better. Then she closes her eyes as Dr. Trimble holds up the first card.