Do it.
She turned, searched the shadows again. Saw the red eyes of the rodents watching, the eyes of the fetal pig in the jar closed, yet seemingly waiting to see what she might do.
Gran’s notebooks were off-limits. Never to be opened or read. Even touching them was against the rules.
But Vi had promised Iris.
And promises meant something.
She opened the notebook to the first page, dated nearly two months ago.
Who are we without our memories?
Without our fears?
Without our traumas?
What does the body remember that the mind does not?
Is it possible that memories exist on a cellular level? If so, is there a way to wipe the cell clean, to make it forget?
There were drawings of cells, notes Vi didn’t understand, some in Latin, with what looked like a chemical formula.
Vi flipped to another page:
L.C. not doing well lately. Sending her down to B West.
May need to consider more extreme measures.
She flipped ahead again and came to the last entry, dated yesterday:
Mayflower Project Notes:
Patient S continues to show tremendous progress. She seems to have no memory of anything that came before, or of her time in B West. She is learning new things every day and tests above level in all areas. I plan to continue medication regime and hypnosis. She is, by far, my greatest success. Perhaps, one day, I’ll be able to show her off to the world, to truly—
The lights went off, then on again.
The signal!
Vi slammed the notebook closed and put it back where she’d found it, replacing the pen resting on top. She turned out the light by the desk and the one above the surgical table. Scanning the basement, she searched for anything else she might have touched, anything out of place. But there was nothing. She was sure. The overhead lights flickered again, off-on, off-on, faster, more desperate.
Vi took the stairs two at a time. Iris, waiting at the top, gave Vi a panicked look. They could hear Gran and Eric talking on the front porch. Flicking the lights off, they hurried into the living room and turned on the TV, leaping onto the couch. The Price Is Right was on, a woman in a flowered dress spinning a big wheel.
Gran walked through the front door with Eric on her heels.
“I’m telling you, Gran, I saw Big White Rat. He—”
“Not now, Eric,” Gran snapped. She wasn’t usually so short with them. Maybe something bad had happened at the Inn.
“But I—”
“I’m going into my study. I need to make a call and do some work. I’m not to be disturbed. Not unless it involves a true emergency, which most certainly does not include any rodent sightings. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Gran,” Eric said.
She walked down the hall toward her study, her feet shuffling along in her slippers. The door closed, and Vi heard the scratch and thump of the brass dead bolt on the other side being slid into place.
Eric came into the living room, whispered, “Did you find anything?”
Vi didn’t answer. She jumped up, headed for the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Eric asked, again in a whisper. He and Iris followed her to the wall phone in the kitchen, where she put her finger over her lips: shhh.
Vi waited a second, then lifted the handset of the wall-mounted phone while holding down the metal cradle, keeping it hung up. She covered the bottom of the handset with her palm, held her breath, and slowly eased up the metal cradle.