When the next session came, Terry found herself in a big room at the lab, with larger machines and several additional workers. And, even more intimidating, a wetsuit to don and a metal tank filled with water.
A tech pointed Terry to a changing room and she crammed into what might once have been a supply or custodial closet. The ghost scent of chemicals bolstered the theory.
Terry pulled the tight gray suit onto her legs and over her torso, shrugging into
When the next session came, Terry found herself in a big room at the lab, with larger machines and several additional workers. And, even more intimidating, a wetsuit to don and a metal tank filled with water.
the shoulder straps. From the places it alternately pinched or bagged, she suspected the bathing suit was made for a man. In the end, it was no less revealing than the gown. But she could ignore that. The clock, until they dosed her, ticked away in her ears.
Squaring her shoulders and imagining she wore armor to overcome her nerves, she left the former closet. Brenner and his small team were waiting for her outside. They intended to submerge her in an elevated human-sized canister full of water with a long opening at the top. A steel ladder led up to it.
"I feel like Harry Houdini," she said.
Dr. Brenner tapped a finger to his temple. "Only you escape through this."
"I'm curious." She leaned against a table. "How'd you end up a doctor, doing this kind of research?"
Brenner checked a monitor, shrugged. "The usual way. Medical school. An interest in public service."
"Where are you from?" Terry adjusted a strap on her suit.
"Are we playing Twenty Questions?" he countered with a smile, walking over and handing her a bathing cap. She maneuvered her hair under it as best she could without a mirror. The edges pinched all the way around her scalp.
"I'm nervous," she said, not a lie. "This is another thing I haven't done before." She nodded toward the canister.
"Sensory deprivation tanks can be quite pleasant," Dr. Brenner said.
"Really?" Terry couldn't resist poking a little fun. "You've been in one?"
"No, not personally," he said, giving her the point. "But I've used them before in research. There's nothing to worry about. Your vitals will be monitored the whole time. The lack of external stimuli helps with focus."
"You want me to focus on...?"
"Expanding and exploring your consciousness. I'll be here to guide you."
"When do you tell me what we're after? It might help me do better."
"I just did."
"You haven't really explained, though. You're a man of few words."
He gave her an apologetic look. "The exact nature of our work is classified."
The other technicians and lab staff around them had begun to watch their exchange, riveted.
"Who has the medical cocktail?" Brenner asked the group. "We all have our
secrets, Miss Ives," he said, laying an easy hand on her shoulder. "Our research here is about new ways of exposing them."
So this research was about uncovering secrets.
For all that told her. But...she could see how that might be important.
And now the same aide as before was bringing her a small paper cup filled with LSD Extra, as she'd come to think of the lab mixture. Andrew had laughed at her description of the trip—not to be mean; only because he had done three times as much acid at Woodstock and it seemed like lightweight stuff to him.
"Down the hatch," she said, and took a swig.
The liquid went down bitter, and she wondered how she could have ever mistaken it for water. She'd done some research on LSD. Not that there was much out there: Lysergic acid diethylamide, aka acid, was first made by a Swiss scientist in the late 1930s and had experienced a spike in popularity over the last few years, starting in San Francisco and Berkeley. Filed under "Psychedelic." Arguments for and against its use tended to make the stuff sound like either the makings of a miracle or the gateway to insanity. Then there was Brenner's use of the word "cocktail." What exactly was in the Hawkins special acid blend? He wasn't likely to tell her.
"Ready?" Dr. Brenner approached her again, a reassuring look on his face. He fixed a sticky suction-cup monitor under the right strap of her wetsuit. "Remember, I'll be right here."
Climbing up the platform reminded her of visiting the public pool back home over childhood summers. Of the way the other kids dived and dared her to, even though she'd never been a very strong swimmer. One day when she was twelve she gave in and plummeted into the deep end again and again, because it turned out to be fun. The lifeguard had to haul her out when she got exhausted and panicked. He yelled at her. Sixteen-year-old Becky had come over and argued back at him that he should've stopped her kid sister from diving at all.
Terry had snuck away while they fought, and jumped off the high dive one last time.
She hadn't been allowed back at the pool the rest of that summer.
When she reached the top of the steps to the tank, she peered down into sloshing darkness. Sensory deprivation. Of course she hadn't expected to be able to see in the water, but the images that floated through her head were the absolute worst. Coffins. Drowning. Drowning in coffins.
