Chain Reactions Read online

  “You didn’t. This was my decision and my choice. All you did was insist, rightfully so, that our relationship be the most important thing in our lives. How I chose to honor that requirement was mine to determine. And I’m positive that we’re worth this shift.”

  “What if…” She willed her heart to settle. “What if you hate it at Harvard? What if you regret your choice? What if you gave up everything you worked for and then you figure out that we’re not right for each other?”

  There, she’d given voice to her greatest fear. If Diana relinquished everything she’d worked toward and it didn’t work out, it would be all Brooke’s fault. How could she live with that?

  Diana leaned over and brushed her fingers along Brooke’s cheekbone and caressed her jaw. The pure love in her gaze made Brooke want to weep.

  “Brooke Sheldon, I am madly in love with you. You make me better in every way. I am more confident that you’re the one for me than I am of anything else in my life. Aunt Nora knew it too.”

  She nodded.

  Diana continued, “Why do you suppose she left me the house in Cambridge and you the place in Truro?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

  “She did everything with such intent and deliberation. You have to know she gave all that careful thought. I believe she already knew how this was going to play out.”

  “Or at least how she wanted it to play out.”

  “Exactly. I think she meant to set us up for life together—a place in town for work for me, where I could do my research in an optimal setting and build my own legacy as she built hers.”

  “And a place at the beach for me, in an environment she knew I’d already chosen as a retreat, for rejuvenating our souls.”

  “Yep. And because of the locations, you have the option to re-boot your career at Dana-Farber or do something different, without the pressure of worrying how you’re going to pay the mortgage. These were Aunt Nora’s gifts to us.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “She thought of everything.”

  Diana nodded. “She thought of everything, God bless her.”

  “That reminds me…” Brooke sat up and pulled the covers with her. “What was in the journal? And what about those letters?”

  Diana smiled. “I went back up to the attic that day, but I couldn’t bring myself to read them without you. They’re in the trunk of my car outside.”

  “You brought them with you?”

  Diana shrugged. “I was cautiously optimistic.”

  She kissed her soundly. “Go get them. We have to know.”

  “Should I put on clothes first?”

  “I guess that depends on whether or not you want to scandalize the neighbors.”

  Diana pulled on her pants and shirt and headed toward the bedroom door. “What do you think about going over to the cottage and reading the materials over there?”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “You know, I bet Nora would like that. Let’s jump in the shower, get cleaned up, and we can stop for dinner at Napi’s along the way.”

  “I do like the way you think.” Diana patted her belly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Brooke watched admiringly as Diana stripped again and headed toward the shower.

  “Coming?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Oh, yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Diana hauled the box inside the cottage. Brooke followed behind her with the eggs, bacon, muffins, coffee and orange juice they’d picked up at the grocery store for breakfast tomorrow morning.

  “I’m stuffed,” she proclaimed.

  “Me too. Napi’s never disappoints.” Brooke unpacked the groceries and stored them in the refrigerator.

  “It feels odd to be back here.”

  “I know.” Brooke went to Diana and put her arms around her. “Are you okay?”

  Diana glanced around and sighed. “It’s going to take some getting used to—being here without Aunt Nora.”

  “Her strength and essence filled this place.”

  “I miss her.”

  “Me too.” Brooke rubbed circles on her back. “How about if we spend some time with her now?”

  She pulled back. “I think she’d like that.” She grabbed the box. “Living room?”

  “Living room.”

  Gently, reverently, Diana slid open the journal clasp. A thin sheet of tissue paper protected the first page. She carefully moved it aside to reveal the first journal entry.

  Brooke peered over her shoulder. The entry was written in meticulous script with a fountain pen. “Her handwriting was so beautiful. Nobody writes like that these days.”

  “Should we read to ourselves or out loud?” Diana asked.

  “Hmm. I think it’s more impactful to bear witness out loud, don’t you?”

  “Okay. You read it. I don’t want to blotch it with tears.”

  Brooke slid the journal into her lap.

  April 10, 1943

  I can’t decide whether I’m more nervous or excited. The train is most definitely heading south, but to where I do not know. The meeting with Dr. Oppenheimer, Dr. Lawrence, and that Army General Groves went well, I think. Dr. Oppenheimer and Dr. Lawrence insisted to the general that I was the right person for “the job,” whatever that is.

  The general argued that I was too young—twenty-five and fresh out of graduate school with a Ph.D. in physics. Both Dr. Oppenheimer and Dr. Lawrence explained that I had the right temperament and that it would be invaluable for a woman scientist to be in charge of a gaggle (their word) of younger girls. I would understand them better, and they would relate more to me than to a man in a similar position.

  The general remained reluctant, but my heroes convinced him in the end that if I failed, they would chalk it up to my being a girl, and they would replace me forthwith with a man.

  I SHALL NOT FAIL! HA!

  The train is pulling into a station, so I shall sign off for now with a solemn promise that I will write as often as time allows.

  All my best, dearest diary,

  Nora

  Brooke took a sip of water and squeezed Diana’s hand. “Nora was a feminist way before her time. How cool is that?”

  “She didn’t know what the assignment was or where she was going, but she packed up her things and went anyway. That’s amazing. Would you have done that?”

  “No way. I’m way too curious. I would’ve asked a million questions.”

  Diana laughed. “Yeah. I could see that.”

  “Would you have gone?”

  “Knowing that two of the greatest scientific minds in my field hand-picked me for a project? Heck, yes, I would. How exciting!”

  Brooke smiled. “Like great-aunt, like great-niece. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree there.”

  “Let’s keep reading.”

  They thumbed through entry after entry, most of them describing the muddy conditions, the endless sexism, Nora’s fight to have her housing situation upgraded, the construction of the Y-12 plant, and the fits, starts, and stops of the uranium enrichment process.

  Brooke stood and stretched. “Want a cup of coffee? This could take a while.”

  “Sure.”

  She headed to the kitchen.

  “Oh, here’s an interesting one,” Diana called out.

  “Let me see.” Brooke returned and sat next to Diana. She pulled the journal into her lap.

  July 22, 1943

  I am so thrilled I can hardly contain myself. Today, I finally received a response from Leona Woods. As she is one of only a handful of other women scientists I know of, I thought we gals ought to stick together.

  Woods presently is stationed in Chicago with Enrico Fermi and says she was the only woman in the room when Fermi’s nuclear pile went critical. How exciting it would’ve been to be present on such an occasion!

  We have vowed to keep in touch, though both of us are bound by secrecy not to say much of any
thing.

  Still, dearest diary, this ranks right up there with the response I received from Lise Meitner several weeks ago. She fled those despicable Nazis and is hiding out in Stockholm at present. It was her discovery with Otto Hahn that produced the nuclear fission on which our project is based. Hearing from her is the equivalent of getting a signed baseball card from Joe DiMaggio.

  Anyway, I could go on and on, but I simply must get some sleep.

  Ever faithfully yours, dearest diary.

  Nora

  “There were women scientists who were responsible for some of the greatest discoveries of the day? That’s amazing. How is it I never learned about them in school?” Brooke asked.

  “Was that a serious question?”

  “Um…yes?”

  “Did you ever learn about the women from the movie, Hidden Figures?”

  “Not until I saw the movie.”

  “Did you ever hear of the Women Airforce Service Pilots—the WASPs who flew all the same planes the men did in World War II?”

  “Not until I read Eyes on the Stars.”

  “Exactly my point. History and our history books have ignored the contributions of women from the beginning of time. Witness the fact that even I didn’t know about Aunt Nora’s role in ending the war with the atomic bomb until a few weeks ago.”

  “Point taken.” Brooke got up and poured two cups of coffee. “It’s depressing.”

  “It is.”

  “I’m never going to let history forget when you solve the issue of seizure foci-induced epilepsy.” Brooke kissed Diana on the side of the head.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep. You can take it to the bank. I’m going to shout it from the rooftops and every social media outlet I can find.”

  “You’re adorable, you know that?” She pulled Brooke to her and kissed her thoroughly.

  “If you don’t stop that, we’re never going to get through this.”

  “We could call it a night?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  “We could. Or we could keep reading and try to find a reference to someone named Mary.”

  “Ah. The mystery of the missing Mary. That sounds intriguing. Read on.”

  Several minutes later, Brooke sat bolt upright. “I’ve got it.”

  “What?” Diana, who had been dozing lightly on the couch, yawned and stretched.

  “Mary.”

  “You found her?”

  “Oh, yes. I most assuredly did.” Brooke pointed to the entry.

  October 10, 1943

  Today I met an angel. I swear she’s so beautiful her feet never even touch the ground. Her name is Mary Trask. She arrived on the reservation yesterday and reported to work at Y-12 under my tutelage this morning.

  As with all new recruits, she seems a little shell-shocked. I personally instructed her on the operation of the Calutron machine and kept a close eye on her throughout her first shift.

  Oh, dearest diary, how that girl made my heart do somersaults!

  Ever faithfully yours, dearest diary.

  Nora

  “Aha! The plot thickens.” Diana rubbed her hands together. “Keep going.”

  Brooke chuckled. “Well, that little tidbit woke you up, now didn’t it?”

  She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Never mind that. Keep reading, for God’s sake.”

  Brooke kept turning the pages.

  “Why aren’t you reading out loud?”

  “I will when I get to something worthwhile. So far, all of these are about the plant shutting down because of a malfunction in the design, some handsy guy who made a play for Nora, a bus trip into Knoxville, and a pair of shoes she had to toss out because they got ruined by the mud.”

  Brooke paged ahead several more entries, and then stopped. “Eureka! I’ve got it.”

  December 25, 1943

  My hands are still trembling and my lips continue to tingle with the sweet taste of her kiss. When I even think her name, I turn into a quivering puddle of goo.

  “That’s romantic.”

  “Shh. Let me read.”

  It happened quite by accident, really. I literally bumped into Mary on my way home from services at the Chapel-on-the-Hill. The force of the collision jarred loose the basket of pine cones she was carrying. I apologized profusely, of course, and helped her collect the fallen goodies. Then I offered to make it up to her by taking her to the movies (Mrs. Miniver is playing at Center Theatre).

  Oh, dearest diary, she said YES! It was magical. In one particularly gripping scene with Walter Pidgeon and dreamy Greer Garson, Mary actually took my hand and continued to hold it throughout the rest of the movie!

  Afterward, we strolled through Townsite looking at the storefronts. I invited her back to my place for coffee. As she was getting ready to leave, I saw her to the front door. After all, that’s only polite.

  “Polite my pattootie, Aunt Nora, you scoundrel!”

  “Shh. Let me finish.”

  I reached around her to get the door handle, and her hand brushed against my breast. Oh, dearest diary, I have never felt a sensation anything like that. At first, she blushed. But when she saw that I didn’t immediately remove myself from the situation… Well, let’s just say she got a little bit bolder.

  I’m getting all tingly just thinking about it. I swear, I’ll never forget this night as long as I live.

  It’s late, and I’d best try to sleep, although I don’t know how I’ll manage it.

  Ever faithfully yours, dearest diary.

  Nora

  “Scandal in Oak Ridge!”

  “I’ll never be able to un-see that image,” Diana said.

  “I think it’s incredibly sweet.” Brooke thumbed through more entries. “Oh, this is a good one.”

  “What?”

  March 23, 1944

  Today was the day. We moved Mary’s things into my Flat Top. I’m so glad I was able to convince the brass that, as a supervisor, I deserved preferential housing. Our bedrooms are adjacent, so no one who visits will be any the wiser. They’ll simply think we’re conserving housing units by doubling up.

  Some of the girls are jealous. They think I treat Mary better than the rest of them. If they only knew! Honestly, we’re both relieved that it will be easier for us to be together without being discovered. We’ve had enough close calls to last us a lifetime!

  Well, I hear Mary coming out of the bathroom, so I’d better get ready for bed. For the first time, I’ll be able to sleep holding precious Mary all night long.

  Dreamy sigh, dearest diary.

  Nora

  “They lived together. In the 1940s, Aunt Nora lived with another woman right under everyone’s noses!”

  “That was brazen.”

  “No kidding!”

  Brooke laid the book down. “Is it just me, or does this feel a little…”

  “Voyeuristic?”

  “Yeah.”

  Diana nodded. “Kind of. Do you want to stop?”

  She shifted so they were face to face. “Yes, and no. I think we need to know what happened to them in the end, you know? Nora’s dreams about Mary toward the end seemed so…fraught…so tortured.”

  “How about if we compromise and skip to the end of the war? Is there an entry for that? Maybe it ends when they have to go their separate ways because the war is over.”

  “Fair enough.” Brooke paged ahead in the journal until she arrived at the entry for August 9, 1945. She pulled out a folded piece of newsprint pressed between two pages. “Wow, this is some piece of history right here.”

  She held up a yellowed copy of the Oak Ridge Journal that bore the headline, “Oak Ridge Attacks Japanese. Workers Thrill As Atomic Bomb Secret Breaks; Press And Radio Stories Describe ‘Fantastically Powerful’ Weapon; Expected To Save Many Lives.”

  “Wow. That’s in pretty good shape.”

  “It is.”

  Together, they read the front page. When they’d finished reading, Diana asked, “What does the jo
urnal entry say?”

  August 9, 1945

  My heart aches with a despair I know I’ll never get over. My darling Mary is gone, and I fear nothing I say or do will win her back.

  This day, a day that should be filled with joyous celebration, has brought me bitter anguish. I hear the cheers outside the window of our Flat Top, but I cannot bring myself to partake of the celebration.

  Mary’s accusations are forever burned into my memory and onto my heart. I shall never forget the ugliness of the row and the hatred and disgust in Mary’s beautiful eyes as she gazed upon me one last time.

  She accused me of knowing what we were doing with the Calutron machines and concealing it from the girls. She said such ugly things, calling me a murderer and insisting I made all the girls accomplices without giving them a chance to decide for themselves whether or not they wanted to be a party to creating a killing machine, which is what she called the bomb.

  I tried my best to explain to her that I was sworn to secrecy, that I couldn’t tell her or anyone else, just as she agreed not to share with anyone what she was doing here.

  She refused to see the parallel, refused to rejoice in the fact that what we did won the war and saved the lives of our boys.

  She became fixated on the idea that thousands of Japanese women, mothers, innocent children, and grandparents were killed with an instrument of death we created.

  I tried to explain that the world is safe again because of what we did, but she would not hear of it.

  In the end, she was inconsolable. She said horrible things. She never wants to see me again. I sicken her. She ordered me to stay away from her. She packed up her things and left. I don’t know where she went or whether or not she is safe.

  I am worried sick for her safety and well-being, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.

  My precious Mary thinks I am a monster. Perhaps she’s right.

  I cannot write any more through my tears, dearest diary, so I must sign off.

  Ever faithfully yours.