“Let’s shift over to hypotheticals. Say there’s an earthquake or tornado. What happens if one neighborhood is spared? Do they start thinking it was a miracle? Do they try to find the cause or just enjoy their luck?”
“I don’t think I could speak for an entire neighborhood.” Lena waited for the doctor to prompt her to talk about what she would do. Or to pull out more pictures. Tell me what you see. Another thought experiment. When I say “viper,” you say _____________. The dim light in the office made Dr. Lisa’s pupils and irises indistinguishable.
“What if a friend told you all the mailmen in her neighborhood were spies. They read her mail, including the catalogs. She is sure they’re keeping track of her entire life. Would you believe her?”
Lena scratched the side of her face. “Only her? And does she have a theory about why she’s so special?”
“Only her.”
“Does she have proof?”
“Just her word.”
“I—” Lena exhaled, shook her head. “In the scenario, have I been in her neighborhood? Because maybe if I’d been there, and if there was a weird vibe, I might be more likely to believe her. But if I had never been there, I would think about nice but frank ways to talk to her about her mental health and how I wanted her to be okay.”
The fingernail on Dr. Lisa’s ring finger was unusually long, as if she had forgotten to cut it for over a month. She seemed unimpressed by Lena’s answer. “Let’s circle back. If a neighborhood has suffered a disaster—maybe a flood, maybe something that makes it much harder for them to live, whatever—how many people do you think find a new faith? And not just in Jesus, but in their government.”
“I doubt I would. But I think a lot of people turn to God when things are really bad.” The skin beneath Lena’s cast itched. She held herself still.
“How do you think people would react if they found out the government purposefully waited to help?”
“Why would they wait? It’s their job to take care of their people.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” Lena shook her head. Her toes were cold from the air conditioning. “You’re talking about total devastation.”
“How do you think they will react?” Dr. Lisa picked up her pen and clicked it a few times.
Lena folded up. An ankle tucked beneath her butt, her arms crossed so each hand was resting on the opposite shoulder. Her lips so dry it felt as if they were withering. Dr. Lisa wrote something down. “I think people would lose faith,” Lena said finally. “They would be outraged. Well, it depends on the people affected.”
“Let’s move on.”
Lena repositioned herself, uncoiled. Arms at her sides, feet back on the ground.
“How do you think people will react when a small amount of the population can get a shot that extends their life span? You know: keeps them younger longer. Twenty years from now, seventy could be the new thirty-five for the rich. People your age could make money by regularly selling blood to help older people delay their aging.”
“I would much rather sell some rich old lady my blood than doing a lot of the stuff we do here.”
“Is selling your blood that much different from what you’re doing here?” Dr. Lisa’s reading glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose. Her pen was on the desk.
An alarm chimed on Dr. Lisa’s phone like a kitchen timer going off. It sounded like the one Lena’s grandma used to have, shaped like a lemon, that was always falling in the space between the refrigerator and the oven.
“No, not really.” Lena cleared her throat. “Wouldn’t it be better than what you’re doing? You would get to just sit in a chair, probably watch TV, and get your blood drawn. And they would probably give you free sugar cookies. Juice.”
Dr. Lisa laughed. She pushed her glasses up. “I think that would be a little too boring for me.” She tilted her head. “What do you think we’re doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Lena said. “Sometimes it feels like you’re just torturing us.” She laughed, but the doctor didn’t join in.
“What do you really think?” Dr. Lisa touched Lena’s forearm.
Lena jerked away. “Sorry, I’m just jumpy.” Lena tried to make her body and face soft.
Dr. Lisa withdrew her hand. Her eyebrows were raised and the left corner of her mouth was turning up. She made eye contact with Lena. “This was a good session.”
When Lena left the office the second-floor hallway was empty. Usually there was at least one observer writing on a clipboard. Or someone else was waiting to go into a session with Dr. Lisa. It was like being in a store and finding out you had somehow been locked in for the night.
There were eight rooms off the hallway, but Lena had only been in three: the upstairs conference room, Dr. Lisa’s office, and the small room where different medical equipment was rotated in and out. She walked toward the stairwell, paused. The doctor’s door was shut. Lena looked around but did not see any video cameras. It would be so easy—risky—to walk past the doors she hadn’t been in. Peek inside.
It was so easy that Lena paused and considered whether the situation itself was an experiment. Will you do what we ask when you think we’re not looking? On a scale of 1–10, how loyal are you? On a scale of 1–10, how curious have you been about the purpose of all this? How loyal are you now that you know more about us?
“Fuck it,” Lena muttered as she walked in the direction she had never gone before. I’m looking for a bathroom, it’s an emergency, I’m so sorry, she told herself once, twice, and had it ready to say in case she ran into anyone.
The first door was closed. She hovered for a moment. Inside someone was typing loudly, a person’s muffled voice. Walked past the next door. Turning the corner to the right, she heard the sound of kids talking, playing. A door was open and natural light seeped out into the hallway. On the door was a picture of a group of kids, about 10. Below that posters of three different letters dressed to look like people: M wearing a top hat, A with pigtails and holding an umbrella, and a letter Lena didn’t recognize, like a combination of a Z and an E.
A few of the kids were speaking English. Some others were speaking a language Lena couldn’t guess. She peeked in. On the wall were more posters: a picture of an apple with the word “apple” beneath it in English, and below that, in presumably the language they were speaking. A jumble of letters and symbols. Other pictures of a dog, a violin, a slice of cake.
There were eight small desks. A larger one for an adult, with a few adult-sized chairs placed around the room. And a container filled with Legos that was big enough a kid could get completely covered in them.
A boy was standing alone in a corner, holding a soccer ball and whispering to it, “I hate you, Dad. I hate you, Dad.”
Two girls were holding dolls. The dolls and the girls were wearing name tags: Madison F. and Madison T. The girls were whispering to the dolls. The girl on the left with eyes like polished brown stones looked up at Lena. She waved. Made her doll wave too.
16
Charlie turned 26 and threw a party to celebrate. His house was small—even before the party had officially started, it felt filled with the friends who had come to help push furniture against the walls or set up the bar and desserts. Lena was used to college parties: If it started at 10, you got there around 11:30 when everyone was buzzed enough to have fun. Here the party started at 8:30 and people were almost perfectly on time. A small crowd was already formed around Charlie. They were telling jokes and asking him what he was going to do during this 27th year.