Lakewood - Megan Giddings Page 0,14

alive in prison than dead by an alien’s tentacles.”

Dr. Lisa underlined something. Lena rubbed her nose and pushed some of her hair back.

“Do you trust white people?”

Lena took a long sip of water before answering the question.

In the next doctor’s office, the furniture was the exact color of the walls. There were no windows. He was a shorter white man with a loud voice and a trendy haircut. He didn’t introduce himself. A tattoo was on his arm that made the limb look as if it was trapped beneath a long trail of ivy. Lena decided that if he didn’t introduce himself, she would start calling him Vines.

“It’s easier if I demonstrate what we’re doing rather than trying to explain it to you,” the doctor said. He pressed a button on his laptop and played what sounded like a whirring espresso machine. “Now tell me, what does that sound make you immediately feel?”

“Annoyed.”

“Anything else?”

“Anxious.”

“Great. For all the next ones, you’ll just write things down.”

The teakettle’s scream made her feel thirsty. And if that wasn’t an emotion, she guessed it made her feel content. Or maybe about to be content. Cricket-song: happiness. Frogs croaking: disgust.

“Now we’re going to get weirder. I want you to tell me what you think these things would taste like.”

He played harp music. Lena wrote Cinnamon Toast Crunch. A glass shattering. Lena thought that would taste like black pepper. She wanted to ask him if it was weird that this was more fun and less stressful than the previous session, but he was focused on his computer. Now, draw whatever you might see while listening to music. Oh, that pen’s out of ink? Here’s another. It can help to keep your eyes closed. A bird chirping only prompted another drawn bird. An ugly robin. Music that sounded like default video-game fighting music prompted a ghost and a sword.

They went into a much smaller room. It was so small that there were only a few inches of clearance on either side for the large armchair it held. Waiting on the chair were two pens and a sketchbook. Lena thought it must have been a nightmare to get that chair into this small space. A small speaker was installed directly over the chair.

“There’s someone else in the room next to yours. You’ll both hear the same loud, clear tone. While you’re listening, you’re going to make your mind as blank as possible. Clear it out. Take deep breaths. No to-do lists. No worries. The other person hearing the tone is going to be shown an image and they are going to try to ‘think’ it at you.”

“How can you think something at someone?”

“You’ve never looked at someone else and briefly known exactly what they were thinking?”

“Sure.”

“Well, you’re going to draw or write whatever image they think at you.”

“Feels like a party game.”

He frowned. “You need to be focused.”

“Okay.”

He told her again to write or draw what she sees. “It’ll be between 90-second and 3-minute intervals, depending on the image’s complexity. Don’t worry if the images you draw are ugly. I doubt Picasso could do something good that quickly. Actually, you’ll go over to Box 2. Stay relaxed. Loose.” He studied Lena for a long moment, then left, closing the door firmly shut.

A noise, low and long, like a whistle.

Lena automatically drew a tree blowing in the wind, tipping to one side, some leaves on the ground. The chair smelled a bit of “scentless” cleaning spray.

Another sound, long enough that she wanted to hum along with it, reminded Lena of a ringtone. A man’s face, long beard, oversized clear glasses, stubble. Round eyes. It was like a police sketch. The man as she saw him was completely colorless.

Tone three: A gong.

Lena wrote a sentence: Sometimes, the seeds grow in the morning light.

“Well, how’s your day been so far?” Dr. Maggie asked. She laughed before Lena could respond. “That’s how most people feel.”

Lena was weighed, took an allergy test, ran on a treadmill, and then took an eye exam where she had to look at golden orange-and-black asterisks and have air puffed into her eyes. Then a blood, urine, sweat, and stool sample.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Lena said, handing the bags over.

“This is my job.”

Lena felt as if she was about to tip over, the soft parts of her face about to crack and fall onto the floor.

“Sit here and eat this.” Dr. Maggie pulled out a large cookie wrapped in plastic. It was exceptionally sweet. There was an aftertaste,